Graduation Celebration Pt. 3: Surprise Cramps, The Brave One and 14th Street Rats

My Friday, in a nutshell:

Dear Reproductive Organs
Didn't I just write you a very nice, earnest, apologetic letter? Why oh WHY would you, on day three, put upon me MORE pain? I thought the deal was pain on day one, discomfort on day two and then smooth sailing all the way to day seven? Wasn't it? Or did I forget to apologize for those other two "things" that I didn't want to mention? OK OK! I'M SORRY! Better now?

Still Scary After All These Years
Thanks to Bloomberg's many rebuilding projects and gentrification (which I secretly call the punk-tification of colored folks...white people just ain't scared of us like they used to be...) many parts of Brooklyn that used to be creepy and dangerous are now pretty safe to live in. One place that's not? Crown-fucking-Heights! Man, after dark that place just makes me want to call my mommy to come pick me up.

My Liver Needs to Know Who's in Charge
A little alcohol never hurt anyone. Plus I mixed mine with a fruit smoothie- cherries and pomegranate- so it wasn't all bad. And it was so yummalicious, that I had three! But don't worry; unlike the effects of wine, liquor just makes me, er, peppy and funner.

The Brave One
It was my graduation present from The Chef, a night at the movies. Can I just say that I think the Regal Cinemas and Union Square might have finally cured me of my slushee addiction? The medium was the size of my head, and I tried my best to finish all of it, but halfway through a wave of nausea was like, "uh uh, girl- put down the slushee!" But I held my own. I didn't vomit all night. But you know, one day I will learn that sitting in a dark theater at 1AM on a sugar high from alcohol and blue-raspberry slushees DO NOT enhance the movie experience. One day.

Next Time I'm Just Walking to W4th Street
The 14th Street F-train station is the most disgusting, rat-infested train station on the planet- hands down! At 4AM that platform had not one, not two, but THREE filthy McNasty rats running around like they run shit. And of course the train was taking forever to get there. I was sweating like a crackhead going through withdrawal, watching all three rats like a fucking hawk, trying to not have a meltdown in front of the Anglos sitting on the bench.

It was another tame evening, but I can't help but feel like it was the calm before the storm...

*smooches...ready for Saturday, come what may*
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see i know
there's somebody breakin out the champagne
somewhere
and u can be sure that
that somebody's gonna make love
from the night until the day

Graduation Celebration Pt. 2: Thursday's "Weeds," Pyjamas and Tostitios

Sure, it's more exciting to go out and get trashed and make mistakes and then report back to you, my readers, but there's something to be said about some quiet "me" time, too.

Last night I was supposed to meet The Chef for drinks but he flaked; my Plan B also turned out to be a flake (I believe that's strike three, my dear, no?), so I finally curled up on my couch in my favorite flannel PJ's with some Tostitos Scoops and chunky salsa.

Before that, I washed my dishes- MYSELF- and swept and mopped the floor. I cooked a handful of shrimp and ate them with some roti (YUM!) and then tackled the mess in my bedroom (I sold my dresser...my bed is no longer a bed...it's a closet). I watched some more videos by that crazy Avril-look-a-like Britney fan on YouTube (he's quite possibly just too gay to function) and an old episode or two of the 90's sitcoms "Titus" and "Friends".



I spoke with my aunt about her house in PR, cooking and crazy Dominican superstitions. We both shared memories of grandma (wow...we really still miss her a lot!) and she issued warnings about being money-wise.

Then I settled in for the night with the latest episode of "Weeds" the best show on cable- I swear...now that crazy bitch has HEROIN in her house that they stole from the Mexicans AND she drove the car in a drive by...shit is about to hit the fan! I ate the suggested serving size of Tostitos (Mari!), shot the shit with L, mostly about boys and the use of the word "heretofore" and then let my iTunes and Junot Diaz's latest novel lull me to sleep.

There were no deviant sex acts, no liver damage and no mind-altering substances consumed, unless you count the yummy-ass stir fried spicy shrimp and roti I devoured. I participated in none of my usual blog post inducing activities and yet, I had a really good night. A clean kitchen. Good food. Family and friends.

A celebration for one.

Me.

The MASTER OF FINE ARTS...I never get tired of writing that...

*smooches...learning to become my own best friend*
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Philosophy is the talk on a cereal box.
Religion is the smile on a dog.
I'm not aware of too many things,
but I know what I know if you know what I mean.

Graduation Celebration Pt. 1: Wednesday's Red Red Wine

AHHHHHHH....

That's how I feel now that panel is over with. Never mind my money issues, work issues, gynecological issues, I am THE MASTER OF FINE ARTS, and if ever something deserved a week-long celebration, this is it.

Last night I met Mr. Baseball (he's not new, but the nickname is- it just occurred to me I never asked permission to use his real name before...try and guess who he is LOL) for dinner- in the city- which was BIG because he NEVER likes to leave Park Slope. But to the city we went; I even wore a dress. ME. In a DRESS. With HEELS!

He brought me to City Crab over by Union Square, which very suspiciously had a similar menu to Legal Seafood, and seeing as we were there celebrating my degree, he ordered us a bottle of red wine.

...wait. Have I ever explained my troubles with red wine? No? Long story short- it's a sure-fire cure to my insomnia. And he knows it.

But anyway he gets the bottle and we toast to me, THE MASTER OF FINE ARTS, and begin catching up cause it's been like 50 trillion years since I've seen him. It's not like a real date, more like two old friends who maybe kinda sorta hooked up before met for dinner. Like that.

