That said, I am sittin’ my ass back down in Black Hair Mommy 2′s chair Thursday night and paying attention to every damn thing she does when she blowdries my hair. If she so much as arches an eyebrow or holds her breath while she works, you best believe I will be doing the exact same thing.
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My friend was supposed to visit this weekend. She and I were really looking forward to having fun running around acting buck wild in NYC. But her flight was cancelled due to (imaginary) bad weather. There were no problems weather-wise, so we haven’t figured it out. We’d been counting down the days for a month. That sucks.
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I learn little things everywhere I go now. It’s very strange to be an adult in a new city with no social network or even any real sense of geography to get you from place to place. It’s like not having store-bought foods available and having to make bread from scratch every time you want a piece of toast. At home, if I found myself with an unexpected free weekend like I did this weekend, I’d have all these friends I could call. I could hop in my car and go hang out with them.

When I was faced with the same situation this past Friday night, I was happy that I  had a new friend to call and see if she wanted to grab a drink. She and her roommate met me and my coworker out. Another friend met us and a drink turned into dinner which turned into a movie and then a brownie sundae and vodka tonics at a bar. At 2 a.m., we found ourselves coordinating on how to get home – one of us lived on the Upper West Side, one lived in Jersey, one lived nearby and I live in Brooklyn.

It was never really like that in NH. If I was unsure how to get anywhere, I could just mapquest it or call a friend. Here, not only do I need to figure out the street address of where I’m going, I have to figure which train/bus combo to take. I also have to factor in the weekend shenanignans of public transport directors who have nothing better to do than to make a Brooklyn-bound train run on a Manhattan-bound track. Or make it stop running entirely.

But sometimes fun things happen. I walk too far and find myself on W. 14th Street instead of E. 14th. I turn my head and see the Chelsea Antiques Market. I see dogs dressed in little outfits. I see miles upon miles of Starbucks instead of the homey, personable coffee shops I had in my old city. (Okay, so that last one is not fun at all. In fact, it’s really annoying. What I could use is a Target, though. Can we replace all the Starbucks with Targets?)

It took this long for it to sink in that I’m being a little hard on myself. I’ve only been  here three months, so I can’t really expect to be able to have the kind of social life here that I did at home. NYC is the place to live if you never want to run out of things to do – it’s just a little hard for me right now while I meet enough people to do them all with. Even going to Target is more fun with a friend tagging along.
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One thing I knew I’d miss (besides my hairdresser) when I moved was my little organic grocery store, A Market. It was next to my regular grocery store, so I could do my main shopping at the big chain-type store and do my fruits, veggies and grains at A Market.

I enjoy everything about food, including spending an hour in the grocery store on the weekend picking up pineapples to sense their heft and squeezing tomatoes, peaches or avocados to gauge their ripeness.

Living here, though, it’s a challenge to get groceries home without having a car. A lot of times, it’s easier to just order your groceries to be delivered. The delivery charge is only $5 or $10 and the food quality is even better than at the cracker jack grocery store a few blocks away. I’m lucky that I even have a grocer within walking distance. But sometimes it’s just nice to pick up my produce and make friends with it before I take it home.

Yesterday, I went into the city to work on my laptop and visit Whole Foods (which has the prettiest produce outside of a farmer’s market or farm). After not being able to find a seat at not one, but two Starbucks, I gave up and just went to Whole Foods. Holy hell – it was packed. The line to get one of the six or seven express checkouts wrapped all the way back into the produce section. Using a cart was out of the question. It was so stressful, I may never go to that location again.

I picked up chicken thighs and the fixings for cacciatore – just what I needed for dinner, and split. Since I needed stuff for the rest of the week, today I made my first visit to the organic grocer by my train stop in Brooklyn. I walked in and was comforted by the tiny carts and cramped aisles. It wasn’t crowded at all, and it reminded me of A Market. But it didn’t smell the same. And I was surprised that they didn’t have as much variety as A Market does. After all, this is the big city. I thought almost everything was supposed to better. (Joking.)

