Thursday, March 31, 2005
There are two of us, now. :)
Last night, after we'd jumped up and down a few times in the kichen (ok, just me), we followed our tummies to the East Village where we randomly selected an Indian restaurant--one of at least a dozen--on Sixth. Along Sixth St, between First and Second avenues, is the what's referred to as Little India. We were the only kids in the joint--it just opened, thus has only a single posted credit (Village Voice write-up) to its name. Given the vast collection of restaurants in this city, each one seems to compete for the title of *most posted write-ups*--Zagat, Village Voice, NY Metro, Time Out NY, etc.--which in some cases cover the better portions of windows. So dinner--a tough-to-beat $10 price fixe consisting of soup, appetizer, entree & dessert--was great, and our server, Mr. Why Not?, was sweet.
More on yesterday:
I entered the scene at 6:30 a.m., hopping the 9 and getting off at Seventh & Columbus. From there (Lincoln Sq) I took my place in the long standby line winding around the bldg that houses ABC Studios. My hopes dim, I stood contemplating my next move. (Central Park? Upper West?) Suddenly: "Are you alone?" Yes. "We have an extra ticket you can have, if you'd like." Um, really? "Yeah. Our other person bailed on us, so we have an extra." Oh, well sure. I promptly joined them at the end of the ticket-holder line and waited the forty-five minutes to enter the studio. Ann and Angela were a sweet pair--a mother-daughter team from the Atlanta area. Via thick Southern drawls, I learned a bit about daughter (doesn't work, travels often) and couture-bedecked mother (doesn't work, scared of travel) before the lot of us met another duo--x and x from just outside *Chicaaago.* Grandmother was a toughie--all brass, loved it--and daughter an 18-year-old 16 year old who looked puzzled when I mentioned the El. "Huh? I don't know about that." Er, ok.
We entered the studio--myself and a hundred-odd middle-aged women, some w/ daughters, some w/o. There was an air of glee about the room, as forty five year olds prattled on about Kelly ("I just think she's sooo cute!" I can't wait to see what she's wearing!") and her other half ("He is just sooo cute!" "What a card!"). Ow. If you would, imagine the sea of fallen faces when it was learned that little Kell-Kell was vacationing in the Carribean. But brighten up, folks: The Donald's in the house! (Sadly, they did.)
Fess-up time: I have a wholly unhealthy, wholly unexplainable love (ner, like) affair w/ the morning talk show that is Regis & Kelly. My distaste for Regis' dorky humor/chipmunky features and Kelly's bizzare jauntiness don't lead to an easy interpretation of this, ahem, embarrassing fixation. But now you know.
Instead of bogging you down w/ the grissly details, here a few high/lowlights:
- Donald Trump's coiffure, in person. It occurred to me that what I was looking at was, in fact, 75% Aqua Net, 25% bike helmet. One of the guests, a certain, um, Carrot Top, went so far as to touch it, thereby causing it to lift/fall in a single piece.
- Regis' wax-face.
- Alicia Silverstone, flaunting a particularly atrocious pair of saggy-diaperlike half-pants. The girl, allegedly eco-friendly, explained how she'd just had solar panels installed on her roof. The audience, which included a large number of Ohio-based women, laughed.
- Said Ohioans--young and old alike--screaming, screaming, for Donald, man whose latest acquisition--the Miss U.S.A. pageant, complete with rights to bikini selection--further affirms my dismal opinion of him, linchpin of capitalism at its worst. Ew.
- The fake dog (golden retriever), sitting behind fake french doors leading to a fake patio set fronting a background of fake nyc skyline. Word has it that concerned viewers call in from time to time, usually in winter, dismayed that they've "left the dog out in rain." Oof.
- Regis' promo, taped after the show's end. He delivered a neat little number about diabetes--the current widespread epidemic, the importance of going in for regular checkups to ensure early detection, etc. He looked all thougtful and well-meaning during, only to crack some stupid, off-topic joke immediately following. Like I ever thought there was feeling behind those announcement, but still, kinda turned me off.
- Penelope Cruz, perhaps the only redeeming part of the show (along w/ the cute-cute *Gelman,* executive producer of R&K). She came out in an uber-classy white pantsuit and in all her uber-beautyfullness, discussed her latest movie w/ Selma Hayek. She's quite charming. Yet Regis insisted on playing up her looks, a move both obnoxious and predictable.
