Overdrawn

I know my absence on here is more consistent than my presence at times but this week has been one of those weeks. The disolution portion of this corporate divorce has me by the......well balls if I had some but you get my drift. The vice grip hold on my time, my thoughts, my mind is more like a suffocating choke hold. This week has been wake up, dash to work, crisis greets me at the door, put out multiple fires at once, curse, stress, pack, curse some more, leave work drained, drink to ease my nerves, pass out and start all over again. And yes I said drink. I've had a drink every night this week. Wine on Monday. Margaritas on tuesday. Wine & margaritas on Wednesday. Frozen apple martini on Thursday. Some may say I should exercise or meditate or take walk or some healthy life improving shit like that. Those all sound like lovely options but this week I aint got time for all that.

Yesterday was by far the worst...so far (Praying as I write this on the subway that today is not a repeat..and yes I'm going in on my day off. See why I drink?!). It started with the furniture guys cancelling my appointment to pick up all this damn office furniture. Apparently they skipped a day in kindergarten when a valuable lesson was learned. They don't want to share the frieght elevator with another tenant. So I'm scrambling to negotiate a new move out date with the landlord that happens to fall after the end of our lease.

In the midst of that I get into a shouting match with someone in the leasing department of the Copy machine company. I know I'm stressed but she started it! The only thing I will quote from that argument is "For $7.50 an hour it's not rocket science. What the fuck is your problem?! What's so hard about scheduling a pick up for this piece of shit" I know that's not nice. But she and allllll this stress took me there. Needless to say, the shit still isn't resolved.

As if that wasn't enough to send me over the edge, I had to call 911. Long story short, our computer consultant got really ill in one of the offices (I'll spare you the gory details). After he cleaned up, I thought he left (he said "Bye. I'll call you tomorrow to reschedule"). About 20 minutes later, someone knocked on my office door and told me that the guy was passed out in the men's room. Good Lord, Baby Jesus, save me and send me on vacation!!!!

And then the ridiculous happened. I waited patiently in the hallway by the men's room for EMS arrived (wanna feel like a perv for no reason? stand by the restroom for the opposite sex. The strange looks are priceless....and a lil dirty feeling). When they finally arrived, one went right to business. The other was cracking jokes and gave me the once over, you know the head to toe assessment. When I noticed it I thought to myself, Did she just give me the 'assessment'? Yes you read that correctly and this is not a typo. SHE!!! She then proceeded to compliment my blouse and the color (I must say the peachy tones of my blouse were quite nice on my skin tone as she noticed in her compliment but still that kinda fish is not on my menu). Before I could thank her she said "Mmm, you're cute!" with a wink! And that ladies and gents was when I, The Resident Butterfly, was officially done! D-O-N-E. I almost did a crazy person wall slide right there in the office corridor (for the record I did thank her - I have manners - and informed her that I was straight. Talk about awkward!!)

This day couldn't get any stranger or any more stressful. I'd reached my limit. Matter of fact, I was maxed out. I'm surprised my mind, body, and soul haven't charged me overdraft fees yet because I have to be wayyyy over my stress limit. I alternate between wanting to cry (I'm still an emotional woman), punch a wall (I think my male friends are rubbing off on me), or just sit in a corner and laugh (but that might land me in the land of loony tunes). I need overdraft protection. I never ever ever ever want to do this again. Well unless the money is reallllly good. (and that does not include getting hit on by a tatted up white EMS woman; there is no amount of money to endure that)

Okay I feel like I'm rambling and the subway is about to pull into my station. If any of you want to gift me a calgon take me away tropical destination vacation because you pity the foolishness I've had to endure, you know how to find me. Hopefully, I won't be in a corner in a straight jacket. I'd rather be in a corner with a cocktail.


-- Sent from my Palm Prē

*as you can see by the time I posted this, I forgot to hit send on my email. And no the day didn't get any better. Pray for my sanity please.

Special Delivery

Saturday morning. 9:15 am. Phone rings.

