Post No Bills: New York Adventures in Banality

"Why?"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 17:11:00 +0000

This whole Maine voting to repeal gay marriage thing -- and by extension California -- has me thinking. And angry. Mostly angry. I know I'm preaching to the converted here, but one of the comments on my initial "Hey, I got married" post was "Why?" The answer relates so poignantly to Maine's decision to revoke the civil rights of some of its citizens.

Why?

I know that on one hand marriage in the West is a dead institution and when I say this I speak of the institution that our grandparents and countless generations knew before. Women are no longer chattel to be moved from one family to another. There are no more dowries. Women no longer have to love, honor, and obey. (Sorry, honey. I know you were whispering "obey" under your breath as we exchanged vows.) Women, as a whole, are equal partners.

What is marriage in 2009? Again, it's about equality. It's about two people coming together to form a lasting partnership. It's about taking care of the one you love and vice versa, whether you're 30 or 90, regardless of gender.

So I think the question isn't "why" but "why not"? Especially since the gay marriage gods apparently giveth and they taketh away. (I'm looking at you, California and Maine.)

I've learned to value things differently as I've gotten older. While I don't need a piece of paper to confirm what I already know in my heart, I do want the legal structure of a partnership. And yeah, I want my wife to have health care. I want her to make the tough decisions for me should I ever, God forbid, be incapacitated. I want my inalienable right to equal protection under the law. Why is that so threatening to a large swath of the population, especially the voters in California and Maine?

And for one final dose of moral outrage, let me outline for you what lopsided, second class rights I'm entitled to currently. While the State of New York doesn't allow gay marriage (Fuck you, Albany), it does recognize "marriages" performed in other states. Ergo, Ms. K and I went to Connecticut to get hitched, which does perform gay marriages (ie, not civil unions). I'm in negotiations at work over what benefits will extend to Ms. K, namely health care. While things look like they are a go, this is what will happen should Ms. K decide to use my health care.

She goes to the doctor.

She submits a claim to my insurance company.

They reimburse her.

The IRS, because the federal government does not recognize gay marriage, treats the money the insurance company reimburses her as taxable income. Taxable fucking income. Just let that sink in a moment. So if Ms. K spends the night in the ER, like I did back in 2008, receives a $5,000 bill, and it is covered by insurance, we have to pay a percentage to the IRS come April. If your tax rate is 15%, that's $750 that will have to be paid to the IRS. If we were a straight married couple, this would not be the case.

This is what it is like to be a second class citizen in your own country.

I recommend reading the New York Time's "The High Price of Being a Gay Couple."

"I want to hear about how your families are responding."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 22:27:00 +0000

Ah yes. The families. Anonymous commenter, you touched upon a major point that may or not have come across in my previous post. You see, my family doesn't know that I got married last week. It is infinitely complicated when it shouldn't be. Frankly I'm a little intimidated by my mother and don't quite know how to break the news to her. As for Ms. K, she told only her mother. Still waiting to see how this all goes down.

But let's rewind a little.

While it may seem out of left field that Ms. K and I would run off and get gay married, we've been talking about it privately for almost a year. We've also gone back and forth on whether this was something we wanted to do, but the possibility of my health care benefits extending to Ms. K was a huge lure. I know it's not very romantic and neither is a civil ceremony, but there you go. That said, these are murky legal water we've waded into. No, we won't be changing our last names.

So how did this all evolve?

Back in September, Ms. K and I started talking about moving from our much maligned apartment. If fact, had I been blogging that month, I would have regaled you all of tales of apartment listings on Craigslist and the place in Park Slope we looked at. Great location! By the park! In a brownstone! Dog friendly! But the place looked like squatters had been living there and it was overpriced in its condition. Alas.

The thrust into moving and the challenges that it would create led us to another conversation about perhaps waiting till early 2010 to commit to moving. Then it was like, "If we're not moving this month, why don't we get married instead?"

Crazy!

I picked an auspicious date and time in the future, which turned out to be October 28th at 11:15 am. As that day grew closer, we scrambled to buy wedding bands, rent a car, and buy dresses to wear. I even bought a pair of 3 1/2 inch stacked heels to wear with my new blue dress. Ms. K looked beautiful in a new gray dress paired with brown patent leather heels that she already had. No virginal white for us; the jig was surely up. On the day of, we got up early and drove in the rain to New Haven. By the time the paperwork was done and the justice of the peace had married us, it was noon. So much for my auspicious time frame.

