Damn You, Super New Boyfriend!

Damn You, Super New Boyfriend!

Four month anniversary and I get myself into a stupid argument with boyfriend. How dare he break-up with me so respectfully, and then unbreak-up with such aplomb?

What happened to the good old days when I pushed out the screen window in the kitchen and bonked my ex-husband on the head with a frying pan?
Or, later that same night, he said he was willing to stay outside if I would give him his guitar so I opened the front door and threw it at him.  But it got caught on my sweater. And I didn’t laugh.  If I had – the marriage could have been saved. I PINKY SWEAR.

I also double pinky-swear that my father gave me a marble rolling-pin as a wedding present

However, these are new times.
Super New Boyfriend or New Super Boyfriend – can’t decide which – wont put up with such nonsense and therefore actually helped me pack up all the stuff that I had moved into his house. No self-pity, no nothing. Just plain helpful.

Of course I refused his help dragging it all out to my car. Myself.  Which took about an hour because he kept trying to talk to me, calmly.
Which seemed to have a positive yet narcoleptic effect on me.  I fell asleep in the car even before I  put the key in the ignition.
About half an hour later – I woke up to him knocking on the window and asking me to come back into the house and to bed so I could sleep.

I am being dragged – kicking and screaming – into an adult relationship.

I have had the excuse of living by my father’s words on a postcard he sent. In 1982 when I was going to move in with a boyfriend. The postcard was a photograph of housemaids c. 1900 doing the can-can.
On the back he wrote: “…And any sign of domesticity saddens the tooth-fairy”.

But now, no more hiding in the bushes feeling sorry for myself that no one came to look for me or breaking into a hotel room where my then husband was hiding out with  his 19 year-old girlfriend who was sprawled on the bed reading the ‘Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition (DSM-IV)’ {and for those of you who don’t know, I will be spilling that story soon},
nor walking across town at 4am from 10th street between Avenues A & B (across from Tompkins Square Park pre-Giuliani crackdown) to 148 Bank street and West , because boyfriend fell asleep before I did.

And almost being shot in the stomach by a bunch of Brooklyn Boys out for a night in the West Village – probably harassing the locals.

Oh, that.

Well I wasn’t in a very good mood having walked all the way from the East Village without a key to my apartment (but there was no way I could go back and get it now was there?) and as I got close to Chumley’s and the secret Barrow street entrance – this bunch of about 6 guys passed me, and whistled or something (those were the days).  I was so angry – that I yelled Italian curses at them – well not exactly curses, just filthy penis-y sort of things -the equivalent of the  ’Your mother is so………..’  jokes.  They turned and pushed me against a railing and one guy took out a gun and put it to my chest and asked me to repeat what I said.

Time kinda stopped. I don’t know what I said or did but he brandished his gun and then the pack of them turned and continued down the street.

I bid a hasty retreat, but at the corner turned and swore at them again.

Then I ran and hid in a doorway.

They were too bored to deal with that outburst so I carried on home and managed to get into my apartment.

I had forgotten that there was a  pizza still on the wall. We had nailed it there the previous day. No memory of why we did that.

And even if I did remember, does it really matter?

Later this morning I get my stitches out.

Back to near normal.