I left the studio feeling slightly dirtier than when I went in. And while I'd like to say I'll ne'er again tune in, that would be dishonest. It's hopeless.kandd_firstnight.jpg
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Who'll it be?
From the list, mine: Anne of Green Gables, Humbert Humbert. (But where's Ignatius O'Reilly? Gotta love him.)
Time enough for rocking when I'm old
After spending the better part of Monday cooped up indoors—not so bad, really, as I was able to send out a half dozen resumes + write/submit an open ltr to McSweeney’s + write/submit a piece of short fiction to the editor-lady of the other night—I was ready for action.
The day started with a nice long run along the East River Trail. Headed south, water and Williamsburg to my left, block after block of gov’t housing to my right, which, incidentally, could use a little of that elusive gov’t funding. (Apparently, Mr. Mayor currently has his sights set on other endeavors … a new Jets stadium, say.) About a mile into it, I was pleased as punch to discover a full-sized track, ready and waiting to dismiss excuses when I start upping the training intensity in prep for the NYC Marathon in Nov. (Although I’ve registered, there’s no telling if I’ll make the cut, considering their lottery system ensures that only half of all hopefuls get to the starting line.) But I think the most noteworthy discovery of all was the cement seal park I passed, by which I mean to say: a small fenced park featuring a dozen-odd cement renderings of seals, caught in various postures, in cement. We find seals sunning themselves, seals tossing their heads and trumpeting, seals with bodies half submerged—some head-up, others down. I found the whole scene disturbing, but who am I.
So while I’d planned on Staten Island (almost entirely for the ferry ride part of it), I shifted gears halfway into the day, deciding I’d stick it to Soho/Tribeca instead. En route (took the train this time—happy, feet?), a guy about my age, Frank, spied me poring over my map and kindly asked where I was going, and did I need directions. Mm, not really, said I, then proceeding w/ my story (new to the area, exploring the neighborhoods, walking most everywhere). As we ascended at Bleecker & Broadway or thereabouts, he rattled off several options. “Head east on Prince for this, north on Broadway for that….” Apparently the dude’s a record producer, so we spent some time on that topic before shifting to, that’s right, food. So happened that his all-time favorite pizza place in the city (he claims to lunch there every single day) was just around the corner from us, and as he insisted I experience the tastiest Sicilian slice around, I joined him for a quick (and second) lunch. Very thin, very cheesy, very mmMM. The name of the joint is Ray’s Gourmet Pizza (27 Prince St), not to be confused with the ubiquitous Ray’s Pizza, which is like a disease around here. I got some additional rec’s from Frank as well—the best Thai, for instance (*Sea* in Brooklyn).
Frank went to work, and I made the rounds, stopping off for a lovely Cuban coffee at Ms. Shayna’s rec, Café Habana (thanks S, plan to go back for dinner). Really nothing of exceptional interest to report, unless, of course, $800 purses call your name and/or $1,200 leather jackets getcha goin.’ Hmm. Saw/heard a couple of leggy, blasé model-types, ranting about some agency that had recently screwed ‘em over, at the Tasti D-Lite on Spring & something-or-other. Tasti D-Lites aplenty here: low-cal, low-taste frozen yogurt as best I can tell. Perfect for models. Across the street, some TV show called Love Monkey was being filmed. I could make out nothing.
And as always, noise—loud and lots. And I like it.
Okay, so the real fun—and this is what I’ve been gearing up to write about all day long—happened later on, at approximately 11:30, the never-to-be-forgotten moment when I met and conversed with a man I hold in the utmost regard. The place: Nowhere Bar. The man: The Man. The first thing I heard upon entering (alone): “You know Tuesday is Bear Night, don’t you?” Me: “Um, yes?” Twenty minutes and a Jager shot later, this:
K: I know I'm going to sound awkward, but so be it. I want to tell you I really like the way you write.... You're Stephin, right?... I'm Kristen, I just moved here from Seattle....
Stephin: [looking down at my pointy shoes] Wow, those are quite the shoes. Are they steel-toed?
K: No, no... s'pose I could've done better, huh?
Stephin: [eyes still on my feet] Yeah. Did your rent quadruple?
K: I'm sorry, what? [It's loud.]