When we finally got home and returned the car, we drank a bottle of Moet in bed and lounged around as "joined legal spouses." Then it was off to our wedding meal at Applewood in Park Slope where we had the tasting menu with the wine pairing. Afterward, tipsy and full, we took a car home where we crawled into bed exhausted, but most importantly married.

"Blab blab blab blab blab."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 20:39:00 +0000

I wrote a couple of blog entries to explain some of the stuff that has been going on over the last month, but then the phrase "burying the lede" kept coming to mind. So I'm just going to come out and say it.

On Wednesday, Ms. K and I eloped to Connecticut. We are, in the eyes of the State of Connecticut and thus New York, "joined legal spouses."

Questions? Comments?

"Don't worry, I'm gay."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 03:19:00 +0000

Alchemy.

According to Merriam-Webster, it means "a power or process of transforming something common into something special." It's not what I would call your every day, run-of-the-mill kind of word, but I randomly saw the word twice within a fifteen minute time period. First, as I was waiting in line to order a sandwich, I glanced upon the word on an advertisement. Second, it graced the book chapter that I woman was reading next to me on the 6 train. I was reminded of childhood episodes of Sesame Street. Boys and girls, the word of the day is . . . alchemy.

Maybe there is something alchemic in the art of turning a random coincidence into meaning. Maybe I was turning something common -- a common event -- into something special.

But there was nothing common about the two events that happened hours later.

First, I randomly received a check for $189 from the hospital that I stayed overnight in way back in January 2008. I have no idea why the hospital sent me a check almost 22 months after I stayed here. There was no explanation in the envelope, just a check. Also, how often do hospitals reimburse? Color me confused, color me $189 richer.

After leaving work, my windfall fresh on my mind, I headed to the bank to deposit it lest they decide to take it back. As I crossed the street to the corner of 33rd and Park Avenue, I saw man walking straight toward me. At first I thought he was going to let me pass, the street was busy with people leaving work, but we ended up doing this sort of awkward dance that people do when they're trying to not run into each other. I noticed he sort of looked homeless and it was as if he was intentionally blocking me from entering the bank.

"I was wondering if I could ask you a strange question?" he said.

Great. Fantastic. What does this guy want??

Before you think that I am uncharitable to homeless people, especially in the wake receiving an unexpected $189, let me explain what happened next.

He started with his speech. "Don't worry, I'm gay."

It was a disarming thing to say, especially to a woman in New York. Translation? Don't worry, I won't rape you! Meanwhile as he talked, some explanation of some situation that required my help, I was a little transfixed by the poor state of his teeth. They were either non existent or small, discolored nubs. Anyway . . .

". . . . you see I've done something stupid and I've locked myself out of my apartment."

Something clicked in my brain. Wait a second, I thought. WAIT A FUCKING SECOND! The speech. It was familiar. Because that's what it was. A speech. A con.

Flashback to December 2004. I was new to New York City, painfully broke, and painfully naive. While crossing Washington Square Park one evening, I ran into the same man with the same exact story. I'm gay! Help me get uptown! I need cab money! I locked myself out of my apartment! I need to make an appointment for some job! Except that time I gave the bastard $20 because I believed him. He even asked where I worked and swore he would come back the next day with my $20, thanking me profusely. (Suck it, naysayers, I am charitable. And gullible.) After I had handed over the money -- the smallest bill that I had -- I knew that it was a mistake, but it was too late. He was already off on his bike. Sometime later I happened to read a description of the same guy and the same scam on Gothamist, confirming what I already suspected.

Five years later I was face to face again with the con artist. And yes, it was the same guy . . . except time had not been kind on his teeth. (Karma!) In city of 8 MILLION PEOPLE, I run into the same man? What are the odds?! Had I remembered all the details of our last encounter as I do now, I would have thumped him on the chest and demanded my $20 back and perhaps my good faith too. But I remembered enough to walk away from him with a curt, "Sorry, I can't help you."

And then I deposited my $189 in the bank. It's like my original $20 made interest over the last five years.

How's that for alchemy?