30 minutes later, I'm having breakfast with a friend from high school (in sweats and sneakers!! and if you really know me, you KNOW this is MAJOR..hahahaha). Afterwards, I decided to stroll the streets of Harlem. I talk about my love of my neighborhood often but with the hustle and bustle of life, I realize I walk the same streets, travel the same way daily. Not only is that not safe (I see you, stalkers) but I'm missing out on the beauty of my hood.

I wandered into stores that I always make a mental note for. I purchased a great cup of peppermint tea from a small bakery. I wandered into a small dress boutique, picked out a dress to order (saving my pennies to afford said dress....plantation layoff is trying to kill my summer wardrobe), and struck up a very inspiring conversation with the owner. As I walked up and down the tree lined streets, I wondered if I was really ready to leave it all behind. Like really ready.

When I arrived home, with bags of all that was purchased on my walk home, I made a beeline for the mailboxes. My mission to stalk the mailman had not be lost. I was FOCUSED, MAN. I peer down into my mailbox and on top of my InStyle magazine, there it was. A key. I started doing the happy dance right there in the mailroom. My neighbor asked me if I was okay. Let me explain. In my mailroom we have lockers. And if you have a package that's too big for the box (that's what he said), the mailman will put the package in a locker and place the key in your box (he said that too).

I dragged all of my bags over to the lockers and looked for the magic locker that corresponded to the number on my key. Voila! There inside this locker laid a cardboard box with a brightly hued label addressed to me. WOOOOOHOOOOOO!!!! Seriously, I was a kid on Christmas. Right there in my lobby. Giggles and glee galore. There is a picture hanging in my apartment of me on Christmas morning holding a blue and white record player. I had to be about 6 years old in the picture. Even years later, the photo barely contains my excitement. If I'd taken a picture on Saturday, I'm pretty sure I'd look like that picture. Well without The Smurf pajamas then and dyed hair now.

I calmed down a bit. Well....enough to drop everything right by my front door. Well....everything except the brown cardboard box tucked securely under my left arm. We had some business to take care of.

I settled into my bedroom (don't know why I felt compelled to open package in my boudoir...but that's where I dashed to when I got home). I called Baskin Robbins. I wanted to be on the phone with him when I unraveled this mystery. UGH!!! He didn't answer, therefore forcing me to begin to open the gift bestowed upon me (and my mailbox). After the battle of epic proportions between myself and the clear packing tape that was stood between myself and the answer to my stalkerific behavior, the box was finally opened. I screamed in sheer delight.

Among some other things, this man sent me a Bell Biv Devoe CD and a notebook. Lemme explain why this had me kicking up my heels and screaming with glee on my queen size bed (without the man even being in the room). Back in March, during March Madness: The Birthday Edition (what I dubbed my 31 days of bday celebrations), I saw Bell Biv Devoe in concert. If there is anything to know about me, I am a New Edition fan. A serious fan. I still have New Edition albums in mint condition. ALBUMS SON!!! I still have the tour book from the NE Heartbreak tour. I skipped school in HS to stand on line to get an autograph from Ralph Tresvant at a record store (safely secured in a photo album to this day). I told a best friend 7 years ago if she went in to labor during a New Edition concert, our friendship was over. I've known her since I was 6 (actually we used to plan our weddings to NE members together at sleepovers). My love for New Edition and most of its derivatives (Johnny, eh not so much) is strong and deep. So my friends got together and treated me to one of the best Sunday nights - a BBD show. And I loved EVERY. SINGLE. NANOSECOND.

Of course after the show, I spoke to Baskin Robbins and damn near gave a play by play of the show, complete with a medley style vocal rendition of their hits. As usual, we laughed at ourselves and each other. And then the conversation moved on to other points of interest.

The notebook in hindsight is kind of a no brainer. I recently read to him something I wrote. He quoted something from it later on in the conversation and I blushed. I don't think before I was brave enough to read to him that he took my writing aspirations as more than a hobby, a fleeting pastime.

