franklyrebekah

Yesterday I received the following message on Facebook:

Hi,

I really hope this is the same Rebekah I met last night. If not than this message will be even more awkward than it already is. I first would like to apologize for how rude I was last evening. But to be fair I did think I walked in on you and my boyfriend making out. I know that this does not concern you at all this is between him and I, but he swears i’m seeing shit and that it’s not true. And while I do trust him, it’s really easy to believe things you want to hear. I’m sure you understand what i’m saying because most girls go through this situation. So the purpose of this letter is to find out what really happened. Because I don’t want to be made a fool of or be with someone who is going to lie and cheat on me. I’ve been down that road one two many times. But I would really just appreciate the truth. And i’m sorry to have been a rude bitch last night and now to be messaging you about it. I’m sure you think i’m one whacky one.

Anyways sorry to have gotten off on the wrong foot, i’m sure your a lovely person.

And my response:

This actually isn’t the same Rebekah, unless I was somewhere I don’t remember being doing something I don’t remember doing which would be highly problematic. Anyway, good luck figuring everything out.

So there are three things that I am curious about after having read this message and done the most cursory of background checks on the sender, ie I looked at as much of her page as was allowed without us being “friends.”  One, how in the world did she find me on Facebook because all of my privacy settings make it so I am unsearchable unless you are either friends with a friend of mine or super crafty.  Two, did she actually walk in on this other Rebekah making out with her boyfriend?  Three, how did she graduate from college with such…creative…. spelling and grammar?

Also, I would just like to say I feel a little bit like an asshole for posting this because the sender was rather embarrassed by her misidentification of me as the boyfriend kisser but I couldn’t help myself.  It was just too awesome.

It all started out innocently enough.  It was a normal Friday morning.  I was exhausted, having worked the night before and stayed out until 5:15am talking to my weekly ride home about safety in the city and Dominican politics.  You know, the usual.  In bed by 5:45 am, exhausted and hoping to at least make it, asleep, until 10:30.  No such luck.  My stubborn body woke me up in the 9s and no matter how tightly I squeezed my eyelids it wouldn’t let me drift off again.  Oh well.  I had a busy day planned, anyway.  I shuffled down the hallway, brushed my teeth, and poured myself a cup of coffee, all in hopes of appearing awake enough for the friendly coffee date I had planned from 11.  Drinking coffee to prepare for coffee.  It always makes me think of how when I was growing up my mom requested that I clean up my room before someone came to clean the house.  I never understood that.  Wasn’t that what the cleaning people came for?  To clean?  It wasn’t until coffee before coffee that it really started making sense.  Anyway, I’m off topic.  Had my coffee, applied some of my favorite bright blue eyeliner to try and draw attention away from the massive bags under my eyes, and proceeded down the steps to meet my friend in front of my building to go drink some more coffee.  And more coffee we drank!  After 1 1/2 hours of hilarity, I was a little swimmy-brained from the excessive caffeine and also running late to my appointment in the city.  And this is where the story really begins.  Also, this is where Dad, if you’re reading this Dad, you should probably stop.  It might be awkward.

I have been going to the same salon to get waxed for 5 years.  They have some manicure tables set up in the front but I have never seen anyone use them.  The place is known for a great, professional, cheap Brazilian wax.  I have never taken them at their word and opt for something slightly less….bald.  Not only have I been going to the same salon forever, I have also been seeing the same lady.  Norah.  She is great.  We talk about her family, what she does on her holidays, I tell her about school.  This past Friday, as she was moving from the bikini to the lower leg, I asked her how her Easter was.  Her response, “not Easter, Passover.”  I never knew she was Jewish!  (I probably should have put that in quotes because I am fairly certain that is pretty much what I blurted out to her immediately, except change the “she” to a “you” and the “was” to a “were.”)  Anyway, she also didn’t realize I was Jewish.  We got really excited.  In the following moments of tribe-inspired glee, she forgot to put lotion on my bikini line to remove some of the stickiness of the excess wax.  I didn’t notice.  That is, I didn’t notice until I was walking up 5th Avenue from 34th street en route to 53rd street to meet my dad for an afternoon of hanging out and my underwear was chafing in the worst possible way.  I don’t even want to think about how I must have been walking.

