Getting Lost

Aside from a heat wave, a case of poison ivy that only itches when I blink, and living with my parents, life is pretty good.

My dad enjoys putting away the sugar bowl when I'm still using it for my morning coffee, and also knocking while opening my old bedroom door and tossing my sandals in - lest I leave them in the kitchen. But hey, I've got central air, free rent, all the decaf coffee I can handle, help with the furry white monster and my car has arrived from Portland. I immediately removed A.'s little wicker basket of toys. She selected one of her old knuckle bones and has been busy working on it for the last hour. I think my parents enjoy having their messy, slovenly daughter back in their roost again, albeit temporarily - someone to correct, instruct, and fetch things from the basement.

Yesterday I visited Brooklyn by myself. I had already seen my brother and Y. and was doted upon properly with more grilled vegetables than ever and lots of fun, attention, and warmth. It was time to explore on my own. Was it the 95 degrees? Was it too much alone time? It just didn't feel like Brooklyn was the right place for me, and i had assumed I would. A Jamaican fellow talked my ear off at Prospect Park, and then I made my way around Park Slope, hopping into the AC of Starbuck's and Barnes 'N Noble.

As I wandered Brooklyn it felt foreign, cramped, and yet everything was too far. It ain't no Portland. But as I was meeting E. at Arturo's back in The City for dinner later, I figured I'd head back early and walk around the West Village. Immediately I felt more at home. Walking down 7th Ave, getting lost (of course) and winding up near Hudson, the wide streets, not my old neighborhood (LES) but streets I was more familiar with.

I discovered a (new to me) place called Roasting Plant Coffee, as BB said, I don't want to feel like I've been beamed into The Jetsons, I just want a coffee. It was strange to see a computerized monitor listing coffee options, tiny, white leather booths, and almost all men (this being gayville). Still, I tucked into some tiny, dark streets for shade and out of curiosity, passed Cherry Lane Theatre and a restaurant called 50 Commerce that looked so beautiful from the outside, with its antique panes of leaded glass that I assumed inside was a world of terribly sophisticated diners, munching on pigeon and various animals' cheeks - maybe I would pop inside with E. later and drink a vodka gimlet? But I knew better: never would I be able to find it again, not the street nor the restaurant. And when i googled it I found the website cheesy: "A Contemporary American Restaurant in a Historic Space."

Barf. I mean imagine my dismay and disappointment.

Meeting E. was a wonderful reprieve. She makes me laugh and I have known her since I was 21. At Arturo's there was someone playing the piano, we got our favorite front booth and the pizza was perfect. At the bar were Italian men twice our age. The anti-hipster choice. Afterwards we went to a very unhip Caliente Cab Co. For a mere $14 you too can drink a flavored margarita! We opted for non-frozen basic $8 choice and had a memorable, very silly conversation. I realized E. was the first friend I have seen so far this visit. And damn, I needed that!

But back in Jersey, reality sets in: my dad is in pain most days and I try to cheer him up. I encourage him to get a medical marijuana card. After all, he requested pot in Portland, why not try it? I suggest yoga, music, movies, and while he appears interested, it's not the immediate solution he needs.

Meanwhile A. chews her bone. My mom flees to ten grocery stores, then the library.

I continue long, lingering phone conversation with Some Guy in LA. We do not sext; it's all rather innocent though it feels like 40 hours of foreplay to me and frankly, I'm ready for the main event. In my mind, I spend copious amounts of time planning my September trip to LA. I have a feeling I will really like it there and then what?

What then? As my old roommate and I used to say as we threw ourselves down on our NYC couch with much drama: What will become of me?