"Do you want to get another drink or do you want to go home?"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 21:34:00 +0000

It's funny to think that there was a time not too long ago in my life where I danced on bars, got hangovers with an alarming frequency, and went out four nights a week. I spent a good portion of my 20s sleep deprived and dehydrated, like it was a right of passage, but with age 30 came this strange thing called maturity and responsibility. And while the party is far from over in my life, it's now taken on overtones of a quiet dinner followed by a glass of port. Ms. K, who ironically is only 24 years old, has also mellowed from her free wheeling gal about town days too. My oh my.

We're okay with this, really we are, but now and again we are reminded that our tastes and habits have shifted in the couple of years since meeting. Take Saturday night when I thought it might be nice to meet Ms. K for a drink at 11:30 pm after she got off from work. A nice idea, yes, but it became clear that both of us were out of practice.

We tiredly drank a couple of rounds at Superfine and as the time grew long after midnight, we negotiated the remainder of our evening.

"Do you want to get another drink or do you want to go home?"

I yawned. "I can go both ways. Do you want to go home?"

Ms. K yawned. "Only if you want to go home."

God, we were like two old ladies, but two old ladies determined to recapture some of our past glory while simultaneously longing for our bed.

"One more drink!"

I yawned again.

By the time we finished our third round, we decided to leave and find an open restaurant even though it was nearing 2 am. Crazy. We should have just gone home, but instead we stubbornly took a car to Park Slope to see if Blue Ribbon still was open. It was, and in the car over I found a pack of Camel Lights on the back seat.

For a second I was excited by my good fortune. Camel Lights! That was my brand when I used to smoke! They're normally $9 a pack! I will smoke a free cigarette and recall the bygone days of my youth because I am wild and crazy! But then the moment passed and as I clutched the nearly full pack, I realized that some things were best left in the past.

Our hearts were no longer in our late night adventure, even though we had gone all the way from Dumbo to Park Slope at 2 am. It was time to go home to walk to dog and crawl into bed, accepting defeat and knowing better than to stay out into the wee hours again.

"We're going to crack open the big egg!"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 19:49:00 +0000

I know, I know. I am a bad blog neglector. See, Ms. K and I got back from vacation and life sorta slipped back into this sleepy late August vibe complete with picnics in Prospect Park, bottles of white wine, and trips to the Cortelyou farmer's market. Naturally Labor Day weekend was a staycation since our travel budget was blown in Sweden . . . and then some. Basically a whole lot of nothing has been happening.

It's been a year since Ms. K and I moved in together and very nearly broke up in the process. Time flies! Despite our grand home improvement plans, our initiate stalled sometime in November. Dusty pictures remain unhung, trim is still not put back up, painter's tape is still up in the bedroom, and a To Do list is still on the fridge like a tally of our failures. I think the problem is two fold. On one hand, losing the car in the accident last January cut back on our mobility and the ease in which we could visit Lowes or IKEA. On the other, I think we lost steam in the end because we want to live somewhere else. To put work into a place that we would like to be out of in 6 months seems silly at this point. Never mind the fact that half our books still are in need of bookshelves.

When Ms. K and I got back from abroad, it became ever more obvious that we hate our apartment and our neighborhood. We even started poking around Craigslist to see what apartments were going for. But money is still a big factor and while it is not as expensive to get a back yard space in Park Slope these days, I'm sure we're both reluctant to double our (currently cheap) rent.

So we have dreams and we're working on them, but it doesn't make for very exciting blogging. Ms. K wants to get her masters in Computer Science, we're both working on freelance projects, yadda yadda yadda. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, check out this video that blew my mind:

"Hej!"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 16:26:00 +0000

You know, I had this idea that I would blog during my trip to Stockholm and Amsterdam. I even brought along my iPhone to connect to various wi-fis and to maybe capture my off-the-cuff thoughts about traveling, Scandinavia, the perplexing ubiquity of 7-Elevens in Stockholm, the akvavit, and Hell and Gore (or was it Helan går?). But it wasn't to be. How do you say mas cerveza por favor in Swedish?

Now that I am back in ridiculously hot, sweaty, dirty, and Augusty New York City, I've had time to reflect on my week abroad -- long enough to wish I was back in Stockholm or Amsterdam, probably because I had zero responsibilities apart from figuring out the next cafe to drink a beer in. Also it should be noted what Scandinavia calls Summer is what we call late September/early October. The temperature when Ms. K and I got off the plane at 7 am in Stockholm was a brisk 52 degrees, which was a little shock to the system after 89 degrees in New York with 80% humidity. Thankfully we packed jackets.