Stephin: Did your rent quadruple?
K: Oh, yeah. Well, tripled anyway. I found a sublet, though, so I'm getting a pretty good deal.
Stephin: Oh, I see. Illegal?
K: Legal, actually. I hear that's fairly uncommon around here.
Stephin: [nodding] So where are you located?
K: 19th and 2nd.
Stephin: Not a bad area.
K: Yeah, I'm realizing that.
[A friend of Stephin's, Doug (not the aforementioned Doug), joins in. Stephin proceeds to introduce us to one another, but gets hung up on logistics.]
Stephin: No, see, this is good--I need practice with this. Kristen, this is Doug; Doug, this is Kristen. Wait, that's wrong.
Doug: No it's not. That's right.
[Stephin demonstrates why exactly it's wrong. He looks at me and says "Kristen, this is Doug," then turning to Doug, "Doug, this is Kristen." He's looking at me as he says "Doug," and "Doug" as he says "Kristen." Anyway, it was all quite funny--and very SM.]
Stephin: So what brings you to _____ ____ tonight? [For the life of me, I cannot make out what he's saying, but it has something to do with gay bars. I respond accordingly, lying through my teeth, as I don't want to, um, let on that the entire reason I'm here is because I heard that Tuesday night at Nowhere is the night to see him.]
K: Oh, I was just hanging out in Union Square and on my way home, saw the sign and recognized the name from one of my many city entertainment guides. Thought I'd stop by for a bit....
Stephin: You should check out Beauty Bar--it's also close by. [So it was fairly obvious I didn't belong here, eh? Or maybe it was the shoes?]
K: Oh yeah. Don't they have one of those in San Francisco? [They do.]
Stephin: Oh, I don't know. But this one has the old dryers from the 50s, looks just like it did back then--only it's a bar. It can get pretty crowded, but...
The rest of the conversation is a bit jumbled in my mind, as it involved all three of us. Basically, it centered around Doug's habitation in an old theater-turned-apartment complex (Stephin called this out), the perks of San Francisco, and top-notch 80s/Brit pop clubs in Manhattan. S recommended Pyramid--*1984* night--albeit snubbing the American pop bent (America didn't know pop then, he said) and a place called Silver Swan, and Doug mentioned several worthy establishments w/in a five-block radius of me. Ten minutes in, we parted ways, quite comfortably I might add.]
Okay, so we weren't trading analyses of early-20th-century silent films (uh, and I'd have so much to contribute to such a conversation), but by gawd, I talked with Stephin-effin'-Merrit, who, incidentally, carried a little black journal. The sun is out.
My, did Pea get an earful after that. Speaking of, he's on his way over as I type. Whoopee! I figure after a gigantic hug and some prelim unpacking, we'll hit LES for an Indian feast. The occasion calls for it, ooh yes.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Two boroughs down ...
I have my FHCRC Outlook account for another month before it's zapped. I get a good deal of questionable spam here, with the best/oddest subject headings. For instance:
Actuators G. Thimble
Monroe Mock
Glares C. Rearmed
Doubloon J. Ballpoints
Backing F. Unanimously
Blundering G. Mensa
Appellant C. Columbus
Silages H. Maintainers
Toscin R. Jealous
Gadabout M. Violators
Mystery Q. Dills
And my personal favorite ... Papaws O. Probation
Yesterday I took a train up to The Bronx. I'd never been, and had been wanting to explore the borough a bit. It's HUGE, so my scant 20-block scoot was hardly representative. Still, I got off at Yankee Stadium (sports fan that I am), which is just off the no. 4 subway line at 161st, and a short 20 minutes tops from my (homebase) Union Sq stop. While waiting in line at McDonald's for a highly addictive Filet-O-Fish, I looked around and fast realized I was the only white chick in the joint. Everyone else was either black or Hispanic. I walked up and down surrounding blocks; at 5:00, the area was very quiet. Felt almost deserted. I saw a lot of little Italian joints, actually, advertising pizza, calzones and the like. Next time I'd like to take the 6 southeast and cover that part of the borough. Plenty of time.
Upon returning to Manhattan--just more walking. I promised Pea I'd hold off on museums til he surfaces, a promise I'd regretting a tad, esp today, when it's comin' down like nobody's biznis out there, making MOMA that much more desirable. Perhaps tomorrow....