But it was really nice to pick up a pineapple. I bought what I thought were green onions, but they were actually organic leeks. I forget that a lot of organic fruits and vegetables are much tinier than their hormone and pesticide-pumped cousins over at the chain grocer. The diminuitive leeks will taste just as yummy in my stirfry tonight.
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There are all sorts of crazy people on public transportation. It’s awesome. There was a homeless dude trying to sling crack on the B61 bus Thursday night. He was big and tall, wearing an oversized shiny Padres jacket, with sunglasses and a white plastic cross dangling from his neck. The skin on his face was cracked and ashy. His teeth made a mockery of his smile, which was earnest and seemingly genuine.

He sat down in a seat up front by the driver. I was a few seats behind him. Speaking to no one in particular, he said, “You ain’t black like me. None a y’all are n*ggas no more. Y’all are African-who? African-Americans?”

And then he said he had 20s and a 16th. I don’t know what that means, but I know I’m not black like him. I never knew there were so many different ways to be black until I got here.

“Just like with sex, it’s all in how you mount the weapon. Make sure to keep the rifle tucked into your shoulder’s pocket, the hollow spot just below the collarbone and inside the shoulder joint where there is nothing but muscle. Pull the stock firmly in and blaze away . . .

I never discolor because my gun mount is flawless. Guys that turn black and blue are guys with a poor mount who let the stock slap them in the shoulder with every shot.” – “El Supremo” on 11/7/2006

And then I let go. I let go of one life, one set of experiences, and made room for another place in my heart. I gave my notice at work on Nov. 3, the day after my birthday, and instead of feeling sadness, I tasted blood. I tasted my life, my heart beating . . . the drumbeat calling me to What Comes Next.

This wasn’t right, was it? Every time I’ve left a job, I’ve cried. I get attached to the people I see (at the least) eight hours a day. Due to the nature of some of my jobs over the years, we are thrown together in some emotional situations.

Working events involving the most powerful people in the state. Covering “fatals.” Going to court hearings regarding DUIs, rape charges, spousal abuse. Driving out into the heart of blizzards on country roads to report on nighttime fires.

There are deadlines to meet. Photos to choose. “We have to be sensitive. Does he look too nonchalant in this one? He just killed someone.” “I think that’s perfect. Not a scratch on him, and someone’s dead.”

So, I hold my coworkers and their opinions in high regard. I trust them and they trust me. Next to love, trust is the most essential human connection. So why wasn’t I crying this time? Maybe it’s because all that crying at the beginning wore me out. I shut my door to my coworkers. I never like to have anyone see me cry.

The week I started my new job in January was the week before I would have gotten married had things worked out differently with my ex-fiance. I was moving on. He was flipping out. I went back to work, and he went back to his bottle. I ignored his phone calls, which came every half hour on the half hour from 11 on a Thursday night to 3 o’clock Friday morning.

I knew he had to be drunk to be calling so incessantly. That Friday was the day before we would have gotten married. At 3 a.m., he slipped his key into the door of my apartment, where I lived alone. Uninvited, unannounced and unwanted. He jiggled the key harder on the dark stairway, only to realize I had changed the locks. The door rattled.

Second: I am on the phone with my Mom as I type. She just watched “Save the Last Dance,” for the first time. For those of you who haven’t seen it, it’s about a white high school girl who gets her dance on. Unfortunately for her, “getting her dance on,” means ballet. This does not go over well for her as the new girl in school in the ghetto. Then, to the chagrin of many, she has the gall to date a black dude. Her new black friends teach her how to bring it, “In Living Color” style, and she incorporates some of her newfound jiggy into her ballet.

Momsy’s thoughts? “Gosh, I never went through any of that when I was with your brother’s dad. Or with your dad. [Mom's white, our fathers are black.] It’s not that the white race created their problems. It went way, way back to slavery. But now, a lot of white people have just as many problems as black people. Oh, by the way, I moved again. There were thieves. They stole my lawnmower.”

Welcome to my life. Now she’s talking about the joys of living in Jamestown, NY. I’ve mentioned this before – Jamestown is about as uplifting as looking out my windowpane at the road, which is quickly flooding.