The day after our arrival, we were introduced to many Swedish customs while attending Beth and Nils's wedding, which was held in a church in Södermalm followed by a boat ride to a reception held on the small island of Fjäderholmarna. Specifically, we learned that Swedish weddings are enjoyably long (11 hours! Drinking!), entertaining (many many toasts as if attending a roast instead of a wedding), and punctuated by drinking songs and shots of akvavit (More drinking!). If only all weddings could be Swedish. Skål!

Then we were onto warmer Amsterdam and to the comforts of posh hotel bed at the Grand Amrath. A vacation is only as good as the bed you sleep on, right? The rest of the time was filled with walking around between meals of Indonesian food and lager and canal boat rides. Surely I gained 10 lbs, but I am afraid to look at the scale. August is a sleepy time in Amsterdam as everywhere seems to be closed for an extended holiday including the restaurant we really wanted to try. Guess we'll have to go back.

Someone previously commented that they were interested in knowing what I thought of the Swedes and Sweden. To answer, I thought Sweden was a lovely country, immaculately clean compared to New York, and wonderfully environmentally conscious, which translated into a no frills, utilitarian culture where nothing goes to waste. This is by no means a slam. In fact I think it's a quality that all of us Americans could stand to emulate.

Finally, one of the most exciting things about the trip was that I saw Greenland from my window seat on the plane. Greenland! And not some tiny speck on the horizon, but the high peaks of Mount Gunnbjørn, the coast, and icebergs. Icebergs! How cool is that?

"Skol!"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 11:29:00 +0000

We have returned. Proper update to come shortly.

"The beast! It's back!"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 21:25:00 +0000

Last week Ms. K warned me via text that there may or may not be some gargantuan beast lurking in the bedroom and it may or may not be there to deal with when I got home as she was off for work.

A beast?? That sound alarming. My logic oriented brain kicked in with some pertinent questions.

What did this beast look like?

Huge! Black!

Was it an animal or an insect?

An insect! A huge flying black insect! It came through the open window!

After some back and forth, I deduced that the offending insect may or may not have been a dragonfly. I'll admit that I kind of made fun of Ms. K for being such a girl. I mean a dragonfly? C'mon. Not something one gets into hysterics about.

When I got home, I tentatively entered the apartment, crept up to the bedroom door, opening it slowly as if it was reenacting the scene in Ghostbusters when Peter Venkman enters Dana Barrett's apartment to investigate whether or not there was a demon in her refrigerator.

Like the movie, I found evidence in the bedroom of a hasty departure. Her open laptop had been flung onto the bed, laying at a strange angle, and there were papers all over the floor. But what was absent was anything resembling a beast or even a dragonfly. With the window still open, I figured whatever flew in had managed to fly back out. Case closed.

Or was it?

On Sunday, as Ms. K and I prepared to leave the apartment and get dinner, I heard her shriek from behind me. "The beast! It's back!"

I looked up and saw something large flying around the bedroom, which for a moment looked like a bird. Except it was the largest dragonfly I've ever this side of a science fiction movie.

Holy shit!! Huge flying black insect! Flying around our bedroom! But this was no normal dragonfly. No, it was something straight out of the Jurassic Period. I swear to God that it was about 6 inches long (that's about 15 centimeters for those keeping score in metric).

What to do?

Ms. K and I, armed with rolled up magazines and pathetically swatted at it in between shrieks, which only made it fly around erratically. Our savior came in the form of an 80 lb golden retriever named Harley, who sensing our panic, went after the intruder and mauled it. Immobilized, I swept the giant dragonfly onto a magazine and tossed it out the window.

Phew! We were safe once more! I even apologized to Ms. K for having made fun of her. But what I didn't tell her was that two days later I saw four of that fucker's brothers flying around outside the bedroom window probably looking to avenge his death.

We've inadvertently started a dragonfly war. Good thing we're leaving the country!

