Rain-Drenched RedemptionIt was a strange Wednesday night. Jo and I had an "appointment" and it went, well, very well. We even went out to dinner as friends afterwards. True, I had to pay, but it wasn't a date, just old friends having dinner. Honestly, we haven't had that good of a time in a long, long while. But we didn't talk about us or "trying to work things out," or any of the stuff that one might think would be a temptation to talk about when a couple breaking up is having a good time. We just laughed. She always loved the way I made her laugh, and I always loved making her.
After dinner we said goodnight, I love you, hugged each other and went our separate ways. No tears or lingering looks, just a simple goodnight with a warm feeling inside. I can't say this will last forever, but I sure as hell enjoyed it for the night.
After leaving Jo, I joined 2 new friends I made last week. Two 23 year old gals who have collectively been in NYC a total of about 2 weeks. They're pretty, young, fun, and they have worlds of opportunities in front of them. I should be attracted to them. I should want to try and "move on," but I sometimes forget how young 23 is, and its hard to forget that I'm not quite ready for that.
Jo wrote me an email yesterday saying that she didn't want to remember the fights - only the "wonderful times" that we had. No fights about money, stuff, or who's fault it was. Its a little funny too. For the past year, all its been is bitterness and rain. But walking home Wednesday night, feeling the hot, New York rain drenching my bag and my work clothes, I couldn't remember much of that. I had hope as I walked through Washington Square Park, and I didn't even think about stepping inside or under an awning. I just let it fall, sans umbrella and all. Maybe it was a little too "Hollywood movie scene," and maybe I was even aware of that. But it felt good - and it felt right. As I gave a dollar to a black man - who I briefly spoke French with - I started humming a Dylan song in my head - ok ... maybe out loud as well. Anyway, the song goes like this:
"They say every man must need protection ... They say every man must fall. Yet I swear I see my reflection ... somewhere so high above the wall. I see my light come shinin' ... from the west down to the east ...
Any day now, Any day now - I shall be released"
As I'm writing this down, I feel lucky. I feel lucky and even happy. God help me if the memories of the bitterness ever show up unexpectedly at my door one day and cripple whatever (faux?) comfort I have. But for tonight, as I'm moving on, I'm not thinking about the pain - but instead I can see her pretty little face as she came around the stone courtyard outside that old Cypriot church 3 years ago. I'll never forget that look of excitement, nervousness, and fear.
I can't be sure, but I probably had the same look on my face walking home Wednesday night. It's a good look ya know. I hope I never lose it.
I hope she never does either.
Institutional MeatFollowing up on the tradition of Ficali and I freely and unabashedly stealing each other's phrases and titles, I will discuss the topic of Institutional Meat. What is "institutional meat" one may ask? Well, actually, I'm not quite sure, but maybe together - the readers and I - can conquer this topic and finish with a better than rudimentary grasp on this subject.
The topic came up as Ficali and I were having a drink and I was downing chicken wings.
"Have you ever seen Monday Night Football (MNF)?" I asked her, knowing full-well what the answer was (after she called a football field a "footie pitch" the other night).
"No, but I guess you want to watch it."
So after showing her my apartment, in hopes that I can rent it out (under the table of course) to her and move into a downtown loft, I asked her if she wanted to join me at a local pub for wings, beer, and MNF. She reluctantly agreed and we headed 2 blocks to 6th and Washington.
While at the bar, I ordered an obscene amount of chicken wings, knowing I wouldn't finish them, but for $5.50 why not have the little backup chicken in the fridge at home? So as I was digging in to my over-sauced wings of pleasure, I wanted to inquire with Ficali - as I like to with all vegetarians - as to why she was a vegetarian. Now, most of the time the response falls into a category or combination of categories such as the following:
1) The person does not believe in the cruelty of animals
2) It conflicts with their religious beliefs
3) Health reasons
4) They watched that 20/20 episode where they showed the beef carcasses on the floor
I'm sure other's could have input regarding the reasons they have for being a vegetarian, or at least that they have heard from others. However, I'll leave my list at the four aforementioned categories, risking that something is slipping past me at the moment. Ok, now back to Ficali.
"So, tell me why you're a vegetarian," I asked.
"Well, honestly, where I went to school, the meat just wasn't good," she admitted. It was
institutional meat, you know."
One can picture what natural facial expressions and giggles may come out of the person on the receiving end of any statement containing the phrase "institutional meat," and, well, that was pretty much my reaction. It was quite funny, so I had to follow up with my new friend on this topic (after I poked fun at her for a bit of course).
"So," I grinned at her amusingly,"institutional meat?"
Ficali then began to tenaciously defend her "spot on" description of the school's meat and how hers was a legitimate reason for being a vegetarian. I have to say that she made good points, and one's decision about what they eat is, of course, their own right. However, I saw some chinks in her armor that made me think that maybe those afflicted by (IMS) Institutional Meat Syndrome may actually have a chance to enjoy meat someday. Just maybe.
Firstly, she was eating a crab cake as she was talking to me about IMS. So, it's established that she's not a
total vegetarian. Secondly, she admitted that she had a weak link for 1 very specific type of meat. And when I say specific, I'm not playing around. She told me that she cannot resist - are you ready - " bourbon chicken in cajun cafes in [shopping] malls."
Aha! A classic temptation. I can't blame her though, as the waft of fried bird emerging from the food court after a long day of shopping is almost too much for any one person to resist. I sympathized with her, and then began silently plotting to get her to eat a juicy filet mignon. Ok, not really, but she did try beer for the first time, and without too much hesitation actually.
After sipping my Coors Light draft, she commented that "it tastes like 7-up, but I've never had 7-up."
"Hmmm," I thought. Maybe IMS is more serious than we thought."