Dad, you’re not still reading this, are you?  Because seriously, I would stop.

Panic started setting in.  I knew I was going to be out for the rest of the afternoon and evening because my father and I, along with my sister-in-law, Claire, and my boyfriend, Pete, had plans to go see a panel discussion on the integration of baseball (in honor of Jackie Robinson Day) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art where my uncle works.  I also knew I couldn’t possible deal with the discomfort for the rest of the evening.  Should I stop at a drug store and buy some Neosporin?  But then how would I apply it?  Maybe I could go into a cafe and sneak into the bathroom?   Then, my dad called.  I should meet him in 5 minutes.  Shit!  No time to enact the plan!  So, I met my dad on 53rd Street and he said to me the words I would normally love to hear but on this day nearly brought tears to my eyes:

“I was thinking we could just walk up to the museum.  It’s really not that far and it’s such a nice day and I really don’t get into the city that often.”

Sure, I said, mentally apologizing to my bikini line.  We started walking, slowly.  And then, a plan!

“You know Dad, I could really use a cup of coffee.  And, hey!  There is a cafe right there!  Do you mind if we stop in real fast?”

He didn’t.  I rushed across the street, nearly getting hit by a car in the process.  We got in line, I ordered the fourth coffee that I didn’t really need and then turned to my Dad and said,

“Hey Dad, I’m just gonna run and pee real fast.  Can you hold this?”

I then scurried off to the bathroom.  Shit.  No Neosporin!  Foiled again!  I tried to use some toilet paper to relieve myself off the excess wax, but to no avail.  I went out into the area with the sinks that was in between the men and women’s stalls (trying, unsuccessfully, not to think about all the germs that must be on the handle of the door leading from the toilet room to the hand-washing room) and wet a piece of paper towel.  Back into the stall.  Still, no improvement.  There was only one option.  I was going to have to go commando…in a skirt…and walk around the city…with my dad (who I imagine if he hadn’t heeded my advice earlier, has now stopped reading).

I stuck my underwear in my purse and headed out of the bathroom, trying to walk like a person still wearing underwear.  We carried on.  The day continued relatively uneventfully.  I was careful going up and down stairs and when sitting down and crossing and uncrossing my legs.  We walked through the Stein’s Collect exhibit (so awesome!) and a baseball card exhibit (not so awesome) and then met up with Claire who I couldn’t wait to tell the current state of affairs to, just as soon as my dad wasn’t in earshot.  It happened after dinner.  My dad and Pete shared a speedy walk towards the museum while Claire and I sauntered behind.  I told her the whole story.  She thought it was hilarious.

Fast forward after the panel discussion, after the not-so-great band that followed, and a round of drinks at a nearby bar.  We all parted ways.  Claire and my dad went to pick my brother up downtown and head to Jersey, and Pete and I hopped the train back to Brooklyn.  My bikini line still hurt.  I really thought I was never going to be able to wear underwear again.  The only answer, I thought, was ice.  So I took an ice pack out of the freezer, walked back to my room, laid down, and put it on my bikini line.  I then texted Claire the following:

“I am currently icing my bikini line.  Holy mother.”

I thought that was it.  But then, an email from Claire!

Friday was so much fun. Glad we did it. Also, I wanted to tell you that I got your text while driving, and we thought it may have been James responding, so I let Aaron check…yep, he saw your text and had the best reaction!!!! He didn’t say anything because your dad was in the car, but he definitely did not know what to do with that text, and said it served him right for reading my texts…too funny! I’m just glad it didn’t say anything about being commando around your dad!

Oh yea, Aaron, you probably shouldn’t be reading this either.