"You're throwing away my youth!"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 03:22:00 +0000

There were a tense few days last year after Ms. K and I moved in together where, frankly, neither of us had much to say to each other. She took one look at all my accumulated crap, contemplated the reality of having it merged with her own, and figured that she wasn't impressed. Cue a night of her sleeping on the couch followed by a trip to our new storage unit, our love finally saved.

But before you think Ms. K bullied me into letting go of sentiment, the pendulum eventually swung the other way. It's just that her cull wasn't as dramatic as my teary eyed trips to curb with bulging trash bags because Ms. K had already done a big cull before we moved in together. Still many things remained in the way of gratuitous kitchen supplies and clothing purchased during the later years of the Clinton administration.

In the run up to our trip to Sweden and Amsterdam, it became obvious that Ms. K needed new adult clothes. With shopping bags full of purchases from a high end discount store in Gravesend, I locked my sights on the stuff that needed to go, clothes that hadn't been worn for years, holding up each offending article with no mercy.

Synthetic blend pull-over from Express? Gone.

90s era surfing logo t-shirt with arm pit stains? Gone.

Jean skirt that is so short it could be a belt? Gone.

Ms. K winced as each item went into the trash. "You're throwing away my youth!"

Whatever nostalgic argument she had, whatever story of inappropriate activities she once took part in whilst wearing said clothes, I wasn't hearing it. Payback's a bitch.

"No, honey, it's our desk."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 19:57:00 +0000

Each day that goes by, Ms. K and I become a little more merged, a little more complexly interwoven. It's been a year since we moved in together, but there's still plenty of stuff to cede to the collective "we".

"That's my desk," Ms. K will say of the glass IKEA desk that houses both my iMac and her Macbook Pro.

"No, honey, it's our desk."

That's all fine until I started sharing my Netflix account with Ms. K and discovered that a certain someone (ahem) had been watching Cher: The Farewell Tour, irrevocably throwing off my Netflix recommendations. This stands in sharp contrast to the unfortunate pile up of Holocaust themed movies in my queue that I am understandably never quite in the mood to watch. Although Ms. K and I recently watched The Reader, I joked, noting my Netflix queue, that we could follow The Reader with a double feature of Sophie Scholl: The Final Days and Bent.

Hmmm . . . Cher: The Farewell Tour isn't looking so bad anymore.

"Your life was more interesting back when you were a swinging single."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 16:18:00 +0000

Today marks the end of another July in New York, a time when humidity and my body conspires against me and I walk around in a endless soaking of sweat. I'm looking forward to my trip to Stockholm for obvious reasons, but also because I have a feeling that the weather will be nicer than it is in Gotham.

Continuing a recent trend, I've been very remiss in writing in my blog. Ms. K is unimpressed and has periodically declared, "Do you not love your blog anymore?" I do love my blog, but summertime apathy has not helped. That and my life is blessedly boring these days. Do you forgive me, dear readers? However I think Ms. K has an emotional attachment/investment in my blog because it is how we met. And for those who have been around long enough, the 17th marked our two year anniversary. Why does it feel longer? I mean that in a good way of course.

"Although now that you point it out . . ."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 18:17:00 +0000

Ms. K shot me an email today.

"I was just reading your blog. Maybe you could mention that your current girlfriend does not look like a teenage boy."

Yes, it's true, Ms. K does not look like a teenage boy, or Daniel Radcliffe, or any of the actors from the Harry Potter movies.

"Although now that you point it out," she continued, "I have seen pictures of [Crazy Ex], and you are right. She does look like him. Weird."

See, it's not just me.

I don't give much thought to Crazy Ex as she's ancient history, but while I was out for drinks with work colleagues last night, one of them asked, "Are any of you still friends with your exes?"

Funny that you should ask . . . . No.

"Really? What happens to those feelings? I don't think they ever really go away."

They do, I insisted as an emotionally divorced jumble of memories spilled into the forefront of my mind.

Look, if your ex-girlfriend looked like a blond Daniel Radcliffe you'd banish those feelings too.

"i just dont undersunders"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 19:28:00 +0000

Every year, or rather ever year that a Harry Potter movie poster blitzes New York City, it has become increasingly apparent to me that actor Daniel Radcliffe looks an awful lot like my crazy ex-girlfriend. Strange . . . and also a little bit creepy. I'm not sure what this says about my overall taste in women, but in my defense it was the 90s and I didn't know better.

