xxx large orange jump suite

Hello! I just want to tell you I am hating my job today. Here I am at midnight googling a woman who is has been sitting in prison since last June. I really want to know when she is getting out of prison because I know she hates me. She and all 400 pounds of her in that triple X large Orange jumpsuit, not enjoying the spoils of her cons. She will not hurt me with brute force. She will get me her cunning.

Well my Google results are the same articles about her from last year. Katrina victim can not get her fair share of aid. Woman charged with fraud and grand Larceny. She pretended to be a Katrina Victim and on top of that she embarrassed the New York Times. The reporter did the initial article with out any research.

Welcome to June-uary. That not June- uary in the picture. That is January. I will talk about the weather because everyone else is. Though now at 11:00 at night I am told we are in for a drop.

Today I walked around Park Slope for most of the day and heard snatches of conversation. Most of those snatches were about the weather. Today, January 6 people were walking around in flip flops an tank tops. I even heard a heard a woman say to another, 'dammit I just blew out my flip flops'; What does that mean? I am assuming that that the straps broke. Isn't that a line in 'Wasting away in Margarittaville'? After that snatch I could not get margarita's out of my mind for a block and a half. Though my last margarita experience was less than perfect. I ordered a pitcher at Burrito Bar and felt dissatisfied with the amount of Tequila. None at all it seemed.

Well, I went to go buy a plant (one of the only things I knocked off my list) near the clock tower and the place had its bare winter supply. I bought a Christmas Cactus. Because its winter and that was about all that was there.

By the way that big clock tower is being changed in 'baller condos'. That what the guy behind me said when I was crossing the street to the barren Garden Center.

I have lost my concentration.

Has anyone seen the commercials on TV claiming that 'smoking is eating you alive'. Damn I wish those commercials were on TV when I was growing up. It would have saved me a lot of money.

The cost of cute. (and being a mom)

Wow here I am almost eight weeks after promising the biggest blog era ever. Where have I been? The question is more like where has my computer been. It has been held hostage by some crazies over at on first and seventh.

I discovered that after my brothers both visited in the beginning of November she would not turn on. I brought her to this operation over on first and seventh under the banner 'The microchip cafe'. Well it took them seven or so weeks, five visits on my behalf to nag them, and all they did was change the power cord. Well, here I am once again to live up to my promise. I really don't know what direction to take regardless of the obsessive direction of my brother. Blogs are stressful. Especially when one sounds semi literate in ones conversation. Certain people whine 'put it in your blog'. Well I will do my best.

I spent the evening on the Internet looking for a Gymboree close by for FP to stretch his legs a bit. The little guy a little cranky because our apartment cramped and he needs to stretch his legs. See above picture

My day consisted of traveling to Staten Island by Ferry, to walk a to the family court. I was wearing my extremely pointy, high healed cowboy boots. Very cute. But tonight my feet are swollen up to watermelons and they hurt like hell. Most women know that it hurts to be cute. Thats something my mother never taught me; the cost of cute.

On the way back on the ferry I was thinking what if the ferry crashes and into the harbor. I will either drown; or get knocked unconscious; or I will end up in the hospital, conscious but unable the come home (two broken legs). Either of the three my cell phone would definitely be at the bottom of the harbor. And the phone is where the babysitters number is. I have no home number. Ralph is in Haiti this month. What will happen with Felix while I am in the hospital? Unconscious? Dead? Even after the ferry docked safely and I was walking down the stairs I thought what if I fall? Well I didn't. i am safely home. Is This the cost of being a mom?

Well...

Good weekend. Me and the brothers together for the first time since my little man came around. An under fabulous circumstances.

An I mean that sarcastically.

I am tired. I can not even explain.

I have been watching this documentary on New York. I never knew that Ellis Island was so competitive.

My life story.

Today I waited all day for a sixteen year old girl to come to my job so that I could bring her to a new home. This is a girl who has been pulled from her mothers care and entered foster care four times with in the last nine year and she is fed up. She tells me later that she does even care about going back to her mother any more because her mother will just find some other man and she will end up back in foster care. She also told me that she is writing her life story and she is almost done with second chapter. Wow! I told her to keep writing. This little girl has experienced so much that my life is a novel seems like a false notion.
I have been reading the books by Augusten Burroughs. He has written a few memoir style novels. They are of such outlandish bizzare quality people start to wonder how true they are. Especially now that one of his novels is a hollywood movie. The first text says 'Based on a true story' But then my question is aren't we alllowed to report our lifes story how, when and which way we want? I is our story. We own it. We should be be able to to report it how we want as ong as it is our story. Any event that happens to us is often different in the telling. It is a natural tendancy. But what about that dude who had to apologize to Oprah? NO idea what his name is. How is this related?