Some of you may read about the contents of this box and think, "That's it?" But he listens. He gets me. That's what I saw in that box.. He didn't just walk into a store and plop his credit card down on the counter for some meaningless unimaginative crappy gift like some prepackaged gift basket. He thought about me. Like really thought about something that would make me smile. This may not seem earth shattering to some, but to paraphrase MJ, he rocked my world. I was really touched. I've always proclaimed its the little things that matter most to me. Finally, someone listened.

Now I have 2 cards on my dresser.

Q-4 a B-Fly: Who Let the Rabbits Out?

Q: My upstairs neighbors are very...uuugghh...amorous. They are screwing like rabbits and keeping me up at night. What should I do? ~ About to Make Rabbit Earmuffs

A: Dear Earmuffs:

Damn. This is a tough one. On one hand you don't want to labeled a bitter bitch who aint getting any. However on the other hand, shit you need your rest or you'll be labeled a sleepy bitch who ain't got no job. (and yes I used the ebonic vernacular for dramatic flair, creative license if you will)

First, where is the sound is coming from in all this rabbit fucking going on upstairs? If the sounds and vibrations are coming through a wall, like a thump thump thump, then it is possible they have a headboard and that headboard is fucking the wall which is causing you to lose sleep. If that's the case you may slip them a note under their door asking them to move the headboard far away from the wall so you don't get the sounds of their rabbit rhythm amplified through the walls.

Now if the woman (assuming these are hetero rabbits) is doing her best porntastic impersonation while she is ummmmmm "doing her thang", then you might say something to her when you see her alone (and clothed). Something like "Ummm, I hear you (with a knowing look). Do you mind keeping it down?" should work. If she has any sense, maybe she'll be embarassed and will keep that in mind the next time she's feeling amorous.

Now if the neighborly neighbor thing doesn't work out that's when you reach into your bag of tricks.

Freshman year of college, Roomie and I lived adjacent to 2 girls from Cali. Given the time difference they would be up all hours of the night watching (and singing along with) Sister Act (why that movie? I have no fucking clue). Literally, they were up until 2, 3, 4 o'clock in the morning. Roomie and I would just suck it up and throw our covers over our head like eventually these heffas have to get used to the time difference. Well thanks to the ability to choose all afternoon classes, they never got used to the time difference. So Roomie and I went to plan B. Since both of us had morning classes, we would get up EARLY (you know you have to look cute on the yard) and BLAST Michael Jackson or Mary J. Blige or Total or TLC EARLY IN THE MORNING on my NYC boombox. Its not my fault you just went to bed 2 hours ago. One of them tried to slyly throw shade at our early morning DJ sessions with something like "Wow, I didn't know anybody still loved Michael Jackson like that." To which I responded, "Wow, I didn't know anybody loved Sister Act like that (raised eyebrow)." Point. Set. Match. Not to say they completely stopped their late night movies but they were a lot quieter about it. So what you may want to do is BLAST WHATEVER MOVES YOU IN THE MORNING. Turn that volume ALL THE WAY UP in your bedroom. And if you can, point your speakers upward towards the ceiling. Hey, if you can't get to sleep at night then you need the music to move you to get your day started. If they have the audacity to say something, you can then in turn bring up (again) how their late night music keeps you up as well.

Taking a broom stick and banging on the ceiling works as a definite coitus interuptus. Initially they will stop like "wait did you hear something?", listen for a second and then slowly get back to their old rabbit habits. Once the party gets started again, bang again. They'll get the hint. Or so I've been told.

You could make your own bit of rabbit noise but that would only piss off the people below you, thus causing a chain reaction kind of rift in your apartment building. No bueno.

Last step, and only go this route when you are at your wits' end, notify management. Nothing spells embarrassment like getting a letter from your property manager telling you to keep the late night noises down to a minimum (so I've heard). Depending on the rules and regulations set forth by your property managers, repeat complaints could get their asses evicted and homeless rabbit fucking ain't cute.