Maybe I won't even leave my apt today (yeah right, k10). I'm certainly cozy enough, curled up on the futon with a ton of pillows, my laptop, a pile of books/magazines and chocolate (small pile), bad daytime TV humming in the background. Oh, and as Rebecca's a film director, she's got quite the DVD collection. A bunch of Hitchcocks (perfect for a dreary day), Kubricks, cheesy 80s flicks & much more. She's also got some Windsor Pilates discs, which I plan to make use of.
I'm lovin' the furnished aspect, lemme tell ya.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Bit o' this, bit o' that
Ooh, how I HATE computers sometimes--precisely, when they're not being nice to me. I've been warring w/ my stupid Dell for weeks now, albeit off and on. We're a pretty even match, trading (temporary) victories/losses. For now I win, having just spent an hour on the phone w/ a rep. Onwards.
Yesterday was all about Chelsea/W. Village. I walked over to Chelsea, as I've been walking pretty much everywhere at this point in an effort to avoid missing a single thing. Soon enough I'll be swiping my MetroCard around ever corner, but until then.
Chelsea's fairly sprawling, and offers everything from the requisite Dunkin' Donuts (finally experienced my first *regular coffee,* which did not disappoint) to super high end designer stores (Balenciaga, for one, where I ogled a $2800 blue eyelet dress, wallet glued to the inside of my purse) and second-to-none-I've-seen-so-far galleries. One such gallery--Brent Sikkema--is featuring works by this woman Shahzia Sikander in an exhibit, 51 Ways of Looking. Her paintings are really stylized/ornate--the level of detail and her whimsical subjects remind me a bit of friend Lindy Mendy's adorable circus animal cards (l: there're elephants). Here are some (crappy, detail-lost) pics: boot.jpg earthsprout.jpg
Another exhibit I loved--The Elusive Truth--was at the Gagosian Gallery, artist Damien Hirst. These paintings, esp the first, remind me of when I was little, playing hooky from elem school in favor of hanging out w/ Pa at the then-Medical Cenical (er, Center) Pharmacy where he worked for eons. I'd watch fascinated as he counted out the brightly colored pills and capsules using that metal tool I don't know the name of (counter?), wanting to try my hand but denied every time. Anyway, Hirst's mastery of light is awesome, as my pics hardly do justice. I love how shiny everything looks (who doesn't love shiny?). pillz.jpg moremeds.jpg
Later in the evening I explored the W. Village, gawking at all the cool old brick apt buildings shrouded in ivy and worth the prettiest of pennies. It was dusk, lending an even cooler look to things. Rounding out the eve was a frufru hamburger and a martini at the Cornelia St Cafe, the latter which had my head bobbing, eyes drooping halfway in. Too bad, too, as a jazz quartet, Wolfgang Schalk Quartet was on the bill, and they were really good. Cornelia St Cafe has a fun, beatniky feel to it, kind of reminds me of Elliot Bay Bookstore. Every night they host a poetry/other reading followed by a live performance. Every night! How neat is that? I half-expected to see that editor I'd met the night before, as she'd written the name of the place on the business card she handed me, but nope. Still, great discovery. Can't wait to take Pea, who arrives in a mere two days! Speaking of peas, check it out: peasforpeace.jpg. Cute!
A couple more pics: sadly, I lost detail in the first one. Between *booty* and *bread* is quite the voluptuous pieceuhass. booty.jpg ijusthadto.jpg
Today I take trains to random places.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
LES is bes'
Last night I went to my first NYC reading. Best I can tell, it was in/around Little Italy. Total hole in the wall called Happy Ending, which I walked past at least thrice before realizing. I'm pretty sure it was a Chinese restaurant/lounge, come to think of it--not unlike the infamous Jimmy Woo's/Jade Pagoda, yet with a touch more class. Actually, sort of a cross between Cha Cha and JP. Not that CC's classy. Anyway, enough.
The reading was great! It was hosted by Opium Magazine (http://www.opiummagazine.com/), a zine featuring, mostly, humor writing. There were five contributors/readers, including the editor, and three of the five really wowed me. Probably my favorite was this:
Equation
by Rachel Demma
The number of times you hit snooze this morning is inversely proportional to your degree of satisfaction with your life choices.
