Have More Than One Story

After a few laughs with a friend when reflecting upon the perils of my dating life, I found a need to uplift a few notable incidents. Should I share the story of the German who lavished a girl with praise, albeit exposing underlying desires to kill her? Should I share the story of the brilliant tech/finance exec with the drug problem who robbed me? Should I share the tale of the former model who lied so deliberately, that he offered a false name/identity (modeling was true, though)?

Still easily upset from a break-up, I both despise and study pop music. On the walk to work, a tune that wafted though the suburban business district was the Lionel Richie dusty "Penny Lover." Sappy, yes. But the phrase that yanked me and took up far too much head space was:

When a man's in love
he's only got one story.

Girl, don't I know how that go! But when one IS NOT in love -- ha, the story can go in a zillion directions. Options keep a mind sane, akin to milk -- which does a body good. Let's muse further on the bad dates where I emerged unscathed -- in theory.

There was the little man who I engaged in a mercy date -- go out with the new guy. So you're sick, keep your word. Bad move. For this act, I was repaid with the classic line I will only offer for pay or very close friends.

There was the guy who not only deflowered a girl, but soon informed her that she would make a super grandmother.

In all honesty, considering that I've been trotting about with "one story," I've healed considerably since the spring. I recall walking the same downtown district in April and hearing a speaker piping a dusty tune from Neil Sedaca -- the 70s version of "Breaking Up is Hard To Do." If the reader does not know this tune, just insert a sigh here. The irony factor was in high, because my later trip to the grocery store led me to be ker-thunked by Sedaca's "Laughter In the Rain." Sappy, yes. But lush, romantic, and....sappy. Cue tears, Kleenex and sense of loss.

Fortunately, zombie factors have taken over most of the woe. All the anecdotes provided prior to The Heartbreak were all easy to spring from. To reference Lionel, "When a [girl's] in love, [she's] only got one story." This "one" is the positive, the beauty, the possibility, the perspective that is under-appreciated by the other -- hence, the "walk on by" that the recipient hopes to prevent.

Ugh...somebody cue Issac Hayes' version of "Walk on By!" Now that tune has all the dusky mental funk I can appreciate. What a well constructed remake -- totally different composition, really.

But, to grab hold of myself for a moment, I'm so all about the jazz of late. Using the trusty online resourse Pandora, I've been diving in a hybrid of avant guard jazz of the classic sort (Sun Ra Arkestra, McCoy Tyner, Archie Shepp), new jacks of the same stripe (Vijay Iyer, Don Byron, Lafayette Gilchrist) as well as some FONN-KEE Afro-Jazz cats such as Mulatu Astatke. Perhaps it's the lack of words and the authenticity of the grooves that is just what the body needs. Oh, let's not forget the quirky lyrics and grooves from ye ol' Steely Dan.

"Walk, Walk!"

Ramblings of the Fatigued and Righteous

Any reader of this post may know the condition I've experienced since 2PM today: eye-buzz. This condition occurs when one's gaze has been held for too long at the computer monitor. Oy!!! After crawling out the office at sunset (no lunch break either), it was like I was looking through cheesecloth.

After a bite on the go and a shower upon arrival, I oddly plunged back to my ol' pal, ye trusty Mac. No explanation. Burnt, yes. Tired, yes. However, without TV or liquor to dull the senses, Net surfing is the only way to find the ebb. "Books!," someone quips. Unfortunately, my true nature only reaffirms itself when fried: Books is fer train ridin'.

Seemed a bit disappointed with the choices, though. Not too many interesting breaking pieces in the NY Times. The U.S. Open won't excite me unless I've heard one of the Williams sisters has won or there's a super juicy shot of James Blake (yeah, he gets a wink from this one). Can't say that hearing of the Dow's most recent 2% plunge causes me to bat either weary eye. Yeah, I've got money riding on such turns, but if I can't touch the money until I'm 80 -- why freakin' fret?

One headline that warmed my heart was that the Taliban will release 19 of the South Korean missionaries that have been held for about a month. God loves the faithful...the simple too. How this group -- mostly women, found themselves in Afghanistan to do the Lord's work -- only God knows. But yes, it is a blessing to see that mercy is going to be granted (most likely conditional and with a bizarre flourish) Noting that the church's leader was executed weeks ago, having some form of spectacle that will provide a sense of shock will be a tough act to beat. Even as low-down and contemptible as the Taliban reputation and ambition, publicly executing foreign women (most likely viewed as naive and duped) on a religious mission may even be beneath them.