explosion

I guess I am having trouble with this blog thing. How did it go so well for a while then fizzle out. And how can I make it readible? A certain someone responds to my stories with a constant statement 'write it in your blog! Write it in your blog!' But the problem I find is I don't find anthing worth writing about. However I find a lot worth talking about. But this certain person told me recently that I 'live my like a novel' or should it be rather I 'am writing a novel'. What does that mean? I even asked him 'what does that mean? Does it mean i express my creativity in my choices. Do my choices maximize the drama?' I have experienced conflict but I really feel that a lot of it was not my choice. But some of it was my choice. I don't know. One day it will all come out in 14 days. I will write my memoirs in 14 days. That is the plan. Next time I will I will talk about memoirs.

The 'explosion' in the title referrs to what has happened to me 24 hours ago. Someone who I have invested immense amounts of money, time and emotion in has betrayed me to the core. This money time and emotion has always been an investment because I felt I woul get it back ten fold. Though this person has betrayed me they still pledge eternal loyalty to me. Though their version of loyalty is different from mine. How can all this be? What should I do? Do you all want ot hear more?

'Explosion' also referrs to the beginning of my biggest blog era ever.

Crisis of Modernity

What does that mean? I remember that word from the English department at BU. I think it was the name of a class that I never took. Or a class that I took and never bought the books for so I might as well have never taken it.
Well earlier this evening I was walking out of the Parkside Q train stop pushing Felix in the big boy stroller that he is still not big enough for because it tweaks his neck. About a dozen people were standing surrounding a 3 year old boy. Some one yelled 'do you belong to anyone!'. He just stared blankly. Some one else yelled 'where's your mother!'. Again blankly. Some one else yelled 'get an officer!'. Felix and I just sat and watched everyone start buzzing about the child that did not belong to anyone. Some one else yells 'someone needs to lock his mother up'. An woman officer walks up to the little boy and then walks around the corner with him.
My brother calls me and asks what is the crisis of modernity.
So I tell him.

hotttt

Today was hot. It is hot. This computer is hot. The cell phone glued to my ear is hot. The rain is starting. The lightining is striking. New York is on fire. Walking outside the air is heavy. The pools are staying open later. Call 311 for your nearest cooling center. Air conditioners are selling like hotcakes. Hotcakes? Really how many of those have been sold in the last year.

I am too hot to think.

Well this makes sense.

Yesterday I was walking down East 68th street, towards the park, earlier in the morning then I would usually be out. I had just gotten a new case in the neighborhood.
An old grandmother in the upper east side was seen smacking her grandchild around in the park. The child is with a distant cousin now So at that moment I was going to a case meeting at the Methodist church on the Lexington. What a wonderful block I am thinking.
Though I am not a fan of the this gold crusted neighborhood because of the air that it carries, because it fact it is still new York but wants to hide any think less then ivory and marble. The fact is I don't know much about this neighborhood because I never go here. Never in all my years would I expect to have a case here.
Now I have a case.
As I am nearing the corner, a corner crowded with a Village voice, an AM New York and a Wall Street Journal Boxes, a Korean deli teaming over with little pyramids of waxy overpriced fruits, a police man, two or three high school students and a mother pushing a stoller. In a moment, one moment, I hear cracking sonic boom, I feel unbearable heat against my back, the stinging pain in the back of my head and get knocked to ground.
I lie on my stomach with my right check pressed to the ground. With my left ear I can hear screams, of people and of sirens. I see shoes rush past me, high heals, sneakers, boots. None of of them. I must be one of many. I hear a screaming voice "its gone! Its gone! Just like the towers!"
My eye sight is getting hazy. I try to lift my head but the burning feeling is too strong.

Last Week

Ok I am out. It was a mistake. Everyday I mistakes.

Last week Felix and I went to the eyedoctor in a rain storm. Rain was coming down in great big drooling, dripping chunks. Our appointment was at 8:00 but when we got there I found out that they had no referral. Felix pooped. I had to feed him. I had to go get the referral in another building. Felix pooped again. He wanted to stand. He wanted to sit. He wanted to look over my back shoulder. then Felix pooped again. After two hours they dilated his eyes. The basement of the hospital started to flood. The TV said the subways were flooding. I fed Felix. Felix spit up. The doctor looked at his eyes. He said "you do good work'. I look that!. Like he is a sculpture or sweater I just knitted.
Well his eyes were perfect. In case anybody does not know from reading this. He was born thirteen weeks early and spent seven weeks on the ventilator. Such extreme exposure to oxygen often has detrimental affects on eyesight. His eyes are perfect just like everything else about him. How lucky can we get.

