For one whole year, almost every day after school, I would sit in our backyard garden and wait for Aubrey to call me on the phone. Underneath the lush, twisted grapevine poles, clad in green and purple edible fruits, and beside my grandfather’s prized magenta rose bushes, I placed our home portable phone, a soft blanket and a plush cushion from our plastic patio furniture. It was 1993 and I was reading The Catcher in the Rye. Holden Caulfield was my decoy, my escape to the outside world, to wait for Aubrey, so no one would know we were talking. I was prepared to pick up on the first ring. Aubrey was from Guyana and had smooth, cocoa powder colored skin. My face was round, chubby and rosy, speckled pink and white.
Read MoreAfter 3 hours of travel, I arrived at my Uncle’s front door. A batch of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in my purse, I was nervous and somewhat anxious for the visit. I walked into the house, removed my boots and, then, my coat. The house was just as I’d remembered, with one giant exception. I hugged my aunt and listened to her breathe heavily on my shoulder as she cried. Together, we walked into the living room, the buzz of Sunday football audible in the background. I leaned over the hospital bed and kissed my uncle on his forehead.
Read MoreI’ve known Derek for 6,056 days. That’s 16 ½ years. I count our time in days because the expanse of time that I’ve known, and loved him, feels infinitely longer than the number 16 ½. And on a warm July evening, 2,308 days ago, after returning home from a Friday night at the Brooklyn Museum and Trader Joe’s, I received a text from Derek that read, “Hey, how are you?” It had been months since we spoke. How many days? I actually don’t know. I placed my grocery bag on the kitchen floor and began to empty it. I placed the pink spray roses I bought myself in a vase next to my bed, then I sat on the edge and replied. “Hey.”
Read MoreMy Uncle Anthony was a music lover and a dancer. The Hustle King of East Flatbush Brooklyn, well, not officially, but he was to me. He loved his cologne and his scent would trail through our house and linger in the hallway for hours after he left for work. But far greater than his carefully curated cologne shelf, music collection, and his dance moves that made the ladies swoon; were his dresser drawers full of t-shirts.
Read MoreThe rate in 1989 to clean my grandmother's bedroom was $20. The $2 a week I made from my parents, doing nightly dishes and cleaning my room, was peanuts in comparison. In 1989, $20 could buy me 80 $0.25 bags of Wise, ridged, sour cream and onion potato chips. 80 bags! We never had chips in the house, so I mainly spent my $2 a week on a few bags and a pack or two of Double Mint gum to wash away the scent from my mouth. I always wanted to buy Doritos and Cheetos, but those were too risky.
Read MoreDear Apt B2, Thank you for your beautiful crown molding, sconces and archway. My first real kitchen to cook and eat in; a New York dream that most never experience. The first time I saw you, my jaw dropped at the possibilities of how I would decorate you and what could happen between you and I. You were big enough to hold real, adult furniture, plants and my creativity. Spacious. White walls that reflected the outside light; where golden hour tree shadows danced in front of me like lovers as I laid on my chaise lounge. And while heartache walked in and out of your front door, heartache that I myself was responsible for, you also brought me joy.
Read MoreHave you ever taken 3 hours to eat avocado toast and sip coffee, in public, while alone? If not, I suggest you try it. You might think avocado toast would get soggy and your coffee cold, but it was perfectly delightful. The bread held up with its weight of grains and seeds, and the coffee was not piping hot, but remained pleasantly sippable at room temperature; warm in my mouth and palatable. A 3 hour avocado toast and coffee is nothing like eating a dreadful bowl of soup after it has lost its heat.
Read MoreOn a late winter day in 1998 my mom and I began the quest to find me the perfect prom dress. We walked in and out of stores that accommodated my size, the walls of each shop lined with floral fabrics that were loud, shapeless and billowy. There was no doubt in my mind that these options would prove unflattering to my round shape. Formless fabric would drape on my body and age my plump, youthful face by years, possibly decades. I hated shopping. I timidly stepped into the fitting room with a series of A-line dresses that promised to narrow at my bust and widen as they went down my body; a form likened to a tent.
Read MoreThe rate in 1989 to clean my grandmother's bedroom was $20. The $2 a week I made from my parents, doing nightly dishes and cleaning my room, was peanuts in comparison. In 1989, $20 could buy me 80 $0.25 bags of Wise, ridged, sour cream and onion potato chips. 80 bags! We never had chips in the house, so I mainly spent my $2 a week on a few bags and a pack or two of Double Mint gum to wash away the scent from my mouth. I always wanted to buy Doritos and Cheetos, but those were too risky. They would leave my fingertips and fingernails stained with bright orange cheese powder evidence, and I’d need a lot more than Double Mint Gum to cover my naughty traces.
Read MoreHe told her that she was too dense to be a ghost, but she felt like a shadow of herself. Memories lingered around her and swirled in her mind as her leg crossed over his chest, his hands running up and down her calves in a motion similar to a pianist stroking ivory piano keys. She wanted to be his instrument. They talked, and she was there. She loved their conversations about life, consciousness and creativity. They could also laugh together, how long since she met someone that also made her laugh and who she could be funny in front of. She was more more present and herself with him than she had been with a man in years. She often morphed to be with a man, became more serious, subdued and she knew this was why things didn’t work out.
Read MoreJim and I met on a dating app mid–way through 2021 and after I had recovered from COVID and hospitalization. I was eager to date and resume my normal life of dressing to impress and drinking like a fish (but secretly feeling self-conscious - I also think Secretly Feeling Self Conscious should be the name of a unisex fragrance). One swipe on a balmy and beachy August day in Myrtle Beach, SC - because you know I was scrolling and trolling from South Carolina so I could line up a date when I got back to NY feeling more confident. Why more confident, you might wonder? Because tanned skin is toned skin.
Read MoreSometimes I get lost in thinking about all of the titles I would not call my memoir. One google search and I’ve realized there is no room for me in the genre of weight loss memoirs. Kim Rinheart poached titles such as Goodbye Fatty! Hello Skinny! and Fatass No More. I’ve never read either of her books. Some writers would care to read authors of the same genre, or anyone that would serve as competition, but I would like to think whatever I have to say will undoubtedly be funnier. Besides, I call myself a fat ass, in jest, but it wouldn’t go on the cover of my book. Insults would be hidden on page 53 where the running list of playground comments might live.
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