Or as a concerned citizen you could call the cops. If you're awaken in the middle of the night by violent thrashing taking place in the apartment upstairs, you very well could be concerned about the safety of your neighbor and yourself for that matter. To be on the safe side, you may want to have law enforcement intervene to make sure that everything is okay upstairs. This by no means endorses any kind of making a false police statement foolishness. Oh no, officer, with crime being up all over the country, you can never be too safe.

And if all else fails, make those rabbit earmuffs headphone equipped and go to sleep listening to the rhythmic thump of your IPod.

I hope this helps.

Smoochies,

Suspense is One Helluva Drug

Last week during a conversation with Baskin Robbins, he tells me "I'm sending you something. You should get it by next week. Look out for it". And nothing else. No hints as to what was in the mail. NADA. (Sidebar: I know its been a lonnnng time since I've mentioned Baskin Robbins on this blog. As always I have my reasons. All I'll say is "peaks and valleys, my friends. PEAKS AND VALLEYS. carry on)


oh for the love of all things gift wrapped, whyyyyyy???


See, I love a surprise. I love to surprise people - the looks on their faces in that moment when they realize the surprise is PRICELESS. I actually like being surprised (pleasantly surprised, all that negative unhappy shit can kick rocks). However, I don't like knowing that I'm going to be surprised. It's Abu Dhabi torture.....okay not really that tortuous but you get what I mean, right??


The very next day I began stalking my mailman. Yeah I know he said a week but maybe he was trying to throw me off my game, right?! No?! Oh! This still didn't stop me. I even made my bladder wait an extra 3 minutes to relieve itself because I HAD TO CHECK MY MAILBOX. And nada. I even checked the mailbox on Sunday. *hangs head in shame*

Finally, I said something Sunday evening. I had to. I was trying to play nonchalant but I couldn't be so cool about it no mo.


"Sooooooooooo ummmmmm, I've been checking my mailbox.....and ummmmm, I haven't seen your name on anything....so yeah, I ummmm, I feel like I'm stalking my mailman......"


"Hahahahahaha. Nah, you can start stalking him Wednesday the earliest. I didn't mail it out right away. I was looking for something."


"Something like what?"


"You'll see."


And after asking me how big is my box (that's what he said) and how far is my post office from me if I have to retrieve something (oooh its bigger than my box - that's what she said...hahahahahaa), he stealthfully changed the topic. I let it go for the time being. But with the requisite * side eye * to the phone of course.


So here we are. It's Wednesday, and I am ridiculously impatiently wanting to leave the plantation just to go home and check my mailbox. NOW!!!! I've attempted to call my local post office to find out the approximate time of mail delivery for my building and I couldn't get past the incessant ringing since apparently they are too busy to answer the damn phone. I'm tempted to * cough, cough* leave early but then I'll be pisssssssssssed with the postal service if there is no package waiting for me when I get home. (And please oh please don't let me get that ugly ass salmon colored slip telling me I have to go pick up my package. My assigned post office is in the HOOD and yes, I'se scurred. I'm allergic to that level of hoodtastic foolywag like its pollen and ragweed)


A couple of months back, Baskin Robbins sent me a card in the mail. He didn't say anything about it. But once I opened my mailbox after a particularly craptastic day and saw this pink envelope with my name scribbled in his handwriting amongst my stack of bills and junk mail, all was right with the world. I grinned from diamond earring to diamond earring. It wasn't a mushy card, but that's irrelevant. The fact that he thought enough about me to actually buy the card, hunt down my address (I've sent him a few things in the mail but I didn't think he kept my address handy), and drop it in the mail was touching. The card is still on my dresser.


The beauty was I never knew it was coming. He scored MAJOR butterfly points with me for that. This isn't to say that he won't score additional butterfly points when I actually get to tear open this package like its Christmas morn. I get why he felt compelled to tell me to expect the arrival because, with this being a package, it obviously costs more than the $2.69 he spent on my card (what?! I can't look at the back of the card?????). So whatever it is, I pseudo-patiently await its arrival and gleefully torture myself into a state of crazy shakes wondering what the hell could he have sent to me?? For the record, he could send me a year's supply of this cereal and I would be happier than Tiger with anyone but his wife (and my digestive tract would thank him as well...hahahahaa). And by Tiger, I mean Tony the Tiger. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight. LOL But seriously, its not about what's in the package. I don't care what it is. I. JUST. WANT. TO. KNOW!!!!!


