A gem among the rats
I wish I’d actually take the time to write about my day, every day and at the end of the day. Reflection can be very cathartic, therapeutic, funny, and calming. I think my problem here is–nothing really ever happens. And I could just write that, I suppose:
Sunday: Nothing really happened today
Or I could break it down into time slots and amounts of coffee, food, and booze I had in one day. Sunday: Two cups of iced coffee between 8am and 10am. Showered with body scrub. Made out with the man I’m seeing. Went to see Man Of Steel–got to the theatre at 5:30 for a 6:30 showing and it was sold out. Went to another theatre by 5:50 for a 7pm showing and got in. Large popcorn, small drink to share with my brother and the sweetheart. Movie ended. Came home by 10:30 and studied for my Anatomy quiz until 12:30p. :::::: But this is all terribly boring. Hell, it’s boring for me to write let alone for someone to read, no imagine the experience of it all, or the lack of for that matter. heh.
So I guess I’m sort of left with “what else?” These two words come up often when I’m on the phone with people I chat with on the phone or via video. I don’t text that shit, that’s stupid. By saying “what else” it helps jog my memory and relive fun stuff that I’d like to share, but have forgotten to share. And another added bonus is I can tell the same story four times to four different people and it won’t ever be the exact same story, or tone or inflection. But the reflection and fun-ness of said story remains structurally true, and adds to the conversation nicely.
And here’s this fun little gem:
After the movie last night my brother and I are sitting on the benches down by the train station and there are several young girls sitting next to us. Ages maybe 4-6 in range, they are still eating popcorn. Which is to say there are still playing with it, dropping it, throwing it at one another and on the occasion chewing and swallowing the stale snack. These young girls are hispanic ish, and an older (think grandmother age) white woman with dyed red hair approaches the bench and starts rattling off that someone is going to have to clean up this mess, that we have a rat problem, they’re being messy disrespectful–and my personal favorite moment directed at me “What are you teaching your children??!” She said this to me and my brother with such confusion and disdain that all sarcasm and snappy comebacks left me to fend for myself and I claimed with some volume “they’re not mine!” To which you’d think she may have said something like “oh, sorry” but no. No, no, no she turned and said “well who’s are they??!!!” And a young lady talking with family or friends claimed them and the old gal chewed her out. The young woman glanced at me as if to say “do you hear this old bat?” and my response was a non-vocal “wow” in agreement. But wait the story gets a little better when the old gal finally walks away, and the young woman says to her children to not mind her she’s an old crazy woman. And time passes, enough time to let the entire situation die down. That’s a feeling, when somethings finally over you can feel it. Then low and be-fooking-hold the Old Gal walks herself back to continue educating, questioning and scolding the young woman and her family (I say family because they look like mom, aunt and daughter and children–but that’s just speculation). As she finally begins what we hope is her final exit I look up at my friend Mr. Snow and say “There are rats? It’s NEW YORK” and we chuckle. I’m amazed. He’s amazed, the girls continue their popcorn games and life as we know it continues. Saying “we have a rat problem” in New York is like standing on a very small island and claiming you’re surrounded by water.
“WHAT ARE YOU TEACHING YOUR CHILDREN” is what I continued to say the rest of the evening. That and “WHO’S ARE THEY??”
oh. people. come on, what else?