I should walk around more. I guess I will when I start working again. Maybe. Then again, I may just walk the straight two blocks to work and back. We'll see. Anyway, I just walked to the ATM and then to my funny cafe/theatre place and had those swelling crescendos of love for my neighborhood, for the rasta guys in the Brooklyn Public Library truck, for the women discussing parking spaces in front of the Mexican cafe, for the black-robed Muslim woman with a baby in a Bjorn on her front going into the check cashing place, for the same two cashiers at the Associated supermarket who were there back when they only sold Goya products - now it's just as much soy milk and pomegranate juice and organic garlic rosemary crackers as anywhere else. Which is also something I love. Count me in on the gentrification wagon (obviously), as long as my two cashiers still live here, too.
The thing I had been dreading happened this morning, which is that Wes gave me my birthday present. This is how twisted and sick I am. I knew what it was going to be because my husband is loud and has too much faith in closed doors, so he was talking to my sister about it. Also, he writes absolutely everything in his Palm and then leaves the desktop open on our shared computer. Also, I just know him. Anyway, even though I knew, he had somewhat convinced me I was wrong. So I was not sure I would be receiving tickets to Rufus this morning, but I did. And then I started my fussing and panicking over how I was going to have to meet Wes at the park and how I was going to have to get the teenaged child and the (barely) teenaged sister corralled into the city and he wanted me to get dinner at Whole Foods to bring with us, and are you allowed to bring food in and what if I can't find the right entrance to the park and what if the child whines or what if he sulks or what if he farts a lot and keeps telling us about how he farted (he does this, frequently). What if I am there in what should be my perfect, happy birthday moment and the child is farting and there are loud people smoking cigarettes near us or there are bugs or bats or the grass is itchy?
And how is it possible that I have disintegrated into such a bad, bad person that I panic over such a sweet, wonderful present from the love of my life?
I have been doing really well with unknowns lately. I think this is making me freak out because I am so excited about it and I get so ahead of myself, already imagining the disappointment of the ruining of the perfect moment even before the moment gets perfect, and so then it never does, you know?
See that? I don't need fucking therapy. Take that, Orla on sabbatical.
I must thank Hera, whenever she pops by this blog, because without her I probably would never have started listening to my darling Rufus. He is my first purely Internet music love - I was told about him on my blog, I downloaded him from iTunes, I listen to him purely on computer. Until recently, that is, when I couldn't stand not to have him near me while driving, even just to downtown Brooklyn, so I burned a CD of my favorite songs.
Did you know Rufus won an Outmusic Award this year? And did you know that they did, too?