brighton beach and creepy old men.

I woke up the other day, looked out my window and saw that it was going to be a gorgeous day. What to do? I am unemployed, the weather is finally summer-y, but not overly muggy as it tends to get going into the months of July and August. So, I rolled out of bed, threw on my bathing suit, caked myself in some SPF 30, and headed to Brighton Beach. It's free, and I figured I could stroll Brighton Beach Avenue and be one with my fellow Uke and Russian peoples (red hair, big glasses, and a penchant for animal print- ah, love), get some potato and spinach perogies, and sit and relax.



Going to this area reminds me of my childhood with my grandparents. They would load up their immaculate Lincoln Town Car, and drive the hour plus (in traffic), to wander the boardwalk, eat roasted semechki (aka sunflower seeds) out of paper bags, and occasionally spot an old comrade from their former home of Odessa, Ukraine. My sister and I would be handed a few dollars when we were antsy on the beach, we'd take off towards Brighton Beach Avenue with our best friend Leo, make a pit stop at the Synagogue Flea Market on Brighton 4th (only on Sunday).  My sister would get kvass and we would all get perogie. After, we would venture into the old comic book shop for our dose of Archie Comics, (Betty & Veronica's were my faves), and dirty joke books. I knew more dead baby and Polish jokes than an 9 year old, or anyone for that matter, should ever need to know. Sometimes, we would troop our way to Coney Island AstroLand Amusement Park, (where we would religiously avoid the Cyclone - my momma told us it was old and people died on it). We would hand most of our cash to Leo because he was exceptional at winning those flammable stuffed animals that were made out of rayon and stuffed with sawdust. How we treasured those little trinkets. After our adventures, we would head back to the boardwalk and run as fast as we could up the rickety wooden stairs, wary of the junkies hanging out below the boardwalk; afraid they would grab our legs as we ran up and pull us under gaps in the stairs. We didn't know exactly what they would do to us if they captured us, but we knew it couldn't be good. A ramp was a godsend.

Now that I am older, I don't typically venture this way during the summer months, if at all. My grandmother lives is in Coney Island, and I usually get a ride with my father when I visit. I may head to The Mermaid Parade every few years, and last time, I finally got on the Cyclone through firm coaxing by my friends (and this event led to bi-weekly chiropractor visits for the following two months. That's what I get for not listening to my momma). There is now a fence below the stairs blockading potential people snatchers. No longer are there little shops dotted along the walk selling the treasured semechki  by the bagfuls, but larger restaurants that I head to for an occasional family event. Tatiana Grill is by far a favorite (I have been meaning to check out their brunch).



Overall, for beaching, BB can get really nasty into the summer and therefore it is not ideal. Glass is strewn throughout the sand, fights breakout on the beach, and potato chip bags (amongst other nasty items) float across the shoreline. This early on in the season, I figured the garbage has not piled up yet and it's still relatively quiet, so I took my chances. I probably should have walked the extra ten minutes to its quieter, cleaner, counterpart: Manhattan Beach.

On this particular day, the beach was covered in small groups of teenagers that were cutting school, being a bit loud and rowdy, a few brought broken black umbrellas and were trying to use these for shade, overall, mostly being kids. A brawl broke out and within seconds, a horde of teens had run through the sand and were egging the fighters on.  Other beach-farers that day included a handful of early/mid 30 year old woman relaxing solo. No beach day would be complete without the 20 somethings strolling up and down the beach with rock hard abs checking each other out, with the occasional appreciative cat whistle. I must admit, my people have confidence, and I admire their love of self. Older former Soviet Bloc ladies, and gents, of all shapes and sizes were parading and speed-walking the shore in their neon (and animal print!) bikinis and speedos.

As I sat on my towel, rereading my copy of the Tipping Point and scanning through the latest Time Out New York, an older gentleman approaches me and begins to converse with me in Russian. Assuming he is lost, or has a question, I am polite and respond. Then he begins to eyeball me. "Are you Moldovian?" Um, no.. my family is from Odessa.  He squats down, so and continues to speak with me. Cautious, shocked, but with the home training to respect my elders, I listen to his next question with trepidation. "Do you live in Brighton?" Me: "No." GoawayGoawayGoaway. I am trying to have a peaceful time, worship the sun, and read. "Are you single?" Before I have a chance to answer, he notices my ring. Although it's on the wrong hand, I have gold ring with diamonds that my grandmother gave me a few months ago. She had taken it off of her finger, and placed it on to mine with the words, "I am going to die soon anyway, have it." Thank you, babushka. With a look of acknowledgment and resentment, he says, "Oh, I see you are married", and begins to rise. That's when I notice, there was something else rising, in his shorts. As he stands up, and I gawk, he leaves me with the parting note, "You look it sooo nice", bulge growing, turns, and walks away. I am stunned.