Ugh! I really don't want to stalk my mailman. He's a nice guy. But he needs to hurry up and bring whatever Baskin Robbin has sent my way. The suspense is killing me faster than this new finagled KFC sammich will kill this country (SIDEBAR: really KFC, you couldn't think of anything better than slapping 2 pieces of fried chicken together to act as a bun with bacon, cheese and sauce slapped in the middle?? WTF?!! I hate to tell you this but ummm, if Big Pun is your target audience for this edible disaster, he's dead BUT I did meet his stunt double recently. I'll let him know about your sammich if I ever see him again). How many more hours, days, weeeeks (exaggeration for dramatic flair) do I have to wait to find out exactly what Baskin Robins decided to bestow upon lil ole me???

I hope I've worked you up into a curious tizzy as well. Have you worked yourself up into a state of crazy shakes wondering what the hell is coming in the mail?? You know what they say: misery loves company. But this is a good kind of misery, right??!! Are you with me??

Amore

I woke up in such an amorous mood this morning. Like make a cheese omelet in the morning* kinda mood. Literally, I woke up smiling. As I entered into morning consciousness, I felt my face muscles upturned and thought "What the duece? Am I smiling?!" And then..wait for it......I giggled. Seriously, giggled. Like a five year old who laughs at silly grownups kinda giggle. I even had to laugh at the giggle.

When I hopped up out the bed, I turned the music on (really??!! did you think I would say "turnt my swaaaaaaag onnnnnnnn"???). I danced around my apartment (well after the morning tinkle, I danced but I think I did the tinkle dance en route to the bathroom so does that count??).

I had to assess this feeling. Those who really know me, KNOW this butterfly is not a morning person. AT ALL. I grunt. I roll my eyes. I give good screwface. I don't want to talk until about a good 30 minutes after I wake up. But this morning, I felt like a Disney cartoon - all happy and sing-songy. And then it hit me. I feel love.

Now, don't go shouting from the rooftops or plan my bachelorette party. I said "I FEEL love", not "I'm IN love". I woke up this morning with love in my heart which pumped that feeling to every fiber in my being until I had no choice but to embrace it and love it. I don't know where it came from. Nothing extraordinary has happened in my life to provoke this feeling. I don't know how long this feeling is going to last but I'm running with it. I am utterly consumed with love. I'm full. And haven't eaten a thing.

Honestly, so far, me likey.

*seriously, did you have to click the link to get the cheese omelet reference???!! Fast forward to the 2:53 mark to see the reference. Go back about 30 seconds to see what caused the cheese omelet in the first place. LOL

SEE?!

After the last post, I thought I could shut the door for a while and be quiet. However, my brain didn't get the memo. In fact, my brain was on speakerphone. Every time something happened over the past week, she was yelling all in my skull "SEE?! YOU NEED TO WRITE ABOUT THIS!!" I think my brain is staging a protest. I keep replaying 3 different things in my mind that remind me what I need to open that door between my thoughts and my fingertips and let them do what they do best - write.


The day after my self imposed written silence, I logged on to Twitter (yes, I'm on there too! You know the Resident Butterfly is quite a social being! LOL). In my timeline a few cerebral celebs that I follow posted tweets about a writer from The Wire dying of a brain aneurysm the previous day. Now, you know I'm a stan for all things THE WIRE, so you know I took this kind of hard (sidebar: It's been 2 years since my beloved show went off the air??!! damn, time flies). He was currently working on a new series set in New Orleans, set to debut soon on HBO. What struck me in all that I read was that he blogged the day before he died. Blogged on Monday, dead on Tuesday. Damn. And my brain wouldn't let that point go, screaming "SEE??!! YOU NEVER KNOW - THAT LAST BLOG COULD BE YOUR LAST BLOG!! WRITE!!". As I perused his blog, there were things he said he wanted to discuss later as if later would come. Most of us live like that but eventually later never comes unfortunately. My brain was banging on the door for my thoughts to open up but I ignored it like it was Jehovah's Witness ringing my doorbell on a Saturday morning.

