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Doritos and Aggression

I have a thing for Doritos, specifically Spicy Sweet Chili Doritos. If you aren’t familiar, they’re in the purple bag. When I lived in Bed Stuy, I ate them at least once a week. Since the move to Washington Heights, I have probably had them twice in two years.

1. I got soft. I have laundry in my new building. In Bed Stuy I hung out in front of the laundry mat eating doritos while my clothes were washing.

2. There was no bodega in my immediate area of Washington Heights until this past winter.

I was craving Doritos last week, so I walked to Frank’s Market. They only had a giant bag of SSC Doritos and I can’t have a large bag in my house. Have a large bag = eat a large bag, so I bought some fancy chocolate and crossed the street to the new bodega. There was a man sitting outside on a bench. This seemed promising. Good bodegas have people hanging out in front of them. I approached the door and the man looked at me and got up from the bench. As I was pushing the door open, he was right behind me. He put his hand on the door over my head. A little weird, because he was totally in my personal space. I let the weirdness go, because maybe he was trying to help me open the door. (I don’t need help opening doors.) Who knows?

I found the SSC Doritos immediately, but I took a little time to inventory the rest of the store. Bodegas serve as the emergency supply line to the neighborhood and I wanted to know if this one was correct. Toilet paper, tampons, diapers and butter, it was all there. Satisfied, I walked towards the check-out line with my chips. I passed the man from the bench ordering falafel at the sandwich counter.

When I got to the check-out, the clerk was already ringing someone out. I stood a few steps behind and waited. The bench man finished ordering and walked towards the line. Then he stepped directly in front of me and put his butt in my face. The wale of his blue corduroys (it’s summer) was all I could see. I said “Really.” He didn’t move or acknowledge me. He must of been able to feel my breath on his backside. “Come on.” He shifted his weight to his left foot. I stepped from behind him and positioned myself right next to him. I looked up and said in a calm quiet voice “Did you mean to cut in front of me?” “Did you mean to go ahead of me?” He barely looked at me and said “Noooo.” His face turning red with embarrassment. “You didn’t see me there?” “Well I thought you were in line for a sandwich.”

He was the only one in the sandwich line and walked ten feet to get in the check out line. I answered “No” as I crossed in front of him. The clerk said “Hi Miss is that all for you today?”. I said “Yes, thank you.” The clerk rung me out and I walked back up the hill to my house eating Doritos. No word on whether the bench man enjoyed his falafel.

Facebook: MisInformation Highway Election Results

Last Tuesday I voted for Hillary Clinton. I took a voting selfie. (I hate selfies.) Maybe that should have been my warning for impending doom.

My section of Washington Heights is primarily white and liberal. On Tuesday, everyone was walking around smiling. They weren’t hopeful, they were sure they had won. They paraded around joyful, jubilant and smiling with their I voted stickers prominently displayed on their clothing. Joyful is an odd emotion for New Yorkers, so imagine my confusion.

There is no mystery that I am black. Black people are taught early, to never count on a sure thing. Suspicion should always be the first reaction, because the other shoe can and will drop. We can’t escape the world around us. We don’t have the luxury of being concerned one moment and then dropping it when we get too tired of fighting. Our lives and safety are directly effected. Most minorities understand this. With that said, as I was running my errands, it became eerily apparent, that I live in a white liberal bubble.

When I went to the post office, everyone was gleefully talking about voting for Hillary. A woman standing next to me in line told a postal worker that she had to get home to set up her victory party. I giggled. It was a nervous giggle. She paused and shot me a nasty look. Her look said, she was sure of her victory and how dare I penetrate her bubble.

Then Hillary lost. Everyone was stunned. I wasn’t stunned, I was sad. I ate Spaghetti Carbonara for two days and stayed off Facebook until Saturday. When I finally got back on Facebook, it had devolved into a misinformation highway. Misinformation coming from all sides. Indignant people spewing nonsense and yelling at each other.