On a warm Sunday morning in September of 2010, I was at the tail end of a long run with my friend Monica when I noticed a man approaching us — tall, thin, mid-to-late 50’s, grey hair.  We were on 4th Avenue between 7th and 8th Streets when he got close, turned his head in my direction, and spit all over my face.  It wasn’t just a gentle dusting, we are talking some serious spit action.  I was, understandably, livid.  But for once logical Rebekah trumped angry Rebekah and I thought to myself “this guy is completely unstable if he is walking down the street and sees two women running and chatting and feels the need to expel saliva all over one of their unsuspecting faces.”  Also, he obviously hated women.  (In the interest of full disclosure, I am fairly certain I turned around and screamed “what the fuck is your damage?!” to his slowly retreating back).  Monica and I finished the rest of our run, with me ranting continuously about the rampant disrespect in this city, and I carried on with my life, barely giving The Spitter another moment of my time.

Fast forward to the following May.  It was a gorgeous day and I had met my friend Paul for a run around Prospect Park in the early afternoon.  As usual, he kicked my ass and decided to keep running and I was left gasping for breath, making some excuse about how I had a class or needed to wash my hair or was expecting a super important phone call.  (In the interest of full disclosure once again, I pretty much never receive super important phone calls.)  I exited the park at 15th Street, feeling as though I had accomplished something by merely surviving.  Then, from around the corner I saw a man approaching me.  He looked somewhat familiar – tall, thin, mid-to-late 50’s, grey hair — but when I realized who he was it was too late.  Once again I was covered in a thin layer of saliva.  This time, ignoring logical Rebekah, I turned around and screamed “what?  You’re too much of a pansy to stay and face it?  Afraid a little girl might kick your ass??” (In real life, and not angry life, I consider myself medium-sized, not little, but it felt like the most reasonable line of attack so I suspended my pride for just that moment.)  All this got me was a simple shrug of the shoulders as the man continued on his merry, misogynist way.  I started in the direction of home, contemplating why I hadn’t just shoved him, and had to stop about 2 blocks away because I was filled with such rage and disgust that my legs wouldn’t carry me.  I ran home, looked for the address of my local precinct online, ran over there and made a police report.  The officer I spoke with was befuddled and disgusted but said there was little he could do with merely a description.  I filled out a report and went home.  I then spent the rest of the afternoon trolling websites, looking for other complaints about the actions of The Spitter.  There was a smattering here and there, but nothing all the substantial.  I let it rest.

The reason I bring up this rather outdated story is that I spent the past weekend in San Francisco.  One morning, my boyfriend Pete and I left the house of the friends we were staying with for a little jaunt around the Pan Handle.  Much like my experience with Paul, after one loop around Pete excused himself and sat on a bench while I continued my run.  On the final stretch, I saw this girl approaching me — about 5 feet tall, with short light brown hair.  She raised her hand in the air as she got close to me and we exchanged a jovial, and to me confusing, high five.  It was then that I realized that either San Fransisco is too soft for me or I am living in the wrong city.

I have been living in the same building since I moved to New York City upon graduating from college in 2005.  That makes, for those of us who are mathematically challenged, almost 6 1/2 years on the same block, in the same building, with the same (wonderful) landlord, Nelson, and, largely, the same neighbors, most of whom I at least exchange pleasantries with when I run into them on the street or in the store.  The same had always been true of my down-the-block next door neighbor, a 50-something year old man from somewhere in the West Indies.  He would ask me about my running, lament the fact that my (wonderful) landlord, Nelson, never planted flowers in the hideous cement boxes in front of the building, and inform me when the block parties were approaching.  Then, disaster.  This past summer I returned home from work on a Sunday (!!!) night exhausted and ready to spend the evening in.  But alas(!), there was a party at my down-the-block next door neighbor’s house.  And not just any party, it was a rager.  For some atmospheric knowledge, presumably when he bought the property he paved over the entire sideyard and backyard and turned it into a parking lot.  He now rents spaces to a lot of the people on the block.  When I got home on the fateful Sunday,however, there were giant white tents erected in the backyardlot in lieu of the Oldsmobiles and Hondas that usually live there.  There were decorations.  There were strobe lights.  In what is usually the garage, there was a full-on stereo system.  I am not talking talking about your run-of-the-mill sound system with small speakers. I think he hired someone out of one of those ginormous dance clubs operating on the West Side of Manhattan in the 20’s down the block from the bicycle rickshaw business where I used to spend some of my nights back in the summer of 2005 (more on that some other time).  It was for real and it was cranked to maximum volume.  I laid down on my bed, hoping that the feathers inside my pillow would reject all traces of sound, allowing me a restful night sleep.  As you might have guessed, this is not what happened.  It was as if I had laid my head down on top of the speaker.  Seeing as how it was 9pm, I figured I was shit out of luck.  I would have to wrench myself back out of the apartment and venture to a nearby watering hole to pass the time.  With boyfriend in tow, I trudged back up the street and plopped myself down in a stool, angrily sipping on my Powers on the rocks.  Every so often I would walk out of the bar and listen for sounds of the celebration around the corner.  10 o’clock came and went, followed by 11.  Finally, sometime after midnight the party died down.  Or, more accurately, got shut down.  I am still unclear as to how it managed to go on for so long considering that it was a Sunday (!!!), there are lots of young kids and old people on my street, and city sound ordinance says that loud music has to be quieted by a specified time (I think it’s 10).  Finally, a little drunker and a little more annoyed than I would have liked to have been, I went to sleep.  I thought it was over.  I was wrong.

