The Heat Is On
Stepping outside today, a line from the Wizard of Oz rang in my head: “I’m melting…meeeeeeelting!” But unlike the Wicked Witch, I was rather hoping someone would toss some water on me. Didn’t happen. Instead, I got something else tossed at me: catcalls.
What is it with men and heat? It seems that once the world heats up, they shed their ability to censor themselves. Here was me today: simple cotton dress, flip-flops, sunglasses, no make-up, twisted bun. The definition of bum. Sexy? Hardly. But walking 5 blocks to pick up lunch, you would have thought I was on a runway. I received uncensored commentary from nearly every man who passed. I didn’t get it. And I wasn’t flattered.
At some point during middle-school, when girls are watching menstruation videos and guys are in another room learning…whatever they learn (hey, I wasn’t there!)…a key Male Lesson has been overlooked. Somebody omitted important information. So guys, listen up, it’s better late then never. Catcalls? NOT COOL. Keep your opinions about our various body parts to yourself. No need to tell us. No need to shout it to the world.
I realize it was a scorcher today. That we all felt like the sidewalks would melt into quicksand and swallow the Emerald City. Brains get squishy in this weather. I get it. But Lord help New York’s women if we have to endure three more months of squishy-brained men who feel it necessary to honk, whistle, mutter, comment or catcall as we pass. It’s stupid. We don’t like it.
Besides, even on days like this, we already know we’re hot.
Topics: in general | 1 Comment »
Dis-Armed
I’d rather not wage war pre-coffee, but there I was, fighting for my life. One moment, I was nodding off to the Serendipity soundtrack, the next, wrestling my arm from the mouth of a metal beast. This was not my ideal way to start the morning.
It all began normal enough. I flip-flopped my way down the stairs to the subway tunnel, swiped my card, and waited patiently for the train. It came on time. I grabbed a piece of pole among my fellow standers and closed my eyes. This may sound strange to non-subway riders, but cows sleep standing up when herded all together. So do New Yorkers. Hey. Can’t argue with nature.
Anyway, the commute whizzed by with incredible normalcy until 42nd Street. I opened my eyes as the subway doors opened and noticed an unusual amount of people flowing out the doors, as if someone had pulled a bathtub drain. I glanced across the aisle. A suit-wearing woman flashed me a look of terror then dashed through the doors. Hm.
I turned off my Ipod.
“…train will not be making additional stops.”
My caffeine-free brain took 1 second too long to register what was happening. As the door ding-donged and began to close, the crackling announcement suddenly made sense. The incomprehensible words strung themselves together through my sleep-fogged mind, slowly creating a concept. I was on a train…that didn’t intend to stop…and the next destination … was … Queens!
I sprung up and, without rational thought, shoved my arm through the closing door. My belief was that the door would spring back open, like a Jack In The Box. I’d seen it happen. Had rolled my eyes many-a-time when a backpack or misplaced grocery bag obstructed the closing door and caused a repeated “open sesame.” But there I was, one arm helplessly in the jaws of the N train and no spring action happening.
Panic.
At that moment, I wondered if I could learn to write with my left hand, since my right one was about to be lost between 42nd Street and Queens. And I wondered if I could sue, should I lose a limb. Would I get enough to buy an apartment? Would I get to make a stupid joke the rest of my life about how I gave my right arm for a place in Midtown?
As I struggled with these questions - and the doors - people watched. Entertainment is fun in the morning. Helping, apparently, is not. But I finally managed to pry open the doors just wide enough for me to squeeze through. I popped onto the subway platform just as the train pulled away.
I’m now nursing a nasty welt from my ordeal. After 3 years in New York city, I’ve still never been mugged. Still never been flashed. Still never been stabbed on a subway train. So I can still count my blessings.
And thankfully, I can do it on both hands.
Topics: getting around | 4 Comments »
All Grown-Uppy
As a kid, I learned never to trust the doctor who said “you won’t feel a thing” as she came at me with a pointy object. As an adult, I learned a similar lesson (although, thank God, no needles were involved) when everyone told me I wouldn’t feel a thing when I turned 30. Just another day, another cake with another candle, then it’s all over, they said, you won’t feel a thing. But as I strolled around Paris a few months ago, congratulating myself on nearly 11,000 days well spent, something changed. I did feel it. And it’s taken me until now to discover what “it” was.
