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By Danny Braciole, March 21, 2011 6:00 am

In the middle of the night in downtown Paterson, New Jersey, 30 years ago, a young woman sat upright in her bed, all alone. She had a phone for the night nurse next to the bed, but aside from her nerves, there was nothing wrong with her. The doctors would see her at 8:00 AM. Until then, her only company was the seven-pound, two-ounce baby softly kicking beneath her hands as she caressed her belly.

She was convinced this child would be a girl. Daughters ran in her family, as sons ran in her husband’s. Their first son, Nicholas, was home with her husband. This time, it was her family’s turn. At 25, this young woman shared a very special bond with her own mother.

In the darkness of her hospital bed, she whispered with certainty to the restless baby in her womb that they too would have that same connection, the same special relationship that only exists between mothers and daughters.

There was only one problem. The next morning, that anxious 25-year-old gave birth to me. A happy and healthy baby boy.

Last night, as Nick and I drove out to see her on her 56th birthday, I thought about that story. We shared a laugh over the two cards I’d picked up: one “From Both of Us,” and one just from me, “Happy Birthday from your Daughter.”

Nick laughed because our whole family is in on the joke. I’m masculine enough to handle it without embarrassment. Mom waited until I was well past puberty to tell me how sure she had once been of my femininity, but I was never really bothered by it. Mama and I do have a very special relationship–not many other guys are as close with their mothers as I’ve always been with mine. Besides, being a daughter is a big deal for my mama. Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t possibly refuse the honorable title of “daughter.” Continue reading 'My Mama Needs Her Daughter Right Now'»

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By Danny Braciole, February 28, 2011 6:00 am

Swerving through traffic on her way home from work, Kristin laughed at me. “Who are you kidding, Dan? You’ll never have that many kids, because you’re never getting married!”

I put my feet up on my desk and smiled. “Well, it’s not like you didn’t try to change that about me once upon a time, kiddo. Can’t say that I blame you for trying.”

Somehow, I heard her roll her eyes through the phone. ”Now look at you, all settled down like an old lady celebrating your 30th birthday… you knocked up yet?”

And so it went, Kristin and I gently poking each other with the once-pointed criticisms that we’d used years ago to cut one another to pieces. Six years apart had dulled the edges enough that we could both laugh about my fear of marriage and her eagerness to rush into it. Each year the laughter came easier and the tension became less, but I always felt the unmistakable lightness of relief each time our annual phone call finally ended.

“How fitting that this song would come on while we’re talking,” she said, turning up her stereo. “It will always remind me of you.”

My eardrum nearly exploded when she held her blue-tooth up to the speakers. “Sorry,” she said, “it’s the Bobby McGee song. You’ll always be my Bobby McGee.”

A slow smile took over my face and, as is my nature, I immediately took the low road. “So you’d trade all your tomorrows for one single yesterday…?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, stud,” she retorted. “We had some amazing times, once upon a time, and I let you slip away…”

“…kicking and screaming,” I thought, but I kept it to myself. Continue reading 'Freedom Means I Have Nothing Left To Lose'»

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By Danny Braciole, January 24, 2011 6:00 am

Image by deejaynye via Flickr

In the foggy haze of a slightly hungover morning, I heard an earthy voice echo softly in my ear, “time to get up, Danny Boy.”

I buried my face into the strange, pink-fringed pillow I’d slept on while slowly realizing my own nakedness. I opened one eye to see an oddly darkened purple room that wasn’t mine. I realized pretty quickly that the wet lips on my ear and the warm breasts pressing against my back weren’t mine either.

My memories spread over me like syrup over pancakes, slow and sweet. I’d only met Maggie the night before, but here we were, in her bed at 5 AM on a Friday morning. I reached up to stroke her hair.

“Maggie,” I mumbled, “you’re a beautiful girl.” As I grabbed a handful of hair and pushed her face back down into her pillow, I continued, “but you’re a shitty alarm clock.”

She laughed. I grumbled. She pushed. I woke up. She made coffee. We kissed. I went all the way back to my house, showered, and went to work. Later, I gave her the “obligatory day-after” phone call, but it didn’t feel obligatory. Maggie responded with a text that she was at work. We made tentative plans in text conversation that we’d get together the following week.

I’d had plenty of one night stands before, but this didn’t feel like one. I wasn’t thinking about hanging out with Maggie, I was thinking about taking her on a date. I was legitimately excited about a woman for the first time in a while. And that’s exactly why I fucked things up.