It reminds me of my preparation skills in high school. I was often unprepared. Mrs Sweeney, my high school advisor, called me a “Big Dummy” at least once a week. She wasn’t being nasty. She wanted me to wake up and realize what I was doing to myself. I was wasting my potential by refusing to prepare, buckle down and learn. I am fairly confident, she would call all of us “Big Dummies” right now.  We need Mrs Sweeney more than ever, but unfortunately she passed away.

So in her honor, I have decided to offer a service on this blog. I am going to address some of the misinformation I see being bandied about on Facebook. I am going to burst bubbles and it might make people uncomfortable, but I am only dealing in facts.

I will start with myself. I was one of the dummies who posted the bison at the Dakota pipeline. The story was they magically appeared. Like Indigenous people have some special communication with Bison. The real story is the bison were released on purpose. Still cool that the bison were part of the resistance, but not completely truthful. I got lazy that day.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/bison-buffalo-dakota-pipeline_us_5814d37de4b0390e69d0987c

Other dummies are posting that President Obama never won the popular vote. In fact he won it both times.

In 2008 Obama beat McCain by 9,550,153 votes

http://www.fec.gov/pubrec/fe2008/federalelections2008.pdf

In 2012 Obama beat Romney by 4,982,291 votes. Not as much as in 2008, but still decisive.

 http://www.fec.gov/pubrec/fe2012/federalelections2012.pdf

The 2000 election between Gore and Bush was the last time someone  won the popular vote and failed to secure the electoral college. Gore won the popular vote by 543,895.

http://www.fec.gov/pubrec/fe2000/prespop.htm

Bonus: I have heard some of my fellow dummies in New York proclaim that they are safe from all this division. 

Woman gets punched in the face by Trump supporter in Brooklyn restaurant for disagreeing with his views.

http://gothamist.com/2016/11/14/bar_tabac_trump_supporter_attack.php

Welp, your bubble is has just been compromised. Time to mobilize.

The Exes Week

I have a fair number of exes. At my age, unmarried and living in NYC, it’s pretty standard. What may not be so standard is my exes return again and again. They usually drop back into my life, in groups of three, in the span of one week. I like to call it what’s old is new again, disaster town or crawl into my hole and wait for next week. Since it happens pretty frequently, I should be used to it, but it stuns me every time. It’s Monday and this week is “The Exes Week.”

The first one arrived last night. L and I started as friends. He has always been there for me, but the age difference is too great. We are in different places in life, always have been and probably always will be. L actually saved me from J. Funny how their names are alphabetical. Anyway, L came back last night, we had dinner. Talked about what’s been going on in our lives and had a wonderful time. We never really ended our relationship. We just stopped seeing each other. He left last night and we promised to keep in better contact. The first ex that contacts is usually the nice one. The one I don’t mind seeing. It lulls me into a false sense of complacency.

The second ex who contacts, is always a disaster. A Sonic Boom. I got on Facebook after L left. When will I learn? There in my Facebook inbox was J.  J and I parted horribly. I will leave out the details, but it wasn’t pretty and was part of my horrible year last year. To say I never want to see or hear from him again is an understatement and yet there he was in my inbox. Not really the inbox, he was filtered into the other box. I ignored him, because nothing good will come from us speaking.

I went to bed last night and dreamt of Justin Bieber. I never dated Justin Bieber or anyone that looks like him. I don’t even listen to Justin Bieber’s music. Is it a sign? I don’t know. The only thing I can predict about exes week is that there will be three. So this week, I will sit and fret and think of all the possibilities. What if exes week is going alphabetical?What if it is going chronologically backwards which would explain explain L then J. Either way all signs point to O.  O and I haven’t spoken in a couple of months, by my choice. I am bracing myself for impact and hope the universe is kind. Maybe Justin Bieber will appear instead.

Out of Shape

Move you’ve got to move, move. Run, Run, Run!!!