Now, I don’t intend to launch into an Oprah-esque, kleenex-worthy diatribe of my passing youth, although I did find my first gray eyebrow hair which was quickly plucked and chucked. We all get older. Who cares. But like a needle in the ass, I felt a distinct sting that I hadn’t expected. What was “it”?
Excitement.
(screeeeech, huh?) Yeah. You read that correctly. Not a typo. Seems those 30 candles illuminated how quickly life moves. And how many times I used the words “later” and “someday.” And how many things I still want to accomplish. Which brought on that potent shot of tingling, stinging, wasting-time-no-more excitement. Because you know what, Life? You might move fast. But I can move faster!
I am, after all, a New Yorker.
Topics: in general, me. writing. | 1 Comment »
The Thing About Absence…
Ah, absence. My state for oh, these many weeks. But my darling readers, I’m back! If you’ll have me. After being flooded with calls, emails, and scary spam sprouting like weeds in my long-neglected blog, I realized how long it had been since I shared my thoughts and random nonsenses with the world.
Ya know, sometimes a girl needs a little breather.
But now that summer is here, and the social calendar is full, I just can’t help but share the amazing things that happen when New York sizzles. Are you ready? Because I’m ready!
Leave me comments, though, to let me know you’re still around. And I promise that tomorrow (that’s right, just 24 short hours from now!) I will resume my quirky view of the world from my shimmering City Streets.
Topics: in general | 8 Comments »
Holy Papal Visit, Batman
Cabs, we’ve been warned, will be fewer. Traffic, thicker. Security, tighter. Our nightly news has been peppered with stories detailing preparations for the visit. In a city where you might spot Justin Timberlake shopping in Greenwich Village or Julia Roberts sampling the salmon at the table next to yours, celebrities rarely cause such a stir. But the “tourist” who will pay us a visit this weekend is hardly another paparazzi-hounded celeb. He is, to many, the embodiment of heaven on earth and the man who God Himself entrusts with millions of believers. And he’ll be right here, in my city, on Friday. So Pope Benedict XVI, welcome to New York!
We’ve been preparing as only New Yorker’s can: a skateboard design contest was rolled out, should His Excellency feel the need to shred, 5th Avenue is prepped to provide a heavenly ride for the Popemobile, and the Yankees reorganized their schedule to accommodate a colossal Mass on Sunday. Of course, Pope Benedict’s smile and famous wave has been emblazoned onto t-shirts, mugs, and a bobblehead doll (irreverent, maybe, but true). The owner of Mount Carmel Catholic Books and Gifts even posted a life-size cutout of the Pope outside the door of their Bronx shop for photo ops.
Hype is to be expected, but amid the marketing buzz is a sincere excitement. Pope Benedict will visit the Park East Synagogue on the eve of Passover, hosted by Rabbi Arthur Schneier, a Holocast survivor. He will also head downtown to Ground Zero, the closest thing to holy ground that we have in Manhattan. His prayers, blessings, and wise words will hang over our city like a sweet fog, briefly penetrating the busy lives of New Yorkers with a reminder of God.
And we need that reminder here, where prayers are often muttered only during baseball games or on stalled subway cars. So we’ll welcome His Excellency with open arms, despite the traffic delays and security restrictions, knowing his presence is a lovely addition to our bustling crowds. We just hope he remembers one thing. A tiny prayer in the midst of all the big ones.
Please, Pope, while you’re in Yankee Stadium…make sure God favors us above the Red Sox!
Topics: I heart New York, in general | 1 Comment »
Little Surprise in Little Korea
Little
I went for Pinkberry!!
Those of you who have heard of this place, you understand. Those of you who haven’t, I’m truly sorry. So consider this your moment of enlightenment and get thee to a PB.
It’s a bit of a surprise to find see the tiny pink/green sign (in English!) hidden among all the Korean letters advertising a jumble of stores. But at least it’s easy to find. I popped inside and took my place in the looooong line (for the record, this place isn’t exactly a well-kept secret). My selection wasn’t creative. Vanilla with chocolate chips, little ones, so they would nestle themselves into every nook and cranny of the yogurt swirls. People around me were jazzing theirs up a bit more, going for Green Tea Yogurt topped with marshmallows, blueberries, and some sort of red thing that looked like gummy bears. But I have yet to taste-test those areas of adventurous eating and preferred to stick with what I know.