I roll over on to my stomach to even out my tan, and continue to read. A few minutes later,  I notice movement over my right shoulder. I glance over, and it is another older gentleman laying out his blanket about 4 feet away from my little island. My gaze goes back to my book, and I think nothing of it, although there is plenty of space for him to move farther away. He begins to speak (in Russian. I don't know how they know, I usually get people thinking I am Irish, but I guess you do know "your own"), "Oh, I am so sorry, did I bother you? I noticed you look over." "Nyet, Nyet. I am fine. Don't worry." Two minutes later, he decides he needs to speak to me some more. Fabulousss. "Did you go in the water? Is it nice?" I reply that I did not, as I did not want to leave my bag."Oh, do you want to come swimming with me?" WHAT?? "No, no, I am reading." He starts to ask me where I am from, and wants to know if I got here via car or na sub-vay.  I tersely say subway, and focus on my book and hoping to close myself off to any other disturbance. "Don't be shy. If you want to go into the water, I will watch your bag." I let him know that I am leaving soon, and it is getting chillier, but thank him for the offer. "Let me know when you are ready to go, and I will help you get the sand from your towel and to remove it from your bag." I assure him that I am OK, and I can do it, it's no big deal. Perhaps he was trying to be nice and help out a girl, but I found his questioning unsettling, and anyway, it was time to head back for my second part of the day. My sundress came on, I gathered up my belongings, put on my flip-flops, and started to get up, and so did he. "Let me help you! Let me help you!" "No, no, its OK!, Please.". "But you have sand all over your bag." I said goodbye as I made a beeline for the boardwalk, he was behind me calling out, "Please, you have sand on your bag!". No response, just my flight response whisking me off.

That afternoon had certainly taken the oddest turn. I spoke with my friend about it later in the day over a few beers at Studio Square, and her theory goes as follows: "young woman, middle of the day, chillin on the beach.. he must have thought you were a lady of leisure." Wink, wink. "A hooker! Imagine? WTF?" Unemployment has made me a Lady of Leisure.. but not THAT kind of Leisure. Sheesh.

On a positive not, I was able to practice my Russian. Now I may need to learn how to say, "I am sorry, sir, but I am not a hooker" should I ever feel bold enough to head that way solo ever again.

My Dreaming Mind....

I am a dreamer.



Not only am I guilty of looking into the distance mid conversation and wandering off in to my own world, but I am also a weaver of dreams that come in the evening when you are deep into an REM cycle. I have the ability to dream lucidly, and can differentiate from fantasy and reality, letting my “self” stand back in the corner and watch and evaluate. My dreams are bold and vivid, full of color and sound, and sometimes, smell. I have caught the sweet aroma fields of flowers, the harsh and sharp scent of fear, and the wholesome and savory smell of my grandmother's homemade cooking.

Several times, I have had a random celebrity come visit me. Marilyn Manson once found himself sitting across a table from me and we had an intellectually gratifying conversation about life and how to be successful. Madonna met me at a lounge in downtown Manhattan and spoke a lot of gibberish (literally, I had no idea what she was saying, but she looked fabulous) and handed me a check for $200,000 so that I can pursue my dreams. Mary J. Blige was looking in a bathroom mirror fixing her hair, and when I walked in, she turned and gave me sheepish grin, and high-fived me because I had “got some” (which actually, in my dream 2 minutes before, I certainly did, and it was damn good). We then proceeded discuss men and no more drama. More recently, Lady Gaga found herself in my living room sans make-up and costume. We sat on the floor, comfortably, playing cards and engaged in girl talk. She looked tired and it felt as if she needed a break and some time with a good caring friend who knew her as Stefani Germanotta.

Once in a while, I will have a dream that comes into fruition, and falls into the déjà vu category. When I have that jerk of realization that I have been here in my awake life, I deem it as a signal that I am on the right path because dream and reality are connecting, as they should. Except for the time that I dreamt that my television broke, and found out that my housemates cat knocked over his water bowl and it dribbled through their floor, through our ceiling, and into my television. I did not like that too much.