For some background information, at the time of the aforementioned event, my roommates and I were living on the 2nd floor of our 3 story building.  The people upstairs, not to put too fine a point on it, were assholes.  The girl who had held the lease for our entire tenure in the building was basically incapable of keeping the same roommates for longer than a year.  She never said hi to me in the stairwell.  One of her roommates at the time of this event was a total tool who was one of her customers at the bar she was working at.  He was the kind of guy who, if he were to walk into my bar, I would keep an eye on him and make sure he wasn’t roofying some girl and leading her into the men’s bathroom for some playtime.  He was also a smoker.  He also, apparently, didn’t understand the concept of litter because he insisted on throwing his finished cigarette butts over the edge of the roof when he smoked up there, into our backyard as well as that of our down-the-block neighbor.  It is important to note here that I do not smoke, have never smoked, and therefore have nothing to do with the discarding of cigarettes.  I also have a brain and a sense of civic duty.  Thusly I would never throw a cigarette into my own backyard or onto the backyardlot or roof of my down-the-block neighbor.  Apparently toolish upstairs neighbor was not so bright.  You can probably see where this is heading.

The morning following the party incident I was heading out the door when I ran into my down-the-block neighbor and greeted him the same as always.  I was met with a scowl and the following words:  “You had a party on your roof” — we had, weeks earlier for the 4th of July and it was tame by any standards, especially the standards of someone who had only the night before thrown a party of epic proportions — “and the people at your party were smoking and threw their cigarette butts onto my roof”  — they hadn’t — “and now my house might burn down!” — it hasn’t.  He then threatened to tell my (wonderful) landlord, Nelson.  A feud was born.  At first, I was nervous about what Nelson might say.  We weren’t supposed to go on the roof.  But, I was certain of two things.  One, the cigarette incident was not our doing and two, this had nothing to do with the cigarettes and everything to do with the early demise of his party.  I think it bears repeating that this man is in his early to mid 50’s.  Every time I left the building for the following month and he was outside, I was met with complaints and threats.  Then, nothing.  He began to give me the silent treatment.  One day in early October, I decided to break the ice, ask him how he was doing, let bygones be bygones.  The conversation went like this:

Me: (Smile) Lovely day.  How have you been?

Down-the-block stupidass neighbor (DTBSAN): (Glare) *Silence*

Me:  Really?  You’re ignoring me?  Seriously? (muttering) Unbelievable.

Fast forward to today, November 28th, 2011.  I was running late to head into the city to work on the paper that I have been having a hard time focusing on as of late (case in point: I am writing this blog entry right now).  After getting my coffee I realized I had forgotten my computer at home.  My boyfriend Pete and I headed back to the house and he went upstairs to get the computer while I stayed downstairs, enjoying the unseasonable warmth.  And then, out of nowhere, neighbor!  He was sweeping some leaves in front of the garden level apartment.  I was expecting the same silent treatment as always so I continued standing there, staring blankly down the block.  All of a sudden I heard him speak.

DTBSAN:  (In a whiny voice, much like the one Homer Simpson uses when he is mimicking people.) Oh, I like to smoke.  I like to smoke and throw my cigarettes over the edge of the roof and catch things on fire…

Me:  (Looking around to see if anyone was witness to this infantile act).  How old are you?  Seriously.  Grow the fuck up.