Pinkified, I munched on my dessert while skirting around piles of garbage bags that gave off smells reminiscent of my summer in
And no pig intestines in sight!
Topics: I heart New York, gotta eat | 4 Comments »
Spring Flinging Paint
At 9, I regularly rearranged the Kirk Cameron posters on my wall. At 13, I was strong enough to drag furniture across the floor, Feng Sui-ing my bedroom every few months. I dorm hopped in college. And in the 7 years since graduation, I’ve lived in 3 different cities and 6 apartments.
I’m a girl who likes change.
But this weekend, I’m not tripping over cardboard boxes. And since I don’t have any Kirk Cameron posters to rearrange (at least, none that I’ll admit to!), I decided to find a different way to indulge my love for change: PAINT!!
So yesterday, despite my neighbor’s prying eyes (window peeking is as normal in New York as pigeon poo), I threw open the shades and turned up the radio. Aerosmith - because it’s fun to splatter paint around while loudly singing “Dude Looks Like a Lady.” I twisted my hair on top of my head, put on old, black workout pants, and popped open a can of Benjamin Moore Primer, immediately assaulted by the wonderful sticky, sweet fumes.
Yesterday afternoon was all about slapping Primer over ugly, bluish walls. Today, is Tape Day, which involves sticking bright blue painter’s tape along the doorways and ceiling. Then next Saturday is the big day: Color!! But what color? Don’t know yet.
I’m also a girl who likes surprises!
(Readers: how are you ringing in Spring?)
Topics: random | 3 Comments »
A Girl Walks Into a Bar…
God should have a bar like this. Especially for those of us who are winter weary. Just walk in, grab a stool, and start a tab: “Yes, I’d like some Spring please, with an extra shot of sunshine. And keep ‘em coming.” Cheesy idea? Yes. But you know that after a million straight days of cold and rain, you’re more then willing embrace the cheesiness to see it all finally end.
I’m sad to report, God has yet to dive into this particular business venture, so I’ve found a decent substitute: Grove Flower Bar!
At the risk of sounding like a three-year-old on sugar, I have to say, my excitement meter is jumping over this one. Though the little shop launched around since Fall of 2006, Grove is new to me. So new that I feel like a pioneer discovering uncharted territory, although I found it, along with many other New Yorkers, through the trusty website Daily Candy. No matter. I can’t wait to go…it’s so Spring-ified!
Spring-ified: a distinct quality that indicates the infusion of spring-like characteristics
Grove Flower Bar is set up to resemble a real bar, minus the Jack Daniels and sloshed college kids. Instead of SKYY Vodka towering high up on the top shelf, there are rare (and, um, expensive) perennials. Peruse the menu for the day’s Floral Specials and order up a plant, bulb, seed, or bouquet (less expensive) then kick back with a cup of tea while they assemble your order. They also have unique home decor items for the botanically-challenged.
Being the girl that I am, the idea of walking into a bar bursting with Spring just makes me smile. And maybe sneeze. I’ll take the Kleenex and nose spray combo…to go.
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Grove Flower Bar and Boutique - 617 Hudson Street
212-673-8300; www.grovenyc.com
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Topics: I heart New York, in general | 1 Comment »
Club Pregnancy
Ladies, what is going on? Is there an epidemic I should be aware of? Every time I turn around, there is another protruding belly, beaming face, and due date to remember. My Outlook calendar is speckled with pinks (friends having girls), blues (friends having boys) and purples (friends who prefer to be surprised and enter into parenthood chromatically unprepared). Even strangers, mommas-to-be, are strolling around Midtown draping tiny I Heart NY shirts over their stomachs. Celebrities (like Kari Russell and Jennifer Garner) scoot around New York with the latest must-have assessory: an adorable kid.
But it seems I’m not quite ready to have a little alien growing somewhere near my pancreas. A fact that keeps me from joining the club that most 30-something women have already become a part of and I am quickly running out of time to join. In a few more years, I’ll be another Halle Berry, applauded for courageously procreating after the age of 35. Which, by the way, is called a Geriatric Pregnancy. Is there anything more horrible then being, say, 40 years old and labeled geriatric?