Years ago, I was dating someone that I was really into. While we were asleep, I dreamt that we were in a playground, and swinging really high on the swings, to the point where it felt the metal chain would carry us over the top of the swing set and over, but the feeling of flying was a stronger. After our time at the playground, we took a walk, and bought peanut butter ice cream. When we awoke, he rolled over and said to me “I had a dream that we had peanut butter ice cream. Yum!” I looked up from the pillow, and said,” That just happened in my dream!” Several months later, I realized that the playground was code for him being a big emotionally retarded baby. There have been other warnings in these dreams, in particular when another ex woke up from a nightmare and said someone was chasing us, and that he left me alone and kept running. Yes, Marcus did leave me alone when I needed him most. I should have heeded that back then. Then there was O, who I dreamt that we were on the phone. It was split screen. I was in the top diagonal, and on the bottom one was a little boy speaking to me, in his voice. Again, a warning.



Through all of these warnings, there has been someone coming to me in my dreams for years. I first saw him in High School. He is tall, dark hair, dark eyes ... I was sitting on a bench, and he came to sit next to me and chat. The conversation is of no memory, but the feeling of him being absolutely “right”, is. I saw him again years later in a rather long and detailed dream, about frogs. Yes, frogs. I had a small one sitting patiently in the palm of my hand as I was walking along the side of a highway (on the safe side of the aluminum barricade, of course). As I marched down the side of the road, I was filled with an overlwhelming urgency to find this frogs mate. Every few moments, I veered off to the side, through the greenery, off to ponds that were dotted alongside the road. In every pond, there were loads of tiny frogs. I would put my palm out, and think, is he here? Is he here? He wasn't, and I would bring the frog closer to my heart to keep it safe, and continue to walk. Along the way, there were moments of clouds darkening, an occasional collision on the highway, times when the sun was shining so brightly, that I had to squint in order to see the long road ahead. But I was determined, bordering militant. When I reached the end of the road, the frog disappeared from my palm. There was a bridge in front of me that crossed over a river. At the foot of the bridge, my father (the first man in my life) was waiting, with wife #3 by his side. I looped my arm through his, and he started to cross the bridge with me, and then he passed me off to someone else. I continued to cross with a younger man, and he quickly transformed to the one that always felt “right”. We walked to the end, making the crossing safely and with ease. I could not help but think, I have definitely kissed a helluva lot of frogs to finally get here.

This is not the end however, because he has been coming in to my dreams more frequently these past few months. Sometimes, he is in a car, or on a motorcycle, but always by the side of the road, and more often, to my rescue. The other night, I dreamt that I was jogging (ha, I KNEW I was dreaming because I was JOGGING) I fell, and he pulled up beside the road, and helped me to safety, as I was in the middle of the street. It’s quite funny, but he has aged a little and has gotten slightly chubbier since I first saw him back in High School. However, his presence always fills me with hope and leaves me with a positive and overwhelming feeling of love.

Have I met him? Maybe only in my dreams so far, but maybe not. Only time will tell. I can say this though, when my friends tell me that they don’t understand why I have been through so much craziness, met quite a few toads, and had some of the most insane experience with men, I tell them that I don’t mind. Those have all been good stories, but when the time comes, I know without any doubt or hesitation in my mind, that there is a love that is magical and real waiting for me when I get to that bridge.

I Knew...

Late March of 2010, I performed a piece I had written in a showcase about love. Please read with an open heart and mind, as its a collection of stories of my own, and of my dearest friends.

I knew you loved me….

...when you showed up, and were consistent.

...when you took a picture of every significant place we had been during our first year together, then made an album out of those memories for our first anniversary.

...when we walked down the stairs of an elevated subway during a snowstorm. You made me hold your shoulder for balance, even though I had been through many a storm on my own. I knew right then, that I would never fall with you by my side.

I knew you loved me...

...when after one of our first dates, you stopped me in the middle of a busy downtown street, gently grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me in the eyes, and then gave me the most smoldering, passionate, electric kiss of my life. Your reason? “Because you feel right”.

...when you baked me cookies. In red marker, you decorated the plate they were on with our initials in your horrible penmanship, and misshaped hearts.

...when we were trying to jumpstart my car, right before you connected the cable, you planted a kiss on my cheek, and said: "Just in case I die".

I knew you loved me...

….when you said my farts were more funny than gross.

...when you told me that you have to fall asleep with the lights on when I am not home.

..when you presented me to your friends and family with great care and great pride.. as your girl

I knew you loved me…

...when you stayed up all night writing 100 reasons why you loved me on tiny pieces of paper and hid them all over the house so that I could find them the next day. I had been feeling down, and you wanted me to know the many reasons why you thought I was special.