"In my mind I see airports and hear the cacophony of European train stations."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 16:36:00 +0000

The hotels are booked at a ridiculously discounted rate, plane tickets purchased, and passports renewed. In five weeks, Ms. K and I will be on a fight to Stockholm and a few days after that we'll be on a flight to Amsterdam. Ah, adventure. If we're lucky, no one will be getting food poisoning again.

I'm thinking that this trip is my do-over. It has to be. My previous trip abroad burned through so much bad travel karma that I'm expecting a gentle, relaxing flight to Stockholm full of quiet passengers and helpful flight attendants. (Ms. K, however, will be covered in nicotine patches to get her through the eight hour flight.)

So, dear European readers. I know there are a few of you left. If anyone can give me recommendations of places to go whilst in Stockholm and Amsterdam, that would be great. You know, places beyond the super touristy stuff.

And if anyone remembers, it was back in early 2008 that I felt a strong sense that I would be traveling abroad soon. Who knew that "soon" meant a year and half later. Not that I am complaining or anything.

"I am starting to heart Brooklyn like you do."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 20:29:00 +0000

Like any couple, Ms. K and I have our differences of taste. Dogs vs. Cats is one such issue, so much that at one point you would have thought we were trying to negotiate peace in the Middle East. Another issue has been Manhattan vs. Brooklyn.

When I first met Ms. K she was a die hard Manhattanite -- an Upper East Sider to be exact. And although I am originally from Maryland, my love of Brooklyn has become a fiercely rooted part of my New York cultural identity. Divested of her Manhattan residency, Ms. K reluctantly came to Brooklyn, first crashing with me in Lefferts Gardens and then sharing an apartment in Kensington. However her heart has always longed to be back in Manhattan and periodically she'll send me emails of apartment listings.

"Look, honey. We could live in Manhattan!" she'd say.

"No!"

I realize that the secret to any good relationship is compromise, but both of us had entrenched ourselves on opposite ends of the East River cultural divide.

"See how nice Brooklyn is and how much space you get for your dollar?" I'd say.

"No!"

"But they have good restaurants in Brooklyn!"

"They have good restaurants in Manhattan too!"

This has always been a theoretical argument because unless we suddenly came into a large sum of money, economic practicalities dictate that we would be Brooklynites, much to Ms. K's chagrin. But I think the tide might be turning in this argument. Oh yes, I think Ms. K maybe coming around the the ol' BK. It started with this post on Brownstoner that I sent to her.

"Look! If we live in Brooklyn we can have a backyard and a pool!" (Nevermind the lack of 1.5 million dollars. Details, details.)

Hmmm, she thought.

Who knew the lofty goal of owning a pool would be such a trump card?

And today, when I teased that her much beloved Sarah Jessica Parker maybe moving to Park Slope and that Brooklyn can't be all that bad, she said, "Like I said the other day, maybe I was being too quick about [hating Brooklyn]. I am starting to heart Brooklyn like you do."

Victory!

"Yeah, he is dead."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 19:43:00 +0000

The weirdness continued into the weekend. With Michael Jackson songs as an unintentional soundtrack, storm clouds formed over Manhattan on Friday evening and unleashed a burst of apocalyptic weather. My vantage point from a dive bar in Kips Bay, I watched as the deluge and winds soaked anyone who happened to be walking outside. Street signs rattled and people fled for cover. After the storm passed and four happy hour beers later, I stumbled from the bar to find Manhattan bathed in an eerie pink light. People all around me were looking to the skies and taking pictures of the strangest clouds I have ever seen in my life. The pictures online (and on my cellphone) really don't do the experience justice.

Then on Saturday, while I was at a dinner for a friend getting married, I got a series of jumbled texts from Ms. K.

Yeah, he is dead.

Followed by . . .

It made the worst noise. I think he's dead.

Who's dead??? I started freaking out and try to get more information. Then her original text came in.

Holy shit. Some guy just jumped out of a window on the parkway as I was walking by.

Turns out a man jumped (presumably jumped instead of fell) 15 stories to his death and landed four feet from Ms. K. Had he fallen just a little bit differently, he could have landed on Ms. K.

Speechless.

And then on Sunday we went to Pennsylvania for the first time since the accident. Thankfully the drive back was uneventful -- we even were on the West Side Highway as the Gay Pride fireworks were going off -- but I couldn't stop thinking of moment we got hit.