A few years back, one of the most graphic images of this war was seared into my imagination. Beheadings were a bit en vogue amongst Taliban and terrorist-level thugs like Zarqawi around 2003/2004. One of the earliest kidnappings that led to a public decapitation was that of a South Korean contract worker in his late 20s/early 30s. This man was first seen for millions of viewers throughout the world via a video that the terrorist sent to Al Jazeera. This video featured a thin Korean man facing a camera begging, pleading for life. He is panic-stricken, prancing in fear and pain before an audience the world over. This was a palpable pain. I prayed for him. Prayed mercy might find him. Prayed that a successful escape might happen. That Hollywood wasn't the only reservoir for a heroic rescue.

Being a news junkie, I had one of my radio's headphone's tucked within my ear when the report played the "remains" of this hostage had been found. I soon heard that a video tape had been released of the execution. Having taken this stranger into my heart and prayers, his death....murder, proved too much. I left work. I returned home and could not shake the terrified prance and plea in a language that I did not speak, but knew. When sharing my regret and disgust with others, it was as if I was the only one who saw this story.

Unfortunately, I'm too lazy to reference the chronology: was this before or after Nicholas Berg? Certainly it was post Daniel Pearl. Nonetheless, this life was also taken. Barely a whisper. Perhaps the sense of disgust led to the exodus of the South Korean missionaries. Maybe it led to some self-proclaimed leader to helm a church of righteousness. Perhaps it fueled something, anywhere.

Nurtured Animals

While it is not the classic way of closing the summer, I was eager to return from my weekend with family in CT to clean the apartment. Tomorrow my unit will be visited by the exterminator and hopefully (prayerfully) the vermin will have no further desire to gnaw into my territory. After a bit of sweeping and dusting whipped me into an asthmatic frenzy, I took a bit of a stroll. What a beautiful night! A full(ish) moon above, a light breeze, temps in the high 70s. What could be sweeter?

It would be sweet to no longer have the rodent paranoia. Most of last week I slept for three hours due to disruption and anxiety. In fact, not only did I frequently think I saw something that I didn't -- I thought I saw the 50 foot inflatable rat that unions stick out buildings with anti-union activity...in the apartment. Yeah, I needed a few days out the unit.

Let the record note, this author slept heartily in Stamford. In fact, she snagged a solid 12 hours in bed (not to be confused with sleeping) last night. Even with the occasional interruptions, I was able to recover through a sense of commitment.

Cat Call
On my stroll earlier, I was jarred by the sight of a dead cat within the gutter of a well-traveled street. It rests in front of a blue NYPD car, a specialty unit that I can't recall is denoted on the vehicle. Don't know if the kitty had slept in a spot used for parallel parking or if it was struck crossing the street or if it had been kicked by a mean-spirited pedestrian taking the sidewalk. Anything is possible.

Nonetheless, there is something spooky about seeing a dead cat. Perhaps it's the role that dead cats and such have with my family, but there's always that myth of nine lives that leaves the dead cat that much more of a unnecessary state.

Label this section folklore: my mother encouraged my imagination by weaving aspects of the mystical into fact. An example of this is a belief that having a pet or nurtured animal unexpectedly die around your home is a sign of death. During a surgery my mother had when I was very young, she stopped breathing on the operating table. Of course, she was revived. Folklore has it, our kitty died the same day -- poisoned, thanks to those evil neighbors.

Nurtured animal? Yes, there are pets and then there are exceptions. My mother's mother was ill for many years prior to her death. At some point, she befriended an opossum that crawled to her windowsill. She is said to have fed and held chats with it. While my Grandma was known to be a character, Doctor Dolittle she wasn't. One morning the 'possum was found dead on the front porch of the house. Inside, Grandma had died of a massive heart-attack.

All this from the cat. Prior to the move to NYC, an author now typing this piece mourned the decaying carcass of yet another opossum -- so different and so close from me during a very dark period. Our connection was via a car in traffic and 'possum's position as roadkill on the interstate ramp. Every afternoon for months my eyes found this corpse. Not quite excited or on a journey, we both were gambling nonetheless on the there-and-back mechanics. The chi of 'possum was one I considered: Who did he serve? What were his goals? What did he leave behind? Who will mourn -- if anyone or thing?

