Saturday morning Kent and I had a stupid, stupid fight before I left for work, and when I left I wanted to make sure he knew I was MAD, so I slammed the door on the way out. Then, in case he still didn’t know how MAD I was, I slammed the heavy iron outermost door to our building. It slammed right loud, so Kent definitely knew I was MAD; when I got to work, however, I noticed a sharp, searing pain shooting down my arm from my shoulder. Apparently I was too MAD to notice at the time, but in slamming the heavy, heavy door, I wretched my shoulder and hurt it. But Kent heard me loud and clear, and we made up before lunchtime, leaving me feeling like an asshole for slamming the door, and in pain to boot. Injury to insult, I suppose.
The fight was literally over a shirt. My shoulder still hurts, and it all started with a shirt. It's such a boring story that I would rather hurt my other shoulder than type it all out, but suffice it to say, "Ah, marriage." Or rather, Ah, impatient and temperamental wife with slightly befuddled sweet husband who can’t figure out why the hell she is so pissed over a shirt.
Later that day I may have accidentally, almost, kind of, sort of agreed to go on a date with someone, I think. Because it was a hot (HOT) day, we decided to put a little table outside the store with some sale merchandise. I was sitting at the table, drinking a Frappaccino of Apology which my husband had just delivered, when a man came over to me and started speaking French. You speak French? He kept asking me, and No, I don’t, I kept trying to tell him. I speak French the way I drink wine coolers, which is to say, not since high school, so the conversation was halting at best. He was very emphatic and kept talking and talking and was asking me (I think) where my family was from and if I am an “original American.” He gestured to the store and asked, You work there? You here? I nodded, happy to be able to answer a question. Yes, Yes! I work here! Here? I come for you here again? he asked. Yep, here! I told him. It’s okay? I come for you here again, he asked, and I nodded and smiled, Sure! Okay! I kept telling him. He left with a wave and then I started replaying the conversation in my head. I am not convinced I didn’t agree to meet him at the store for a date, which is not, actually, okay. Not at all. C’est la vie. Or, whatever.
Later that afternoon I was again at the outside table when a man straight out of central casting for a “large, Mafioso type” came up to me and offered me a piece of gum. Out of nowhere. He just came over to me with an open pack of Wrigley’s, and he would not take no for an answer. I refused several times (because what is that, like the first thing your mother teaches you? No candy or gum from strangers, especially ones with more jewelry than you.), but he KEPT INSISTING I TAKE THE GUM. He eventually gave up, but I found the whole thing goofy. Why with the gum, Stereotypical Brooklyn Italian Man, why?
And stranger still is that I saw him again today – Kent and I were out walking around, enjoying the sun (which is a much nicer way of saying “sweating and complaining and sweating some more and then complaining again.”), and we passed the gum dude, clad in all black, shirt unbuttoned to an unholy degree, gold chains a-swingin’. That’s the gum dude, I hissed at Kent, hoping to see him horrified at the prospect of his wife being harassed on the mean streets of Noo Yawk City. His response? “What kind of gum was it?”
It was HOT this weekend, sticky, dirty, hazy hot. Which brings up the excellent point that there is a fine line between "dewey" and "greasy." One is fresh-faced and glowing. The other is not. Guess which I was after walking around Brooklyn for five hours today.
Oh, and I got some new sandals. I still haven’t decided if they are cute or stupid. Kent and I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge this afternoon, and we passed a girl wearing the same sandals I just bought. Honestly, I thought they looked a little bit stupid, so now I’m leaning in that direction. And, it looked like she had bandages covering blisters. So I may have made a bad, bad choice. But they’re shiny!!! So shiny!
Shoes are my crack.