Stop the voices

There have been a few times in my life when I really saw the thin thread that separate sanity and madness. The first time I believe was in tenth grade when I did a term paper on schizophrenia. It was over half a semester that I spent reading account after account, book after book. And I remember walking up the stairs, letting out a long hearty maniacal laugh and thinking 'hey I could just loose it, and people will have to take care of me and I could rest.' Resting is good. That is why people get admitted. Admittance.
When I was in college and taking those small square tabs under my toungue is a little too often, I felt my tenuous grasp of self slipping away. But luckily I stopped that.
A couple years ago I admitted a good friend of mine. And a year later my best friend was admitted though not by me by her mother.
This all made me think 'wow It can happen to me.'
Well it did.... I am writing to you from St Vincents Psychiatric Unit. I am not sure exactly what happened. I have been admitted. By who? More later.

Less stress?

We got a baby sitter! I know this happened two days ago but it is a big a event so I have to mention it. I have been worried about this since I was pregnant. Who is going look after baby? How much are they going to charge to look after baby? Am I going to be able afford someone to look after baby? How much is to much? And then Felix came along early and fragile and scary so new questions were asked. What is the best thing for Felix? Some come to the house? Bring him to some ones house? Day care Center? Who is going to do this? How do I make sure they don't duck tape his mouth shut when he doesn't stop crying? Or shake him, good lord please don't let them shake him.

So Charite came over the other night. She picked up Felix and he immediatly started smiling and laughing. She found his tickle spot. So is she going to tickle him all day long you ask. That would be fine as long as she feeds him and does not shake him.
Charite is a good friend of Ralphs aunt. She is an older Haitian lady who speaks little English. Maybe she can teach me Creole

Brown bag

Ok, today was a good day. Finally something good happened after a long string of misery and dissappointment.
I was walking down Wycoff coming up on Myrtle when I step on one of many pieces of trash on this trash filled street. It was a brown bag. I looked down at the piece of trash, it said Met foods on it. Grocery stores still give you the option of brown bag? I thought everything is now platastic. This for some reason compelled me to pick the brown bag up. A piece of trash is a piece of trash is a piece of trash, and this street was covered in trash. But like I said something compelled me to this piece of trash. So I picked up the brown bag to see what was in it. It was full of something. I opened it up and saw a balled up newspaper. Todays? I pulled the news paper out, underneith was green, green, green and more green. It was a bag full of crumpled up 100 dollar bills. Holy fuckin Shit! Of course I looked around to see if anyone had seen me pick up the bag and was getting ready to put a bullet in the back of my head. No one, every around me was contrating on their babies, ice cream cones or cell phones. So I opened my backpack to shove the bag in.

Later at home I count out the wads of 100's. Can you believe it? $9700? Any idea's what I should do with the money?

down pour

Well reading my last blog entry I notice not necessarily the grammatical errors but the words left out and the lack of making sense. Can these problems be solved with editing? Let us try to edit this one before I send it out.
I sit here in the same position as last time we met. On the couch, Felix asleep in the other room, though this time it is in the AM not the PM, Ralph is sleeping off his hang over and rain is pissing onto Flatbush avenue with incredulous force, Even though I have not spoken to any one yet today I have not managed to encounter drama. I got a voicemail message from James, the man I married so he could stay in the country. He wanted the letter the I recently received indicating our interview date. I don't know where that bejesused thang went. I searched and searched every pile of random paper in my small apartment and could not find it. James called back four times and rang the door bell twice. I avoided it all.
I have to find that freaking piece of paper. It has to be somewhere. I hate James. He is just a first class knucklehead. When I told him I had a baby he said he and his girlfriend are thinking about kids. He is not. That's a lie. He probably doesn't even have a girlfriend. You know when you just know some one is lying?

Today

Well, i have to get back in the swing of this blog. I sit here, on my couch surrounding by this oppresive humidity, the consistant instrusive music from the Wing Wagoneers wagons pulsing up towards my window, Felix is finally asleep in the other room, nearly naked and devouring his fingers. I think about how I really have trouble finding something to say though someone told me yesterday that my compulsive need for detail in my relating a story or occurance is a symptom of the chaos that has occured in the past.
The last day or two I have really intraspective. I cannot believe that at that age I am I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I am stuck in this vicious world of social service and I can not move. I keep trying and trying to find another job but strangly I am looking at the same job and something is keeping me where I am. I am searching to get paid for what juices me. What I am doing, working as a foster care social worker does not juice me. It is so stale it makes me want to cry. I cant catch up. I cant do it right. I cant please everyone. Sometimes I can't please anyone. Do I need to move forward or go through a career change. When I first started this job I knew I wanted to write. I knew one day it would happen. And the drama and the stories of these peoples lives just worked well with my goals as a writer. Now i don't really write anymore. Why don't I write anymore. I think subconciously I have decided that my writing will never amount to anything so instead of just writing in vain why don't I just stop.