...when I woke up one morning and saw you sitting quietly on the floor, smoking your cigarette. You told me you didn’t want to disturb me, and you enjoyed looking at how peaceful and beautiful I was. I knew I loved you back when I wasn’t freaked out.

I knew that you were IN love with me, when you stopped having sex with me, and began to make love to me.

...when you started to follow my dreams as if they were your own.

...when I was angry with you one day, and in my frustration, I demolished the puzzle you had been working on. You cleared up the tears on my face before you cleared up the pieces on the floor.

I knew you loved me…

...when you were hurt that I was still sleeping with other people even though you hadn’t asked me to be exclusive. My bad.


You told me you loved me...

...but the next morning, instead of a cuddle, you gave me a “dap”?

...but when we reunited after months apart, we began make love. You looked deep into my eyes. I expected to hear how beautiful I was, or how much you had missed me. Instead, in your pompous British accent, you said: “sweetie, sometimes, don’t you think you were just perfectly made for fucking?

...but then you locked me out of your house with no shoes, no coat and no car keys in the middle of a fucking snow storm.

...But on the morning of your birthday, I came over to take you out to celebrate. Your apartment was empty. You had packed up your things and moved to Chicago, to be with another damn woman.

You told me you loved me…

...but the night I gave myself to you after years of being friends, you turned into an animal. I have never felt so brutalized.

...but in the same breath told me you couldn’t stand the sight of me naked. I’d gained a few pounds.

You told me you loved me…

...but when the person closest to me passed away, you weren’t there to hold my hand.

...but then we had our first argument. You raised your arm in the air as if to hit, but it was to intimidate. It would have been just the same if you had struck me down.
You told me you loved me…

...but one day you didn’t come over as planned. Thinking it was an error, or you had forgotten, I thought I’d come over and surprise you. Instead, I was the one that was surprised. I found another woman in your bed.


...but after 2 years together, I told you I was carrying your child. Instead of joy, you became enraged and told me the many ways I ruined your life. You, and your other children, have yet to meet the most precious little boy to walk this earth

You told me you loved me…

...but after coming home from celebrating my 30th Birthday, you became angry with me for no apparent reason. With one punch, you shattered my cheekbone. Our daughters heard my cries of pain and anguish in the next room.

...but you still haven’t come out to your friends and family.

...but when my gut (or angels) told me to check your email, I found craigslist replies to many women, several men, a handful of transsexuals. One reply was to a woman that had herpes, and you told her you had it as well. I didn’t think love meant checking my crotch for bumps and itching for 2 weeks, tests every 3 months, and praying. Lots and lots of praying.

You told you loved me…

...but the times that I needed your comfort and support most, you were nowhere to be found, conveniently surrounding yourself with bullshit excuses

I knew I loved myself more…

...when you were no longer the first thing I thought of when I woke up in the morning.

...when I stopped apologizing for my success in the face of your failures.

I knew I loved myself more…

...when we crossed paths on a busy Manhattan street. You started to say hello and walk towards me. I shook my head, put my palm in your face, turned away, and kept walking.

...when you told me you wanted to try and be separated. I immediately took the keys from you, handed you a bag, and sent you on your way. Now, you’re divorced.

I knew I loved myself more…

...when I changed the locks.

...when after many attempts to get you to leave me alone, you called me drunk one evening. And initiated phone sex. Ok, you wanted to play? After a minute or two of getting you excited, I hung up the phone, and turned it off. You got the point.

...when you found me on Facebook. After a few e-mails, you invited yourself over to my place. Instead of falling for the charm that I thought I once saw in you, I told you to fuck off.

I knew I loved myself more…

...when I packed myself and our daughters up, loaded a van, and left you without notice.

...when you called me one day out of nowhere, to say hello. Without hesitation or nostalgia, I told you I was with the love of my life. The lost nervous look on your face when I see you in public places? Priceless.

...when after many years of forgiving you, I gave you the last kiss, and I meant it.

I knew I loved myself more…

...when I could trust again, in bed.

...when I stopped hearing your voice in the middle of the night, telling me that no one will ever love me.

...when I had my son, and didn’t care anymore that you hadn’t called me, or hadn’t met him. We are better off without you, and much stronger on our own.

I knew I loved myself more…

...when I was happy with myself, by myself. I now knew that I was ready for the right love, the true soul love, the love that dreams are made of.

I knew I loved myself more…

...when I did.