I try my best to eat enough to counteract the effect of the wine, but, well, let's just say I didn't know what the hell I was doing. A full belly PLUS red wine equals zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. So of course he orders another bottle and I get the bright idea that maybe some sugar will wake me up. So I order a cobbler. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The rest of the non date consisted of Mr. Baseball trying to engage me in a conversation that would keep my head from hitting the table and embarrassing us in front of the Anglos, and me trying really hard to decipher the sounds coming out of both his mouths. No easy task. And I felt bad, too, because he wanted to know about my stories and what I'd written and for the life of me I couldn't understand his question or formulate a comprehensive answer. Then he tried to help me figure out my next career moves, offering advice and whatnot, and I swear it was like all of a sudden he started speaking German. I was like huh?

He finally gave up, god bless him, and gulped the last of his wine so we could leave.

Somehow we made it to Park Slope- him all huffy at me because I wouldn't let him canoodle with me on the subway platform and me trying really hard not to pass out by texting L in California in order to stay awake- and instead of doing the smart thing and getting in a cab to go home, I pass out on his bed, "for just a couple of hours" before I'd call a cab myself.

This morning at 6AM I found myself still asleep on his bed, tangled up in my sweater, cell phone open in-hand, as if I'd tried to make a phone call and it didn't work out. Who did I try to call? Who called me? Was I responding to a text? Was I shutting off the alarm? Who the hell knows!

Remember this post, where I bragged that I always have my wits about me when I drink? I take it all back.

I forgot about me and red red wine.

*smooches...eagerly awaiting tonight's festivities-who's game?*
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I`d have thought
That with time
Thoughts of her
Would leave my head
I was wrong
And I find
Just one thing makes me forget

And Now We DRINK!!!!!

Somebody pinch me; I must be dreaming!

I just had my thesis panel. And Deborah was right- it went VERY well!

They started by letting me know that yes, I would be getting my diploma, meaning I passed! I was so giddy I almost hung up!

Then we got to the heart of it: they gave me some very constructive criticism on my creative thesis, suggesting I pull one story because it didn't fit in with the rest, and suggesting two other stories have different endings. I was also told that I need to pay close attention to my story structures and how I end my stories because I tend to over-write (tell me something I don't know!).

But the consensus was that my stories were "powerful" with great "characterization and dialogue" throughout. My second reader even said she really fell into it and felt like she knew the characters after reading the stories! Readers, I'm so happy...I'm in tears over here!

Now, as predicted, the craft and form thesis needs work...namely, it needs a title, a better, more comprehensive thesis statement, more analysis on two of the books I cite, and the quotes I use for emphasis need to be set up better. Oh, and I need a "works cited" page (duh! can't believe I forgot that!).

But I was surprised that they said in the body of the essay I had made my points very clear and done a great analysis, for the most part, of the books, etc. Look at me, writing essays! HA!

So now what? Now I sit back and wait for their edits and a list of procedures on how to submit the final copies, which now become public documents (available at the FDU library, I think), and start getting query letters together for when I want to start looking for an agent or a journal to publish my stories.

I'll drink to that!!!

Oh my god...can you imagine the EGO on me when my stories get published?

*smooches...on cloud nine, cramps be damned!*
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Everybody spread the word
We're gonna have a celebration
All across the world
In every nation
It's time for the good times
Forget about the bad times
One day to come together
To release the pressure
We need a holiday

An Open Letter to My Reproductive Organs

You and I have never seen eye to eye, from that fateful summer day we met back in 1986 to just yesterday when you knocked me on my ass with cramps so bad I almost called 911. I'm not sure why you hate me so; I've never done anything particularly bad to you.

Maybe you heard me say I never wanted kids that year after my sister was born, and maybe you took it personally and vowed revenge. Maybe you didn't like the Aleve I used to down like candy to avoid you, or the OrthoNovum and Yasmin I used to take to try and control you. Maybe that's why this month you figured it would be fun to be all late and scare the shit out of me, remind me that I'm an evil whore-slut who hasn't been to the OB/GYN in almost two years, despite the constant pain on my lower right side, and then come on stronger than any cycle I've had since giving birth.

Whatever the reason, I'd like to now raise the white flag, throw in the towel, surrender, give up.

I can't fight you any longer. You've got Mother Nature on your side, and all I have are supplemental hormones and "procedures" and placebos cooked up by "physicians" with god complexes. I thought changing my diet would appease you, but no...it didn't work. I take it you're not a fan of the green smoothies and organic brown rice?

What about exercise? Would that make you happy? If I worked out everyday AND drank the green smoothies, would you forgive me for contemplating unnecessary surgery to rid me of you? Would you stop your reign of terror on my life?

And what if I stopped cursing you, and promised to see a doctor every year and take care of you and not ignore the very clear WARNING: SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH YOUR RIGHT FALLOPIAN TUBE/OVARIES sign you've been sending? Then will you let me be?

I'm tired of the mood swings. And after 21 years, my body is tired of dealing with the pain. OH GOD the pain! The unbearable, vomit-inducing, toe-curling, tear-soaked PAIN! I get it, OK? You're the boss. You're in charge. I defer to you on all issues of reproduction, honestly.

I ask of you just one small favor: please, please, please...just make it stop... and if it's not too much to ask...can you plead with Mother Nature to spare my daughters?

*smooches...not in the mood to be sick*
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All day
Staring at the ceiling
Making friends with shadows on my wall
All night
Hearing voices telling me
That I should get some sleep
Because tomorrow might be good for something