It's great to be alive!

"It's close to midnight and something evil's lurking in the dark"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 19:27:00 +0000

What a bad week for the 1980s. Ed McMahon? Farrah Fawcett? Michael Jackson?? And speaking of Michael Jackson, his death has been giving me some weird childhood time warps. I've probably have heard the song Thriller more times in the last 24 hours than I have in the last decade. Thriller at the nail salon. Thriller blasting from cars with their windows down. Thriller at the gym. Suddenly it's 1984 all over again and I'm five years old, trembling from the scariness of Vincent Price's monologue at the end of the song.

So RIP, 1980s. I'm officially old. If Mr. T dies, then I don't know what I'll do.

"Are you going to write about this in your blog?"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 19:50:00 +0000

"Are you going to write about this in your blog?"

Ms. K poses this question to me from time to time as if she's afraid that I'm going to say too much or poorly portray her to the four people who still read my blog. "Don't expose my secret shame!" she said when she recently brought home a kombucha culture to start making her own tea. She didn't want anyone to know about her one hippyish interest nor did she want anyone to know just how giddy she got when she brought the kombucha "baby" home to ferment. Guess the cat is out of the bag for that one.

Yesterday we played three successive rounds Trivial Pursuit and I crushed her. CRUSHED. This elicited the oft repeated "Are you going to write about this on your blog?" Yes. Yes I am because after the spanking I get playing her in every other game, I deserve to gloat just this once.

Look, Trivial Pursuit is my game just as Scrabble is Ms. K's game. Somehow she always manages to beat me with a sizable point lead while I'm struggling to keep up with the language gymnastics -- so much that my brain is sweating. As for Trivial Pursuit, I just have a talent for useless random knowledge gleaned form a variety of sources.

Today Ms. K emailed me, "Perhaps I will spend the rest of day reading random Wikipedia pages with the hopes that I will someday beat you at Trivial Pursuit."

I sense a rematch brewing tonight.

Speaking of great feats, I would like to update you all on The Reckoning. I started going to the gym three months ago, which entails getting up at 6 am and schlepping on the subway to another part of Brooklyn. After three months I was a little dismayed that I had only lost 10 pounds, but Ms. K reminded me that muscle is denser than fat, which is why the jeans I bought three weeks ago now have to be worn with a belt.

Suck it.

And another thing that can suck it? All those stairs at the Broadway-Lafayette BDFV station. From platform to street, there are 70 stairs in total and no elevator or escalator for help. Meeting that climb in the morning without the aid of coffee is like a special punishment handed out by a vengeful god. But today marked an accomplishment for me. Not only did I go running (shock!) on the treadmill at the gym today, but I quickly climbed everyone of those goddamned stairs without losing my breath.

It was my Rocky moment.

"Do you not love your blog anymore?"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 20:29:00 +0000

Hi.

Remember me?

I used to blog with greater frequency. And then my mind sort of took a siesta and I used my non blogging hours to do all sorts of things like lay around and watch the television (eg, Simon Schama documentaries because I'm a nerd). I even drove down to Delaware with Ms. K and sat by the pool at my parents' beach house and developed a skin tone a little more opaque than my usual translucence. My gym visits became staggered and I decided that my new favorite drink was black cherry infused bourbon (Red Stag by Jim Beam) with fresh squeezed lemon juice over ice. Oh the delights! (Oh the bad habits, how they've returned.)

But now I feel a little more mentally present to recommit myself to blogging and the gym and all those other commitments that I shirked while sipping cocktails and playing 3 hour games of Monopoly with Ms. K, who always wins.

For now, I leave you with this.

Hammer time.

"Get a room!"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 18:53:00 +0000

I'm not sure if its writer's block, but every time I try to write a blog entry my fingers go still and my mind goes blank. It's not like there aren't things to write about. Take for instance my picnic in Central Park with Ms. K. Add some sandwiches, a couple bottles of prosecco, a frisbee, and sunshine = some instant fun. While we were enjoying our time in the Sheep Meadow, we noticed a young couple lying on top of each other about 20 yards or so away from us. They were obviously making out, but in a stackable, keep your clothes on sort of way. They were at it quite some time, long enough for the group of girls near us to make beer fueled cat calls in their direction.