Momsy: “Erie [county] is just f*cked up. It’s not us. It’s depressed. It’s how this area is.” Ah, the delight. “Don’t set limitations on me, ’cause there aren’t limitations as far as I’m concerned. I said some things I shouldn’t have said, but that’s how I am when I get heated. I don’t need to apologize. I will write to my congressmen and senators and they will put heat on them, ” Momsy says. “Jackasses.”

I do love her.

[Edit: For people who live in NY, you know Jamestown is not in Erie County. But my family is originally from Buffalo, which is the heart of Erie. My Mom has no love for that whole side of NY. Everyone but her and my grandfather's first wife (Mom's mom) moved to Florida. We talk about it every time she calls.]

[Edit 2: Okay, I just got off the phone. Talking to my Mom is a 50/50 enterprise. Half the time, she drops gems that have me laughing so hard I practically wet myself. She is ridiculously funny and bitchy. She knows this about herself and does not give a flying f*ck. I'm pretty sure I picked part of that up in the womb. On the other hand, talking to me usually brings out the worst in her because she hasn't seen me since I was 14 and she misses me. That's half of my life she hasn't witnessed. She cries. It makes me sad. I'm not gonna take it any deeper than that here because some of my things aren't for public view. I hope those of you who are close with your moms had a great mommy's day.]

Let me tell you about my friend, the old DCC.

I started attending reggae Sundays at the deck back in 2002 with my best friends Heather and Stacie. We’d usually be groggy, rolling out of bed after a Saturday night adventure – we’d pull my mattress out to the living room, make some mac ‘n cheese, and flop down and watch the 1 o’clock Pats game on the bed in the living room. Around 4, we would put our hair in pigtails, swap tank tops and make the short drive to the D.

There was something seductive and crystalline about that place. I was thoroughly enchanted. We’d see the motorcycles lining the street when we pulled up and Heather and Stace would squeal. They liked boys with bikes. This year, they’ll both be marrying boys with bikes.

Walk up to the bouncer, pay our $5 and get our hands stamped, and that was it. We were in for the night. Up the short flight of stairs to the deck and it was like being transported. First of all, it’s the only place where I got to see black people in large groups in New Hampshire. You can’t find that many in the entire state, I swear. I only count for half of one, but that’s another blog entry. We had to import them, just for Sundays. And the racial diversity (we had my Haitian and Latino folks up in there, too) wasn’t the only factor stirring up the mix. There were folks in their fifties, married couples looking to get in the groove and then all the young hot things. It was such a nice mix of people, together purely just to have a good time and enjoy the vibe.

Without fail, the sun would be out in full force, giving the guys sunglass lines and sweaty foreheads. Cigars were smoked. Overflowing platters of nachos made their way to the table. The women would be tan, glowing and dressed to kill. For a few hours, you couldn’t find more attractive people than the happy faces gathered at the D.

And then the slow, sweet, sticky notes of the steel drum and guitar would reverberate back to my spine and I would sink further down into my bliss. This is what I came for. We would all be seated at the white plastic tables and chairs, if we could find a free one (and I always did) and at first, the small dance space would be empty. By drink number three, the old men would have taken their ladies by the hand and started dancing cheek to cheek to a rendition of “Destiny,” by Buju Banton. Another drink and, that’s it, everybody is up and swaying. It didn’t matter how hot it was. The big glass pitcher of Stoli Doli was full of fruit and ice and the waitresses were always on time with your beer.

There would be some fine young (or old!) man wanting to talk to you about where you’re from, what’s your name, what are you doing. After the reggae soaked you through completely, there was just no getting away. By the end of the night, the mosquitos are out, the heat lamps are on, and somehow you have become friends with everybody at the next three tables. Everybody would be singing along to the last song of the set and then the party would move, en masse, to Cahoots (now, the illustrious WBs).

There, DJ Roberto would spin some crazy reggae/hip hop/caliente mix and the guys would have breakdancing contests or grab the mic and spit some new lyrics. They would always swear they were the next big thing. Forty would toss you a cold one, for free, and you would all be gathered there in the Sunday madness until last call.

To this day, the only other place that feels like home is my actual home – with my family in Florida. Maybe it’s the sunshine that did it. I’ll never know. But there will never be another experience quite like it. Those days, cast in a golden glow, will always keep me warm and happy.