One Week Closer to Retirement

I just finished my first week as a working mother. And I can't believe I am still at this job. I have tried and tried to get out but could not time and time again. Ok I am going to stop feeling sorry for myself. I am hear for a reason I guess.
On another subject I never thought I would feel the following. I wish I could be a stay at home mother. Felix just needs someone there. Now for at least a couple months we can work it out so one of us is always there. But in a couple months that will not be possible. And last two nights I have passed out at 8:00 out of shear exhaustion. I need to go to check the job websites.

Lesson?

I just wanted to tell everyone that since last night I find myself furious at the prospect of some punk college kid from the middle of nowhere gaining all this fame from spending 41 hours in a Walmart. His name is Skyler Bartels and he is all over the internet. Everywhere! Apparently he attempted to spend the week of his spring break in a 24 hour Walmart. He only made it 41 hours but the Des Moines Register wrote an article about his endeavor. You can tell not much goes on in that city if this is News. Well because of the article he has been on NPR, Good Morning America, David Letterman and is being offered a movie and a book deal. Well four years ago a guy I know through my brother, Marc Dixon, spent 49 hours in a Walmart. He wrote about it in a Zine and on a website. Marcs action inspired many. He inspired my brother to spend two weeks in a kitchen with three other artists studying the effects of confinement on creativity, (I find that interesting from the point of view of a prisoners artwork). Marc inspired my friend Brian and I to spend 24 hours straight on the NYC subway system. You would be surprised how easy it was, how enteraining and how quickly we adapted to sleeping on subway seats. Well I mad from the two points of view, that Skyler Bartels is praised as having such an original idea, when Marc did it more then four years ago and more insightfull and sophisticated. I am also think how mad I would be if some on spent 24 hours on the subway is being offered a book and movie deal for this. Also where is Skylers account of his 41 hours? Everything I have seen written is by the Des Moines Register or the Associated Press

One year later Born in Brooklyn

Wow, I have not posted in over 10 1/2 months. Exactly one year ago I was lamenting about my brothers blog being better than my blog. In the past ten and half months. I found out I was pregnant. You know I may have thought I was pregnant when I last posted but for some reason did not seem it more relevant than the noise in union square. I remember that day. I was looking for a couch and waiting for Ralph to get off work. I bought some girl scout cookies and hid in movie theater.

Well right now my six month old son Felix is asleep in the other room. Between may and august I went through a relatively normal pregnancy. But then in September my blood pressure rose and Felix was delivered early . He spent four months in the hospital recovering from his early delivery. He is relatively fine except for some breathing issues which should clear up in time. He is my first generation Brooklynite. Born in Brooklyn.

Noice

Yesterday I went to Union Square in Manhattan in an effort to look at some sofas in a furniture store, and run in to some chaos. Whole portions of the streets were blocked and men in hard hats were tearing up the concrete with large powerful drills. Yellow cranes were stretching above these men scooping up shards of concrete and droping the shards into towering piles. Trucks, buses, cabs and SUVs were honking and seething. As if the cranes and men were going to clear away the piles just so the vehicles could get past. Meanwhile pedestrians with pained looks on there faces were trying to cross the streets and meneuver each other on the too small side walks. The noice and stress was so much I had to take refuge in a movie theater to get away. I saw a very good movie called 'Crash'.

On my way back to Brooklyn I was thinking about the reasons why Brooklyn is better. Well the noice and chaos is definitly less but also in Union Square I was noticing that the rich people are just so rich and beautiful and the poor people are so decrepid and ugly. In Brooklyn people seem to travel more of a middle road.

The crazier the better

I love crazy kids. The crazier the better. This morning I met crazy little Lucy at the Brooklyn Kiddie State Hospital. She was transported by ambulance, from a hospital in Long Island, strapped to a guerney.

I never knew this hospital existed. I had gone down Ralph and turned right on Bergan so many times, on my way to the Kingsbourough projects. But never have I turned left and looked beyond the large mental gates.

Today I walked beyond those metal gates and saw a lovely campus with a pool and an excercise room. Life seems so pleasant there, in the middle of Bed Sty, surrounded by government housing, fast food and funeral homes, sits a pleasant spot for minority children with diagnoses and drug regeimes (sp?) in which all you sheltered white suburbanites can not fathom.