I am admittedly out of shape. Ten years in a high stress newsroom with an unlimited candy supply has made me a little soft around the edges. Also, in my former neighborhood, I had an addiction to cabs. My cab rides became a social thing, as I became friendly with the drivers. It was a way of keeping my hand on the pulse of the neighborhood. This is what I told myself anyway.

When I left the job in May, I decided I was going to be a little less soft around the edges. My current neighborhood is perfect place to tone up. In Washington Heights everything is either up or down a hill. My little legs were going to be tone in no time. Well, maybe not no time. The first week away from the job I went out to get groceries and as I was hauling them back up the hill, an old woman with a walker threatened to pass me. I wasn’t having it, so I sped up and lapped her. I am not going to be fitness shamed by an octogenarian with a walker. Petty…

Unlike my candy addiction, my fitness goals are not something I stick to. I have weeks I walk everyday and other weeks I sit on my couch ordering mofongo. As I sit in my shameful, carbed out coma, I promise tomorrow will be better and then it isn’t.

The other day, I was rushing to get to the post office before it closed. I still haven’t conquered my lateness, so I got a Lyft down the hill. The only way I could justify taking a cab, was to promise myself that I had to walk the long way home through Fort Tryon Park. I made it to the post office with just two minutes to spare, but I made it, handled my business. As I was leaving the post office, I looked longingly at the short cut and then I made myself cross the street towards the park.

Once at the park, there is an easy route and one that is basically like climbing Mount Everest. I decided to take Mount Everest. Fitness will be mine!!!! As I am climbing, I pass two teenagers making out. They stop and stare because I am breathing heavily and sweating profusely. I hadn’t even come to the first fork in the path and I wanted to quit. I kept going, sweating and cursing under my breath.

A few minutes later, I reach the first fork. I pause and pretend I am not sure which way to go. I put on my confused face, so if I encounter anyone, they will think, “Oh, she’s lost.” Not, “Oh the little beggar is out of shape.”  I regain my breath, a little, and continue. My heavy breathing starts back up as the incline gets increasingly sharp. My body is contorted into a 45 degree angle as I climb. I see a man in his 60’s power walking down the hill in an 80’s parachute track suit.  Clearly he is in better shape than I and is smiling as he power walks. My face looks like someone is beating me. As we get close to each other, he says.

Man: MOVE! You’ve got to move, move.

He marches in place as he shouts words of encouragement. I am embarrassed obviously. My charade is blown. My own personal charade, no one else was fooled.

Me: I am going

Man: Run Run!!!!

Me:Yes got it.

His encouragement is annoying now, so I haul ass up the rest of the hill. I hear him screaming Move, Move as I turn the corner. I guess his plan worked. He embarrassed me enough, that I ran up the hill. I almost collapsed at the top, but I didn’t.

I walked the rest of the way home, slowly. As a reward for my efforts, I ordered mofongo. This fitness thing may never be mine.

 

Bonnet and Frank’s

I haven’t been the most gracious about my new neighborhood. Most of my surliness comes from being overworked and feeling out of place. My opinion has drastically changed since I left my job and started roaming around during the middle of the day. I discovered that’s when the neighborhood comes alive.

Last week at Frank’s grocery store, I got caught in some drama. As I walked through the sliding door, I saw all the signs of a hot mess. There was an ancient woman in a woolen bonnet (average temp last week was 95 degrees) swinging a metal medical cane at the pastries on the top shelf. Pastries were raining down on the shelves behind. Boom, Scrape, Boom, Boom!

The entrance to Frank’s is really tight, so the cane was coming perilously close to my head every time Bonnet swung back. Her shopping cart was blocking the path, so no one else’s cart could pass through. I froze, because I knew I couldn’t help or get past her. I was also completely fascinated. I just stood there, with my mouth open, as Bonnet destroyed the display. I tried to catch the eye of the cashiers on the other side, but they were too busy. After a minute or so of pastry carnage, two women came in the store. One of them realized the damage Bonnet was doing and offered her help.

Good Citizen: Let me help you. What are you looking for?