If you get into the office before 10 then you won't feel bad taking an hour and 20 minutes for lunch and leaving at 4.
The number of beers you consume during happy hour is equal to twice the average interval of consumption, the derivative of this function being equal to zero, with a slope into the number of years your current situation will remain constant.
A certain percentage of the remaining bar population is less than or equal to the person you have just met and linger with over a whiskey as happy hour winds down.
Another round surpasses the usually low standard deviation from the normal banalities of small talk, suggesting a high significance level, with a confidence interval of < .05. If cynicism leaves the bar at 9:48 moving very slowly, weaving slightly, and is passed by your expectations, rising at a rate of mutual laughs per joke and moving at an ever increasing velocity, which will arrive at Seth's impromptu house party first? The diameter of your circle of friends in common equals the sum of the past three months in adjacent neighborhoods and the squares of the lengths of the other two sides of the story. The depth of the conversation you have at the party is equal to the length of time you feel compelled to stay on the fire escape smoking multiplied by the volume of gin and tonic consumed. The ratio of the area between you to the space that separates you is greater than or equal to anything else right now. You may arrive at prime factorization by sharing a cab which gives you the least common multiple equal to any perimeter that is sum zero. Where k is a constant, if you multiply by too many, sin(x) and sin(y) cancel each other out. Afterward, the quiet of the room reveals you both as vertically opposite angles--two angles formed by the intersection of two lines. This means that you share a common vertex but no sides or interior points. Minus random variable p, four times the circumference of the remaining hours before tomorrow is equal to the amount of sleep you would have gotten. The number of times you hit snooze in the morning will be inversely proportional to your degree of satisfaction with your life choices.
____________________________________
Nice, huh?
Later, I met the editor behind http://www.madhattersreview.com/, which I promptly bookmarked. Very cool site. She gave me her card and told me to be in touch w/ her, that we should do coffee sometime. But I don't know, I'm intimidated.
So before Happy Ending, I charged the Lower Eastside, full speed ahead. I love love love this neighborhood, and am tha-rilled to live w/in easy walking distance of it. One memorable exp: dodging coat-peddling vendors who, because I was dressed for 60 degrees (it was 45), shouted after me, "You look cold, you need a coat! I've got just the one--look, look!" That'll teach me--but probably not--to dress like I'm smart.
Speaking of coats, I tried on a fluffy pink one (uh, I'm not exactly *fluffy pink*) at a chichi vintage shop and heard the likes of this from the mouth of a very frisky Italian dude: "Oh my god, you have to... that is SO YOU. It's very hip, and it's just, it's YOU. You do know that Britney Spears and Natalie Portman were in here just the other day. I dressed them, took pictures... it was fabulous." I left w/ the promise to think it over (right) and return in 30 or so minutes. "Oh no. It'll be gone, GONE by then. Britney, Natalie... the stars are all OVER this store." Cool your jets, guy. The coat's kind of ugly.
After Happy Ending, met up w/ a friend of my friend Dr. E-ho Mlle--now a new friend o' mine. He & his boys were headed for a LES bar, and since I was (roughly) in the area, it was a cinch. This bar reminded me a bit of The Comet, although again, different. (I'll try and stop drawing Seattle comparisons.) We went to one other place--named after male anatomy--and late, late, called it a night.
Still haven't embraced my new time zone.
Friday, March 25, 2005
This one's for you, Pa
dod.jpg
Had a hard time prying Tray from the window, Pea:
trays_crew.jpg
And, for the hell of it:
ahhh.jpg
Thursday, March 24, 2005
When I was your age...
I am sleeeepy, so this'll be a short one. Reason I'm sleepy: my body is aged. I swear, although only three years have passed since we were last here, I can't stretch the days out like last time. No longer can I jump out of bed at 8:00, hit the streets by 9:00, and go go go til late into the night. Ah, to be 24 again. ;)
So today, after a late-morning, protracted run during which I absolutely inadvertently toured LES, Chinatown and Little Italy, I indulged myself in a cushy spa service (part of my few-day *vacation* before I start living like a normal person), and an hour later, wound up on the corner of 57th and Sixth--all dressed down with noplace to go. The joys of an open itinerary, I tell ya.