DTBSAN:  (Still whining.) I litter.  It’s fun.

At this point Pete returned from the apartment and I looked at him and, exasperated, said “this man is unbelievable.”  Pete looked in the direction of my down-the-street neighbor’s house and laughed.  I, angrily, started walking down the block towards the train station.  I looked over my shoulder as we passed my down-the-street neighbor’s house and saw him there, glaring.  So, I glared back.  And you know what?  I won.  Because anyone who has ever met my glare knows it can kick anyone else’s glare’s ass.

Yesterday was my long run day.  Normally, I do it on Tuesday, but with the holiday coming, cranberry nut breads to make and mini-pumpkin maple cupcakes to bake, I decided to do it a day early.  I woke up full of dread, knowing I had to lace up my shoes and push myself out the door, through Brooklyn and Manhattan for a few hours of solo running time.  Naturally, I procrastinated by planning out all sorts of different routes on my Daily Mile site, trying to get as close to exactly 14 miles as possible.  And it was a damn good thing I did, as will soon become apparent.

At around 11:30ish, I took off down 4th Avenue.  The plan was to run over the Brooklyn Bridge towards Manhattan and then turn around and run back to Brooklyn over the same bridge, before heading to Prospect Park to get a few more miles in and then home.  Everything went as planned for the first few miles.  When I entered the bridge, I was immediately reminded that I had made a poor plan… construction!  The bridge is already a total pain in the ass to run over, what with the walkers, the cyclers, the tourists stopping for no apparent reason, taking pictures of everything with no regard for those around them, thereby angering the cyclers who are armed with whistles and all other manner of noise maker to scare them back onto their designated side of the bridge.  It’s war up there.  Well, due to the construction — I would like to inform whoever is supposedly doing this construction that the bridge will not construct itself just because of the presence of construction-like materials — the walking path has become even more narrow, and even more complicated for the average runner, than before.  I headed into the danger zone.  Every time I passed a walker, I followed proper protocol and looked over my right shoulder to make sure I wasn’t getting in the way of a cycler.  For a while I was in the clear.  Then, almost halfway across, I started noticing a cycle every glance I took.  He wasn’t getting any closer.  What was he doing?  Was he a perv?  Was he just in really bad shape?  This made my advance even more complicated because I wasn’t sure whether at any moment he might just speed up, yelling angry epithets at me as he passed.  Therefore when passing people I was forced to run on the dividing line, so as to not obscure the cycler while not running into the walkers.  All was going well until (!!!) a women I was passing gesticulated wildly, hit my left arm with her right hand, causing her sandwich to go flying out of her hand and onto the floor of the bridge.  I glanced at the sandwich on the ground (it looked like it involved spinach, maybe) yelled a hurried “sorry!” over my shoulder, and continued on.  I felt really bad but what was I going to do?  Pick up and reassemble the sandwich?  It’s not like she would have eaten it anyway.  After a few seconds of what I imagine was shock and dismay over the loss of her lunch, she started screaming at me.  I sped up.  And wouldn’t you know it the damn cycler passed me on my right.  It’s like he planned the whole thing.

So, this blog post is a sincere apology to the lady on the bridge whose sandwich I knocked out of her hand, no fault of my own.  It was merely a terrible coincidence.  As a result of this unfortunate event, lady, I was forced to dig into my memory bank to rejigger my run (there was no way I was going to turn around and run back over that bridge and risk an encounter with you, now angrily sandwichless).  I had to do the thing I was trying so hard to avoid doing…I had to run on Canal Street from Centre to Bowery to get to the Manhattan Bridge.  Torture.  And then, because I picked up the pace to avoid having the remains of your disassembled sandwich hurled at my retreating back, I had a hard time slowing down, resulting in the near loss of the toenail on the middle toe of my left foot.  So you see, I too was punished as a result of the events that unfolded halfway across the Brooklyn Bridge yesterday at around noon.  I say we call it even.  And for the record, after my run, I even ate a sandwich in your honor, complete with spinach, and it was delicious.