postcard #4

could the clinton street bakery be not-so-crowded for one weekend so that i can finally eat there? i can't really get out of bed prior to 10 am on the weekends, so i guess i should really get used to waits but i hate waiting. so kim and i hit this weird place on avenue b which had one dude doing, i think, every job in the place. i was a waitress all through college, so i get it. i GET IT. it's brunch, so just bring the coffee with the menus. it's not hard. there were only 4 tables filled, though the one was filled with 10 20-something guys who looked to be indeterminate european vacationers.

point: after breakfast kim and i decided to wander the neighborhood so that i could get inspiration for liz's second bridal shower gift [there will be an entire post, eventually, devoted to bridal showers and why i'm eloping if i should ever manage to have a relationship long enough to form a formal commitment] and on 4th street there was a turtle. yes, a turtle. 40 pounds, or so. just hanging out in the doorway of this little restaurant. he fell in love with my feet [my toenails are painted bright green, so i'm guessing he thought 'damn, this lettuce delivery service is absolutely fantastic'] and followed me no matter which direction i moved. i'm not up on my turtle behavior, so i didn't know if he was going to bite my toes and if he did, how badly it would hurt, so i sort of shied away from him. but he lives on 4th street. there appears to be an exotic pet rescue place there and he lives there with some iguanas and other odd reptilians and he was out enjoying the weather along with everyone else. the folks on the street seem to know him and nobody thought it that odd.

the more people i tell this story to [and you're the 8th], the less weird it seems. that's why you will have to pry my apartment here out of my cold dead hands: the east village truly lives and lets live. aside from bludgeoning people with canoe paddles, i'm pretty sure nothing phases anyone here. i like that.

stavros the cat is drooling like a banshee on the kitchen table - apparently he's od'd on catnip again.

go outside and notice the turtles. they're out there.

a poem by jack prelutsky

do you know who jack prelutsky is?

why not? honestly. when you had to recite a poem from memory in elementary school, did you always choose shel silverstein? did your mom make you memorize something from rudyard kipling?

well, i'm sorry. my brothers and i became OBSESSED with mr prelutsky. he's terrific. absolutely magical and easy to memorize when you're little because the language is so in tune with kids' minds. also, the poems are fun.

so it's national poetry month. and i thought you'd like some stanzas from jack prelutsky's good sports: rhymes about running, jumping, throwing, and more. enjoy!

I rise in the air
Like a silver balloon.
I'm light as a zephyr
En route to the moon.

I whirl and I twirl,
Every move is precise—
I'm out of this world
When I'm skating on ice.

*

I'm waiting here in center field,
And getting really bored.
For no one hits a thing to me—
I feel a bit ignored.

Then suddenly a high fly ball
Comes heading straight my way.
I barely catch it in my glove...
Once more I've saved the day.

*

We're in the blocks
And hear the gun.
We get out fast
And run run run.

Seconds later
We're all done
And out of breath...
Who won? Who won?

[special thanks to the borzoi reader the poem-a-day subscription from alfred a knopff publishing]

postcard #3 or an open letter to the yankees

i really think that something's got to be done with this societal notion that the person who works the most wins. it's inane. clearly warped. people who take minimal vacation are applauded and it seems like whoever has the least amount of personal life wins.

i bring this up because kim and i went to the yankees game last night - we left the office at 5:45 pm, which isn't early since we're in work at 9:00 am. you would have thought that we'd tied people up in their offices and were jumping into the elevators with fax machines and confidential files under our arms. someone honestly snorted at me as i waited for the elevator with a 'wow. cutting out early, butler, aren't we?' i believe, you cretins, that i signed on for this insufferable job at 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. honestly. HONESTLY.

so kim and i are thinking 'baseball, the new pitching prospect phil hughes on the mound, beer, hot dogs, hot damn it's a night game.' well. well, yankees. thanks so much for making yesterday just another winner of a thursday. now, i'm not one of these yankees fans that hates them when they're losing and loves them only when they're winning. they're my boys in pinstripes. they're my yankees. i was born and raised watching these guys. at a wedding 4 years ago, i impressed a number of not-available men with my ability to recite the line-up for 1986. in fact, during a particularly un-responsive inning last night, kim turned to me and with a sigh said 'remember chuck knoblauch?'

yes, yes i do, kim. and so i give you my open letter to the yankees:

dear yankees,

you know i love you. i still have my butch weiniger baseball card in a photo album. i've had sex dreams about scott brosius [3 of which have taken place on the 4 train, you tell me]. i named my first pet gehrig [poor gerbil died within a week] and my second one babe [who lived quite well, especially after we got babe a friend, who my brother named mickey]. i feel at home in your stadium, i listen to you on the radio, i cry when i see replays of paul o'neill's last game on the yes network.

