Aunt Kitty’s room on Friday

On Friday’s Aunt Kitty didn’t come to bed after she made breakfast and saw her husband and daughter off to work. Those old fashioned, dust-colored shades that were at her bedroom windows were already up. We watched The Brady Bunch and played I Declare War with Aunt Kitty for caps full of Jhonnie Walker Red while the 700 Club played in the background. We took long naps on Friday afternoons.

THE KITCHEN

Aunt Kitty’s Kitchen

Breakfast: Golden Grahams, Frosted Flakes, Cookie Crisps, Fruit Loops, Cheerios, Rice Krispies. Mismatched bowls and spoons – some with plastic handles, some without. Cold milk and three happy little children. Prizes from the depths of colorful cardboard boxes accumulated atop the beige Frigidaire in their plastic wrappers; until there were three. Aunt Kitty was fair.

Lunch: tuna fish, peanut butter and jelly, Spaghetti O’s, cold-cut sandwiches, chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese on Sunbeam, white bread.

Another room

Aunt Kitty’s Living Room

DO NOT ENTER.

as prim and proper as
any parlor.

it was a living room on second street.
uptown.

grandsons and doughboys
and grandsons who were dough boys
sat on the stoop.

music playing
weed passing
right underneath the window of
aunt kitty’s off-limits living room.

Aunt Kitty's Room

A piece I worked on for my experimental forms class....

Aunt Kitty’s Room

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday.

S

uspended in a cyclic, always commencing rat race of the week, we laid still at the foot of Aunt Kitty’s bed. It was 7:30 a.m. and even though it was spring, it was upstate New York and as crisp and cold as a December afternoon. It felt good for the three of us – A’donji, Niager and I – all huddled together watching Maya the Bee. Aunt Kitty lay at the head of the bed, trying to sneak in another few minutes of sleep. “Stop wallowing around down there or I’m going to turn the TV off.” Wallowing? We were six and seven-year-olds. Small. “I was just trying to get comfortable,” I said. A pale protest to the brazen, tough-talking woman who we shared the bed with. Aunt Kitty responded with a snore. Niager laughed. A’Donji heard her snore and raised it with one of his own.

Still not done packing...

Of course, my move coincides with my last week or so of classes and of course, I'm feeling overwhelmed by both. I'm surrounded with packing cartons and piles of books. I wasn't aware of how much stuff I had until I had to shove it all in boxes and storage bins. I don't know how to allocate my time anymore. Packing? Homework? Job search? As of late, none seem appealing. Arrrrrgggghhhh!!!

So...I'm frustrated and tired and befuddled and overwhelmed and I'm procrastinating.

Falling behind

So, it seems that I've fallen behind on my weekly blogging. I believe that this is part and parcel of my - diminishing, but existing - resistance to put myself on display. This probably seems weird, considering that I'm a writer and my goal is to make my work public. However, the separation of my work from me is something that I have always found comfort in. I'm social and can even be outgoing...but, not in a center-of-attention sort of way. I'm not shy and don't try to fade into the background, but I've never been interested in putting myself on display.

Which brings me to the phenomenon of facebook. I've found myself updating my status daily. My status updates used to (and for the most part, still are) abstract and ambiguous. Most often, they share the "status"of my daydreams, flights of fancy or opinion on things going on around me. However, lately, more than once, I've actually updated my physical status. For instance, last week I shared with all of my facebook "friends" that I was picking my little sister up from the airport. That seemed overly self-indulgent and later, I wished I hadn't have been so specific.

Anyway, there are so many ways of putting ourselves on display now. And, I'd rather put my work on display. I think I'm going to aim for less facebook time and more focus on my writing. I'm also looking for more creative ways to use my blog to further my writerly goals.

The Plague of the Lames

I declare that it is ineffectual for men to ignore a woman's message of: "STAY AWAY, I'M NOT INTERESTED." Particularly when it is clearly relayed through body language, facial expression and short, trite responses. Yet, all too often, in spite of all this, some socially inept men insistently and continually pursue women who rest beyond their reach.

I acknowledge that this declaration is neither original nor clever. However, it seems that no matter how many times we women announce this, our gripes fall upon deaf ears. Or, perhaps, since the women who regard this pursuance as unacceptable and bothersome rarely, if ever, find ourselves among such men in social situations. Thus, our cries for help and warnings that our disinclination is not a game of "hard-to-get," but a real message that we'd rather not have your company -- never reach it to the population that needs to hear it. In fact, it is likely that we are merely singing to the choir. We're simply venting to a crowd of men and women who are already in the know.

So, what's left to do? I've tried being polite and engaging in small talk with men who wouldn't have a chance in hell at walking me to the bus stop, let alone taking me out for a date. However, in my experience, such a warm disposition is almost always misconstrued as a welcome mat. Men take my engagement as a sign that they have a chance. Somehow my response that "it is a nice day today," or that "I too, am proud to have Obama as my president," seems to convince some already delusional man that I am attainable.

Now, some have asked how I know right away that a man hasn't a chance in the world. Take a run-in I had with a run-of-the-mill Hustle Man on the subway last week:

Well, for starters we're at the subway station and I'm quietly waiting for the next train, listening to my iPod and leafing through a book. There is a man pacing back and forth peddling CD's and asking anyone if they have an extra transit pass. At this point than I've already surmised that our meeting certainly isn't kismet. On the train, he encroached on my personal space by sitting much too close to me (while ignoring every unspoken social rule because there were other free seats). By this point, you can bet I've gone from being amused by his antics to being annoyed by his ignorance.

And still, he does the unthinkable. He taps me on my thigh. Now I'm pissed. It wasn't necessary to touch me. It isn't acceptable to touch me. I rip my iPod from my ears, and turn and ask the man not to touch me. He starts rambling about how he didn't mean anything and how he just wanted to know how he could make me smile. He went on with the age-old line about how I was too pretty not to smile.

I excused myself and moved to one of the many free seats on the train, turned my music to top volume and ignored the fool until I reached my stop.