"Get a room!"

I should note for the uninitiated that the Sheep Meadow in Central Park is an extremely public place. On a nice day, such as the day we visited, it is full of people on blankets soaking up the sun, playing frisbee, or tossing a ball. So it's rather noticeable when two people are practically dry humping in full view of many many people.

Maybe it was the bottle of prosecco I had drunk, but I found this to be rather hilarious and I was consumed with the giggles as Ms. K and I lay on our blanket, watching the show from afar.

Then the young woman, straddling the man, took off her jacket and tied it around her waist.

"Wait. Is she going to . . . . ?"

Sure enough, if you paid attention, you would have noticed that the woman had surreptitiously pulled down her jeans. Why yes, you would be right in assuming that the couple was having sex. In the Sheep Meadow? IN THE SHEEP MEADOW?! If you're going to have public sex, why not by a tree or furtively in the bushes? That's why God invented the Ramble! And to top off the sleaziness, men with cell phone cameras swarmed around the couple, like sharks to blood. It's very possible that this all made it onto YouTube.

I've lived in New York almost five years and I have to say that this marks my most quintessential New York experience.

"That's not a sandwich. That's an introduction to colon cancer."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Wed, 27 May 2009 20:24:00 +0000

Over Memorial Day weekend, Ms. K and I blew through a couple of seasons of Rescue Me, free for the watchin' on Hulu. The acerbic, well acted, melodramatic television show reminded me that pain and trauma makes for interesting story lines.

Which got me thinking.

For once in a long time I'm happy. Yeah suck it, guys. I'm happy. Ms. K is happy. (Other than hating her job, but I digress.) And a happy yours truly suddenly finds herself unable to write because blog entries about Ms. K making googly eyes at me isn't the compelling story line I'd like it to be. My life is not like Rescue Me's Tommy Gavin who always seems to have a kid getting run over by a drunk driver and a plot twist at every turn. My life is boring central, but happily so.

I don't know, it's kind of nice. Maybe it's because of the gym and endorphins and natural highs, but I realize it makes for crappy blog writing.

"Is there anything that you want to tell me?"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Tue, 19 May 2009 15:41:00 +0000

Yesterday Ms. K emailed me:

"I checked the mail on the way back upstairs. You got something from 'Raising Mom: your perfect place for post pregnancy care.' Is there anything that you want to tell me?"

Uh . . .

Perhaps it's because I'm in the prime of my child bearing years, but I'm not sure how I got on that mailing list. Call me crazy, but the last time I checked there had to be a pregnancy in order for there to be a post pregnancy.

Just a thought.

PS -- I don't want kids!

"Definitely not kosher sex."

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Thu, 14 May 2009 21:01:00 +0000

I like bacon. I also like lady parts. But something tells me that combining the two is perhaps a step too far. Behold. Bacon flavored lube. Bacon fail?

"What happened to me??"

noreply@blogger.com (nycrouge) — Thu, 14 May 2009 20:57:00 +0000

As per our fast and healthy lifestyle, there is one escape clause -- the "special occasion" clause -- to the no drinking during the week rule. In the last seven weeks, it's only been invoked three or four times, one of which was to go to the staff dinner for the magazine I freelance for. However Ms. K and I invoked the clause to attend Brooklyn Uncorked, a wine tasting of Long Island wines, at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. But the other reason for the special occasion is because Ms. K and I were enjoying a rare weeknight date.

I love dates with Ms. K. We go out, have a nice diner at restaurants like Applewood and Rosewater, maybe drink a bottle of prosecco, and tell each other a thousand times how pretty each other is. During the tasting I remember leaning close into her and noticing that her scent was instantly evocative of when we first started dating two years ago. It was a mixture of Chanel, cigarettes, and alcohol and I realize this might not be the most appealing mixture of scents, but I assure you that the pleasure center of my brain lights up whenever I smell it and it drives me crazy. Equally there is a perfume that I wear during the summer months that causes Ms. K to bury her nose into the crook of my neck and breathe deeply.

"Who'd ever thought I'd like being in a monogamous relationship," she later remarked over dinner and elderflower martinis at Ici. There was a time in the recent past when Ms. K lived the life of a confirmed bachelor. "What happened to me??"

"You met a nice girl," I replied with a smirk. "That's what happened."