The next day, a guy I grew up with sends me a message on the book of Face asking if I remember a girl he believed to be my grade school classmate. I corrected him and told him she was in my best friend's class which was a year ahead of me, confirmed that I remembered her, and inquired why. It was so random a)that this guy sent me a message and b) that he would ask about this girl. I hadn't seen or heard her name in YEARS!!! His response literally almost made me fall out my office chair:

She was recently murdered in NC. Her husband killed her and 2 of her children.

As I waited for him to reply to my "WHAT??!! WHEN???!! WTF???", I was numb. Granted the girl wasn't one of my besties and I hadn't seen her in at least 10 years, but still. I knew her. We wore the same uniform; we played double dutch in the park during recess. Our histories are intertwined for a few years in the grand scheme of life's journey.

When I finally read the tragically gruesome story, I wept. Closed my office door and wept. I wept for her, the kids that were murdered also, and the kids she left behind. No one deserves to have their life and life's story include this chapter. Murdered at 35. The End. Once I dried my tears, I couldn't help but think "damn she's only one year older. And gone." Something about that thought made me think about my own mortality. Not in a tragic way though. More so in looking at life for how precious and fragile it is kind of way. And once again my brain started screaming "SEE?! YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY. KEEP WRITING!" and "HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF SOMETHING HAPPENED AND YOU NEVER GOT A CHANCE TO WRITE AGAIN??" That thought made me weep, again. And for the first time in a while, I actually had the urge to write. However, time marched a little bit faster than my leisurely stroll that day and before I knew it the day was over and no writing had been done. But I felt full of a creative energy I think I've been missing and was happy to have back.

The following day, I brought my niece with me to work. In the biological sense, B. is not my niece. Her mom is my best friend from way back in the days of uniform required saddle shoes, pigtails and pickle wars (keep it clean folks; we used to have contests to see who could take the longest to eat a pickle; she always won - 3 hours later she still had a piece tucked in her cheek. okay, this sounds really gross now but back then not so much...hahahaha). We are more like sisters so her children I refer to as my niece and nephews. B.'s birthday is 10 days after mine and spending the day with her reminds me of myself at 12 minus my ginormous glasses. She has this craving for more out of life. She's a dreamer, just like me. I sat her in the conference room, gave her 2 tasks to complete, and went into my office to complete my own corporate to-do list. Upon leaving work early, she and I spent the rest of the afternoon having girls day. In her 12 year old wisdom, she told me what I need to do for a career ("you need to be your own boss. you'll be great at it."), she shared her travel plans ("you and I should go to Paris for vacation one day") and her career aspirations ("I think I want to be a fashion designer so we have to go to Paris during Paris fashion week okay?!"). While I spent a shitload of money that day (note to self: kids are EXPENSIVE!!!!), I couldn't remember having a better day in the middle of the week in a lonnnnng time. By the end of the evening when I took her home (after mani-pedis, dinner, and dessert), she had me thinking about my own dreams. The dreams I've deferred. And to that my brain shouted "B. LOOKS UP TO YOU. GIVE HER MORE. WRITE DAMNIT!" B. wouldn't let me leave until we scheduled monthly "just girls days" (I got the child addicted to pedicures, such a mini me...hahahaha). Hanging with her made me realize I want to live my dreams partly because I hope she realizes that she too can live out hers.

And so I began to write again. I've fallen in love with it all over again. Sure, my inspiration to open the door came out of 2 tragic events and one wonderfully dreamy day but that's life. In tragedy and beauty,there's a lesson. Thankfully my brain was attentive enough to see them, even when I didn't want to.