At least celebrity moms keep the “ew” factor to themselves. I’m not a fan of details when it comes to anything baby-related. It’s scary. And yucky. And the whole process looks awfully uncomfortable.
What does look like fun? Being Mom to one of those puddin’ faced children in Central Park who discover life through a bug or a leaf and already try to leave their mark on the world (usually by way of sticky spills or chocolatey hands). They’re cute. Except when they cry. Or bleed. Then I just walk on by and thank God I’m not the one they’ll come running to.
This weekend Central Park is full of them since Spring seems to be the most popular time to reproduce. In the coming weeks, I expect to share sidewalk space with a lot of strollers and carriages, watching the juggling act of babies, bags, buggies, binkies, bottles, and every other do-dad that tiny people require. All I can do is shake my head in amazement and wonder how mommies do it. “Oooh, it’s different when they’re your own,” my twice pregnant friend Lori once told me, “your instincts just kick in!”
Sure. Like honesty in politics, I’ll believe it when I see it since mine seem to have been dormant for, oh, my whole life. Babysitting? Nope. House plants? Barely alive, since I can’t seem to remember water is necessary. Pets? None. Oohing and Aahhing over someone elses kid? Rare. I’d like to see a glimmer of these fabled instincts before I commit to mommyhood. I’m assured they’ll kick after I have a baby. But isn’t that like diving into the deep end of the ocean before knowing if you can swim?
Anyway, I want to hear from Mommies. Magical Mommies who manage to be responsible for another life without going mad. Soothe me with your words. Calm my fears. Reveal your Club Pregnancy secrets to me. But keep all body fluid stories to yourself.
Because the “Children Puke, Pee, and Poo On You” motto is no way to attract new members.
Topics: confessions | 4 Comments »
Hi, I’m Crazy, and I’ll be your Tour Guide
“Don’t worry, folks, it’s just me,” he bellowed as he entered the train car. Oh, geez, another one. And of course I forgot to recharge my Ipod today, so I implemented the three-step plan for dealing with the ‘interesting’ people on the subway: wish him away, hope he doesn’t ask me for money, and try to get lost in the New York Post. It’s not that I’m a miserly Scrooge - but once you understand train beggars, and their scams, compassion becomes a little tough to muster.
At the next stop, he didn’t get off. Step One had failed me. But Step Two still looked promising when he exclaimed, “Ooooh, there’s a lotta y’all!” as a Midwest Mob, easily distinguishable by their gray hoodies and large maps, scooted through the door. “Where y’all from?”
Here we go, I thought, let the games begin.
“INDIANA!” one enthusiastic tourist answered. The beggar’s eyes twinkled and he shouted, “Awww, yeah, everyone from Indiana give me a holla!” The small knot of people gave an obliging whoop then erupted in hearty laughter. They were obviously delighted the ‘All New Yorkers Are Rude’ rumor was being dispelled right before their corn-fed eyes. Then the homeless guy added, “Go Packers!” which immediately solidified his adoption into the group. He even draped an arm around a gray hooded guy, who didn’t even flinch. Of course, by this time, I’d abandoned Step Three, finding the Post terribly dull compared to The Kookie Beggar Guy Show.
Over the train’s speaker, an automated, albeit seductive, female voice advised: “Next stop is — 34th Street, Herald Square”
Excited buzzing from the Indianians. “Ah, yes, my friends,” the beggar guy chimed in, “34th Street is next. This is where the largest Macy’s in the world is. And the Empire State Building. And a Gap. Miracle on Thirty Fourth and all.” He smiled at them all. They smiled back. And this was the moment. He saw his chance and finally, finally, he got to the point: “So, will y’all still smile at me if I ask you for a little money?”
I laughed. Openly. Couldn’t help it, the sort of laugh that overtakes you like a tide during church or at a funeral.
But before he got an answer, the doors opened and the tourists spilled out. He looked a little sad. But when he started mumbling something to himself about hating the Packers, my New York Post got a lot more interesting. All I could think was Step Two: please don’t ask me for money.
And the obvious new addition, Step Four: please don’t kill me for being a native Midwesterner. Thank goodness I’d left my gray hoodie at home.
Topics: in general | 2 Comments »