Actually, I did have some plans. I wanted to revisit the library, which I discovered was a walkable 15 blocks south. Of course, one cannot walk 15 blocks in NYC without succumbing to several distractions along the way: Strawberry (they're everywhere, and they're for teens, I now know), PAX Wholesome Foods (yes, I ate there last night, but those paninis!), a cigar shop window scene involving high-falootin' Daddies puffing their Cuban Delights... Still, even without the stop-offs, I would have had all of ten minutes in that grand old bldg, which closed obnoxiously early at 6:00. Drats. But soon.
I then proceeded to screw up another intention: a reading by a poet (name fails) who was to be introduced by my favorite poet, Sharon Olds. My knowledge of the location--Vanderbilt Hall, Washington Park South--was nil, so that I missed out was entirely predictable. I'll learn.
Rounding out the evening was a romp thru Greenwich, Noho and Nolita. I got all wide-eyed passing the intimate little restaurants of N & N--so dimly lit I could barely make out the figures inside, an air of elitism about them. I felt like I was looking where I wasn't supposed to; the whole thing was kind of enchanting.
Eee. There's just so much. Here's a bit more:
- Shop names I dug: Vitamin Museum, World of Candy & Nuts, Trust Fund Baby.
- Nice man story: While in the elevator, post-spa, a UPS employee remarked on the greatness of said spa. I told him I was new to the city, and he said, "I have one thing to tell you, and that is 'I wish you the best.'" He then raised a forearm and made a fist, expressing the universal *be tough.*
- Cab drivers are artists, the way they weave so deftly around other cars, iron railings, people... Once I got past my terror, yelping (yes) as my driver came within point-oh-five millimeters of his neighbor, I recognized the elegance. Effing incredible, it is.
- No matter how stupid the question/obvious the answer, I've found I have zero misgivings when it comes to asking for directions. Down with self-consciousness.
Ny-nyte.
All in the family
Regarding you-know-what: "And although in five years no other issue has prompted President Bush to return to Washington during a vacation—including the tsunami—Bush flew back from his ranch in Texas to sign it."
[alertnet.org]
Giddyup.
Words fail
Perhaps you've heard?
http://www.cnn.com/2005/US/03/24/chili.finger.reut/index.html
Best line: "Then they had some kind of emotional reaction and vomited."
Imagine, an emotional reaction. Pish! And I love what shows up in the url: chili.finger.
I do predict
I didn't step foot outside until 4:00 today, and I didn't sleep in all that late either. Basically, I spent too much time online--applied for two more internships, both with Organic Style magazine, unpacked a few more things, helped myself to the tastiest homemade granola ever: oats, walnuts, almonds, sunflower seeds... toasted and sweet, and kickass with vanilla Edensoy. I'm assuming it was made by Rebecca, and considering she's not back until August, I'm guessing it's okay to indulge.
Speaking of, I'm not sure what all Pea and I can help ourselves to here. Obviously I brought my own lotion/shampoo/other bathroom goods, but what about, say, condiments? Or other food, for that matter? Obviously I have no qualms about helping myself to some books and DVDs (as a film director, she's got a great cache), but she might snarl over a depleted tub of Nutella. (Hell, I would. Bad example.) Maybe I should just keep track of what I use and buy replacements before she comes back. Then again, seems doubtful I'll get through a whole jar of fish sauce in four months' time. Uck.
So 4:00. Having noted the, uh, snowflakes drifting outside my window earlier in the day, I recognized the importance of layering up. This I did, but he-ya!--nothing could have prepared me for what awaited. At the risk of sounding totally melodramatic, I thought I'd topple. The snow/sleet combined with a frisky wind had me clutching at anything set in cement. Having randomly decided to focus on the Upper East Side and the neighborhoods between there and me, I made it to 30th before I hailed my first-since-I-got-here taxi. I would have taken the train, but, um, didn't. I got out at 66th and 2nd, destination Flanigan's. F is an Irish pub recommended me by my buddy Kenny G. (to my knowledge, no musician) due to the fact that his sis is employed as a bartender there. Well wouldn'tcha know it, no Michelle. Today's her day off, word went. But oddly enough Ken called me shortly thereafter, as I was flipping through yet another NYC entertainment guide. In telling him of my whereabouts, I thought he'd register surprise, but considering K hardly reacts to earthquakes, I should have expected the shrug. (I could so picture it, you!)