This 'possum wasn't a conscious connection to Grandma. Rather, it was the result of a life in transition relating to the vulnerability of anyone -- or thing.

A Less than Noble Return

It is quarter to midnight on a Monday night. My throat is sore after screaming at the discovery of a dying mouse in the middle of my loft-like apartment. Mouse or no, I found myself paralyzed with fear -- screams, shrieks and body clutching is all I could afford.

The discovery came when I was on the phone with a friend, just having stepped in the apartment from a full day including a stop at the gym. Subsequently, my friend was stuck with the rarely offered damsel-in-distress side that I've been trained to conceal. My friend, a guy, felt this was a plum moment to mention that this is the sort of moment why women need boyfriends/husbands. Sexism aside, I am grateful that I can call on a friend at 10:30 PM to scramble to my aid to smash ailing vermin.

Prior to his arrival, I dialed my landlord with much screaming and such. During the discussion I found myself apologizing saying, "I'm trying to be a grown-up." The next call was to my Dad. All three men instructed me to grab a broom and smash it. EWWWWWWW! I could barely walk around the thing to see if the car honking outside was my buddy let alone hustle to the kitchen and destroy this freakin' weasel.

How do folks see films such as Ratatouille in towns such as NYC? There's nothing cute about the idea of a vermin anywhere near my food, let alone the gifted hands preparing my meal. EWWWWWWWW!

Ha -- how's that for a return to the Idle Chatter?!?!?! While I have attempted making posts in the last 11 months, Blogger had an update that prevented me to toss up thoughts and musings. I was truly surprised to see that I could make it through the gates tonight.

Changes since last post: MANY! When Idle Chatter started, this girl was a few months into unemployment after a long-anticipated corporate redundancy (aka downsizing). A job was finally snagged in November (seven months on the sidelines). While the commute is humbling (1hr 20 mins one way to Long Island), I can roll with it. It's a marketing role with a healthcare consulting group. Yeah, whatever.

Another change: a move. I moved to this mouse afflicted apartment in December after black mold surrounded my former bedroom, a duplex. The mold outbreak started about the same time I started my job. My scramble from the unit was rough noting that I was sick, arrived back in Brooklyn after dark and was just starting a new job -- only 2 weeks employed.

Let the record also note that I was jilted. My heart was busted-up rather coldly. Break-ups are a bitch. Wish I could say more on this -- I suppose I'm still mourning the rift, even though it's been more than six months.

After the mold evacuation, I continued to suffer bad allergy attacks along with asthma, infections and itching. Eventually, I found that I have a few new allergies to food that have changed everything. Once determining that I was allergic to wheat and to eggs, I became leery of much and changed the diet. Not only did I drop weight, the itching stopped, the lungs got stronger, and my facial puffiness is nearly non-existent.

Another change, a loss -- death of my grandfather. He was 84 and had been swallowed under due to medication and folks telling him to settle down. He settled down all right -- it freakin' killed him. He was his own guy and so determined. So what that his world was primarily local -- his family yearned for more due to what he could share. I'm a beneficiary of this gift. I don't know what Grandpa would've said to help me cope with the mouse thing, but I know he would've smooshed the booger with his boot -- no doubt.

An hour into writing this post and selecting out a few nasty pics to accompany it, I'm a bit too wired to settle down. The BBC is chirping out the news of the sub-prime market and the impact it's had on financial markets globally. Silly me, I missed the opportunity to buy a major piece of property without any money or assets. Eh, I've never been much of a gambler.

Speaking of gambling -- I've taken one spin out the area this summer. I helped my family with a garage sale in Las Vegas. Long story, but it was very hot. I'm certainly not a casino gal and have no interest in what Vegas offers. I'm not into bling, flashing lights, smoke-entrapped buildings with no windows -- masking the passage of time, and more than I care to recall. It's just not for me. Even with all the allergies, I like outdoor get-aways: beaches, boating, hiking, cruises, blah-blah-blah.

Uh-oh...I think that's my sandman getting in gear. It's really about time. I've got the broom nearby just in case, though.