What Am I? A Bologna Sandwich?

As I've mentioned before, I live in Bushwick. I've resided here for almost three of the five years I've lived in New York City. I remember the day after I moved in, setting out on my own in hot pursuit of a new local laundry mat. Upon rounding the corner, leaving the nearly empty side-street of Grove for the more bustling sidewalks of Broadway, I immediately found myself the recipient of several nicknames: "Hey Princess"; "Snow bunny"; "Sugar cookie"; "Peach", which all were thrown in my direction before I had even walked an entire block.

That was 2007.

Today is different. I still walk down Broadway all the time by myself, but now with nary a call or effusive shout. At first, I thought my hair played a factor. As in early 2007 I was a shoulder-length blond, and since then my hair has been brown, red, and boy-short bleach blond. But my hair is now back to the early 2007 style, and yet the cat calls still don't compare to what I used to get.

So now I am left to wonder, since it's not the hair, what about me, or my neighborhood, has changed in the last three years?

Yes, perhaps the streets of Southern Bushwick are now more used to the sight of a fair-skinned, blond woman walking solo down the street. But also, maybe it's me. Perhaps my expression has grown more smug, and I now appear less innocent-looking. While I gleefully hope that the subtle change in my facial facade is capable of shutting the mouths of horny men, I must admit, though, that I miss them. The cat calls. A girl needs a certain amount of compliments to confirm her outfit decisions or hair style choices. I mean, if people don't say anything, how am I supposed to know if I look good? If a day passes where I'm not randomly shouted at on the street, I'll assume the worst.

Thankfully, there is still the rare and sporadic comment or remark. One weekend last summer, after I'd just switched two loads of clothing from the washer to the dryer, I stepped outside for relief from the stuffy, non air-conditioned confines of the laundry mat. I decided to head north, in search of a cool treat. I purchased a frozen strawberry popsicle from the corner deli and began consuming it on the street as I headed back toward my spinning clothing. On my way, I passed two young gentlemen, clad in baggy denim and wife beaters. They intently stared as I walked by, and somewhere deep inside I hoped that they would say something to me, make me feel like I existed. After all, despite it being laundry day, I had on my tightest pants. But they passed by, and my heart sank. But then, after they were already behind me, one of them said, "I would give anything to be that popsicle, baby."

Finally! After months of silence I at last had the confirmation I'd been waiting for. And I lived off this one simple comment for at least a week, able to again feel confident and secure in my appearance.

And then, a week later, just when the remnant feelings from the former comment were beginning to wear off, I passed two other gentlemen on the street, Bushwick Avenue this time, less than a block from my home, with my apartment building in sight. As I walked by them I began hoping. And again, once my back was to them (this apparently being an opportune moment for them), one of the men shouted, "Suck my dick!"

They couldn't see it, but I was smiling. And their simple comment, which I'm sure they forgot about almost instantly, affirmed my existence in this world for another entire month.

And it is because of these instances that I have to send out a whole-hearted thank you to the men of Bushwick. You make my life worth living.

Off to Portland --

To deliver a somewhat used cookbook with pink-speckled pages from all the beets sliced in its presence to this broad -- the loveliest little sprite with whom I share a fondness for chaise lounges and, at one point if not still, Donna Hayward-inspired skirts and sweaters.



I will deliver the cookbook, frolic in the misty woods, wear clothes that for the first time in almost a year will be within hugging reach of their original owner, and eat a donut or two. And maybe go to a strip club.

Mollycoddling the afternoon away

Molly: http://ashortwave.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/bagby_hot_springs.jpg
Get your pants of girl, this is gonna be a wet one
these guys may or may not be there
http://oregonhotsprings.immunenet.com/images/bagbytub.jpg
sorry, I meant "get your pants off." it's early. I need an editor.

Sent at 2:13 PM on Friday
Me: Oh man! Molly, I love log rides!!
and i sincerely HOPE that those guys are there!!

Molly: Well, if you're going to get a log ride they're the only ones capable of giving it to you
Sent at 2:28 PM on Friday

Me: Nice.

Molly: I am happy because I just found out the roads to that place are clear. Usually it's too snowy this time of year to get there!
oh boy!

Me: oh boy(s)!!, you mean
Sent at 2:32 PM on Friday

Molly: well, of course
you'll love the men who hang out there: hawaiian-print board shorts, pit-bulls, soul patch

Sent at 2:35 PM on Friday
Me: I love me a good soul patch

Sent at 2:58 PM on Friday
Molly: a soul patch log jamb

Sent at 3:05 PM on Friday
Me: a patched log, soul jam

Sent at 3:46 PM on Friday
Molly: hawaiian soul, pit jam

Me: jam band, jimmy buffet
Sent at 3:49 PM on Friday

Molly: cheeseburger jam, paradise patch
Sent at 3:54 PM on Friday

Molly is offline. Messages you send will be delivered when Molly comes online.

Me: Ball pit, Rick Warren