that being said, what in the world could possess you boys to play like a bunch of drunken 8 year olds at a pinata festival? get your heads in the game. i am not blaming hughes, in fact, nobody should blame him - poor kid's 20 years old and your first time out on the mound at yankee stadium is a pants-pooping one. [we need to grow some prospects.] but what are the rest of you doing? come on! you're the new york bleeding yankees! this is awesome! this is go time! this is BASEBALL for crying out loud.

i'm sad. you're disappointing me. not because you're losing [and that you are] but because it appears that you're going out there without any heart. you've got to have heart, boys.

also, 8 bucks for a miller light makes me nauseous. i'm buying them and i'm drinking them, but please.

love,
bex butler

ps jorge? hola. jorge. seriously, dude. i know you've got it in you. seriously.

postcard #2

maybe it's just me, but running into one's ex is traumatic.

i spent four years with the man. i spent four years sharing a coffee pot. four years eating off of someone else's place. mixing my laundry. these are the things that get me. it's the little things; the realizing that you don't need to fill the coffee maker up so much in the morning. if i had a coffee maker. i don't. he kept it. which is FINE, the coffee maker is obviously not the point. i've lived without the coffee maker for seven months, it's fine. i'm re-learning this whole thing.

so i went home for a long weekend for some decompression, some home cooking [nobody makes burgers on the grill like my dad. nobody.] and liz's bridal shower. so i'm back in the city, a little shell-shocked that i have to go back to that soul-sucking cubicle that we all work in, that i do have to battle the morning subway commute [amazing how easily we get used to not being in the city, right?] and i walk out of the coffee shop with my morning coffee, thinking 'this sunburn's not THAT bad' [it is] and i hear the voice. that's what got me four years ago and lord have mercy it apparently gets me now.

honestly? i felt like i was going to throw up. i'm 31 years old. i've broken up with people before. i've seen them afterwards. i've not thrown up. i shudder to think that i'll spend my entire life fearing hearing his voice because it makes my stomach do triple gainers.

so, because i'm super suave, i started routing around in my bag for my cell phone. which wasn't ringing. but i thought that maybe it'd look like someone incredibly important was calling me. and i was necessary on this planet. my self worth is definately not tied up in the disintegration of this relationship, no sir. so while i'm balancing my very hot coffee, squinting through my sunglasses which were all cockeyed on my head, and fruitlessly digging through my vortex of a bag, i walked right into a ups guy. my coffee got on him. and on my feet. which are a bit sunburned because i'm no longer used to that florida sun. i don't know if my ex saw any of this. i'm pretending he didn't even notice me in the first place because i like to pretend that i blend into brick really really well.

the ups guy noticed me. good for him his uniform's brown, right? because everyone shouldn't necessarily get used to their clothes having brown splotches all over them due to intense clutziness, like i have.

so i staggered to the train. tried to drink what was left of my coffee. spent most of the day at work writing out to do lists for liz's wedding [ah, the life of a maid of honor] and wishing i was outside reading a book.

i'm ok with making my coffee one cup at a time. i just really wish the coffee maker didn't still seem so great.

postcard #1

i had this dream where i received postcards one after the other, numbered, from different places all over the world. because it was a dream, i couldn't quite read who they were from, but each one thrilled me and calmed me at the same time. i kept each one in a wooden box that i knew was a cigar box, but couldn't have been since it was a little bit larger than a shoe box. when i woke up i felt both lost and excited. i became fascinated with postcards that day. i was twelve.

so much can be said on a postcard. it's a small space, but with the picture on the one side, so much can be said with just a few words. i once made this grand statement, and i'm paraphrasing here, that if you need more than a postcard, then you need a phone call.

i've been known to send multiple postcards, never numbered. i'm annoying that way.

i recently went home to visit family and to see audrey. we went to deleon state park and ate at the little restaurant there. we made banana pancakes at our table [it's like a fondue place, or a shabu shabu place, except you get a pitcher of pancake batter, the extra of your choice - think fruit, chocolate chips - and you cook the pancakes on your table top hot griddle]. i had four cups of coffee and only burned myself mildly, which is a record for me. in the gift shop there were delightful gee gaws and tacky overpriced t-shirts, but i bought eight postcards. i sent a few to audrey [of course] and have kept the rest in the box i keep under my bed. it's not wooden and it doesn't smell like cigars like the one in my dream. it's plastic and i got it at bed, bath and beyond for $4.99. it was on sale and i couldn't resist. i bought four of them.

you never know when you need a plastic box. if the east village ever floods and is under water [as meteorologists keep theorizing will happen should there be a particularly strong nor'easter or a hurricane in these parts], i will be able to save many things by shoving them into these boxes and pretending that they're water tight and buoyant.

buoyancy. i guess we've all got to have some sort of buoyancy in this world, right? we get dumped, laid off, lost, confused and if we can't bob to the surface each time, then we sink. and then we're sunk.

i am attempting buoyancy.