How soon after meeting somebody new do we feel totally comfortable? How long does it take before we take off our cool and just be ourselves? There are a thousand different reasons why and when we decide to reveal ourselves, but the one constant criterion is that we need to be comfortable enough with our own feelings to let our guard down. Most of the miscommunication that causes men to think women are crazy and women to think men are idiots happens during that critical period between feeling an initial spark of interest and knowing for sure how we feel about the other person.

For me, dating is less about figuring out women than it is about figuring out myself. Continue reading 'How I Fucked Up My Own Game'»

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By Danny Braciole, December 27, 2010 6:00 am

"So how long are you guys gonna wait to call your babies?"

I was back home on my first summer break in college when I met Amy. I was 18 years old, rushing around the mall trying to find a gift for my newborn cousin. Amy was a kind-hearted brunette, willing to help a flustered (and charming) stranger find a gift for a five-day-old baby girl. I insisted that she give me a chance to repay her kindness, so she gave me her number.

When I got to my uncle’s house that Saturday afternoon, I was happy to tell my family about the cute girl who had helped me pick out the gift I’d brought. Almost immediately, the question was asked, “So how long are you going to wait to call her?”

My uncle chimed in, as if on cue, “Tuesday, Dan.”

I immediately agreed, telling my younger cousins, “Uncle Mike’s right–gotta play it cool at first.” And I believed this.

This was 1999. Amy had written her number down on the back of my Babies-R-Us receipt. She hadn’t entered it into my cell phone, because neither of us had a cell phone. My cousins didn’t ask me when I would text her, because “texting” wasn’t even a verb yet. When I decided I was going to pick up the phone and call Amy, I literally picked up the house phone, dialed a (1) before her area code, and hoped that she would be the one to pick up on the other end. This really wasn’t that long ago.

On that Tuesday when I finally did call, I gently reminded Amy who I was, and she definitely remembered me. We went out a few times before realizing that we had very little in common besides dark hair and newborn cousins, and we amicably decided to go our separate ways.

Fast-forward to 2005. Continue reading 'Playing It Cool Isn’t Cool Anymore'»

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By Danny Braciole, September 27, 2010 6:00 am

August 23, 2010

Rough day for me today.

I stayed at work a little later than I had planned, so I had to hustle to get to the hospital before visiting hours were over. My friend’s father had to have surgery to remove infections from both of his artificial knees. His son (my friend) lives in Georgia, so I went to visit Papa today as his “other” son, whom I’ve been for most of my life, anyway.

Like any normal person, I really dislike hospitals (does anybody “like” them?), so I was already pretty blue just walking out of my office towards the uptown train.

In case you aren’t from the northeast, it was a miserable rainy day in New York City today. My ten-minute walk to Grand Central took me right by an office I used to work at a few years back. Even in urban settings, geography can evoke some pretty heavy emotional weight. And this particular rainy neighborhood reminded me of a girl I used to work with. A girl who was very special to me. A girl whose heart I may or may not have broken somewhere along the way.

I’m sure I was a pathetic sight. But, my unhappy destination, my melancholy memories, and my lack of an umbrella made me feel even worse than I looked. Continue reading 'The Losses I Keep'»

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By Danny Braciole, July 29, 2010 8:00 am

How could Rob Gordon say no to Caroline Fortis?

The running joke amongst my friends is that people who are married (or hell, even people in a committed monogamous relationship) absolutely hate their single male friends. I know this is true because they are always trying to set me up on dates with their co-worker, or college friend, or sister’s ex-roommate’s cousin, in the hopes that I will find true love and therefore no longer be single.

It comes across as sweet enough—they want me to feel the same level of spiritual and emotional connection with another person that they share. But there’s a part of me that distrusts their innocent intentions. Like Tom Sawyer convincing his cronies to whitewash the fence, my well-meaning buddies are trying to get me to share their burden and pick up the chore that they’ve decided to tackle.

Misery loves company, after all. But I’m not buying what they’re selling.

I love being single. The freedom, the autonomy, the control I have are irreplaceable. I’m never more than two hours away from a spontaneous road trip or weekend away. When friends have an extra ticket to a show, sporting event, or theater production, I’m always the first one they call because I always say YES. If I see an attractive girl, I don’t have to pretend not to notice her. I walk right up and introduce myself. Unlike my romantically involved friends, Continue reading 'Making The Case For The Single Guy'»