Bonnet: I want to see all of them. (She continued to whacking her cane at the shelf.)

Good Citizen: But what kind do you want?

Bonnet: I want to see all of them. (Screaming) I want you to bring every piece down and show it to me.

If you are wondering, I am still standing there with my mouth open. I hear the sliding door open behind me. A woman was standing just outside the door with a 6 month old on her hip. I looked back at her and nodded. 

Me: Do you want to get by?

Baby Lady: (shrugs) I need a cart. There is nowhere to go.

Me: I’ll move over there.

I pointed to the area behind Bonnet’s cart.

Baby Lady:We’re ok.

Me: Well at least you will be able to get in the air conditioning. (It was a very humid day.)

I squeezed past Bonnet’s cart while she was busy with Good Citizen. The Lady and her baby took my spot.

Good Citizen: How about one of these?

(The good citizen brings down three)

Bonnet: No, no, no!

(The good citizen puts back the first three and brings three more down.)

Good Citizen: Ok, what about these?

Bonnet: No!!!!! (Screaming and banging her cane on the ground.) I want to see the ones in the back.

Good Citizen:Give me a break lady!

Bonnet: I want to see all of them!!!!!!!! (Still banging her cane on the ground.)

Good Citizen: You are a miserable, nasty lady. I am done. I’m DONE!

Good Citizen stormed past me and the two staff members who had just arrived to help.  One of them was picking up the rubble from “Tornado Bonnet” and the other went around to help her get the right pastry. The baby lady had enough and stuck her baby in a cart. She tried to push it through the tiny opening between Bonnet’s cart and the fruit, but she couldn’t.

Staff Member: Ma’am, I am just going to roll your cart away for a minute.

Bonnet: You will not. I want it there. Leave it there!!! (Banging her cane on the ground again.)

Staff Member: Well we can just roll it right back.

Bonnet: Leave it! I want it right there.

While the staff member had Bonnet’s attention, I took the opportunity to move her cart back so Baby Lady could get through. Bonnet sensed her cart move just as Baby Lady was pulling through the newly freed space.

Bonnet: Don’t move my cart! I want it right there!!!

Me: Lady, I have been waiting here for fifteen minutes. I am going to go get a cart and push it through.

The second employee took Bonnet’s cart from me and kept it to the side, so I could get a cart. I passed Bonnet and moved quickly down the aisle, happy to get a little space between us. I ran into Good Citizen in the middle of the produce aisle. She turned around holding her face. I could tell she was exhausted from her encounter with Bonnet.

Good Citizen: That was awful.

Me: Yes, it was.

Good Citizen: She was so nasty.

Me: She is still yelling over there. 

Good Citizen was standing directly in front of the limes. The limes were on the top shelf, out of my reach and the main reason I came to the store. I didn’t want to ask for help. I don’t really like to ask for help and Good Citizen had been through a lot. So, I stood there looking in the direction of the limes (like a weirdo) and then she asked.

Good Citizen: Do you need something.

Me: Yes, um could you grab two limes for me?

Good Citizen: Sure, how do you want them? Sort of hard but not too hard?

Me: Yes, that’s perfect.

She picked out two limes and then we walked down the aisle together. We got to the meat section and she turned to me.

Good Citizen: I used to see her in Gideon’s (The Kosher Bakery across the street).

Me: Oh…

Good Citizen: You know Gideon’s closed.

Me: Right

Good Citizen: That’s where she got her pastries.

Me: And she could see of all of them and point to which one she wanted.

Good Citizen: Yes

Suddenly, I started to feel bad for Bonnet. Her neighborhood is changing and she is too old to adjust. I am going to guess Bonnet was never the most reasonable individual, but the pastries are just a symbol of her frustration. It must be awful to feel like your world is gone and you are too tired to learn the new. You slowly lose your independence.  All you want is the what you want, nothing extravagant, just the ability to choose. Gentrification is not just about money and race. It’s also about age.