I hung out for about an hour before making my way to the nearest subway stop--to the red line. Sometime between umbrella flippings-out, it had occurred to me that a hooded parka might be nice, you know, considering. Therefore, on to Macy's it was. But eh, no luck, which is really fine, as I'd rather save the $ for more Mee dinners. That, and I think I can make do with increased layering up + a bigger, more robust 'brelly (do these exist? advice?). Anyway, I'm not worried. Today and tomorrow are supposed to be the worst, then comes the sun. Still cold, but sunny.
A couple of observations:
- Cab drivers seem surprised when I initiate conversation, yet once they realize my interest, are happy to talk. Are they used to cold shoulders? Of course, I have only taken three rides...
- The umbrellage! Weapons on a day like today. I watched many a near-miss as people narrowly avoided poking eyes out/getting eyes poked out. I took a hit to the left temple and almost speared a nice gent myself as, canopy lowered to fend off the wind, I didn't see him coming. I was quick to apologize, but he just laughed and in a very Italian manner, said, "Ah, don't worry about it." And while I wasn't the only one struggling with a weak umbrella, turns out I had more fight in me than select other folks. I met a half dozen rejects on the sidewalk, mangled beyond recognition with spokes poking out every which direction, nylon torn... Left for dead, those ones. (I won't toss you just yet, ol' Beige, although I will replace you.)
- NYU Medical Center--only four blocks from home.
- One of those jumbo-sized poodles getting work done at a dog grooming school.
- Times Square at night is stunning. Bitch about the rabid tourists (I'll do the same), but you won't convince me otherwise. The manic digital displays, the enormous billboards, the sheer density... Man, that got me giddy.
- People eat at Subway! And McDonalds*! I've seen them! I know, duh, but having split a good hour between a handful of different delis this afternoon and realizing that a fyneass meal--stuffed peppers, Bluefin tuna salad, fresh bocconcini w/ basil, grilled panini--can be had for the price of a footlong club, I'm struck dumb. And the smells! It's almost enough just to walk into Bruno's (E: add to your list) and breathe. In McD's, I'd rather skip that part. *One menu item does make sense: Filet-O-Fish, tomorrow's lunch. :)
From the month's fortune cookies:
Your confidence will lead you on.
This year your highest priority will be your family.
Be as willing to take advice as to give it.
You won't be bored for long! New adventures are on their way. Some more images:bed1.JPG
bed2.JPG
kitch_makeshifttable.JPG
thatsmymangledpottery%21.JPG
thosearemymagnets%21.jpg
tvroom_futon.JPG
myhaven.JPG
mymess.jpg
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
10003, baby
I should so call Pea and go to bed. It's 10:30 my time--my time!!--after all. Funny though, what adrenaline will do to a girl. Thank gawd for it, really, as w/o it, I would have collapsed in an airport restroom hours ago. The eyelids, so heavy...
Anyway, the part that matters: I'M HERE! Here: sitting w/ laptop in the plushest chair my bootay has ever, ever graced, feet crossed at the ankles and resting on an equally plush leg rest, a one Empire State Bldg at my back, glowing orange-red against a black NY sky.
So my plane touched down at approx 6:20 p.m. I fetched my gargantuan luggage, relying on my new favorite, the Smarte Carte, to steer us outside and into the forty person-long *taxi line.* I called Pea, shared the magic, then jumped into my designated car. The driving was pretty benign, really, and my driver wasn't as animated as I'd hoped. Ah well. He dropped me, twenty minutes later, in front of 324, where I arranged my bags in a heap and plopped down to wait for Joe, brother of the woman letting us the place.
I ended up waiting about twenty minutes, during which time I met next-door neighbor Marilyn, who was taking her collie on an evening stroll. I'd put M at around 55, maybe 60. As it was obvious I was moving in, she asked where I was from, why I had chosen New York, etc. I told her about my publishing aims, to which she replied, "Oh really? I was an editor at one point--for Better Homes and Gardens." So this is how it happens, thought me. Ah, connections. :) Anyway, she was perfectly nice, although right away I knew I wasn't in Seattle anymore. She had a way about her, just real unhesitating in her delivery. Like, at one point I sort of half-mumbled something, and I got a pointed "what?" in return. It was the tone more than the word, of course. Not rude, just like, "come on, let's have a conversation." It forced me to speak louder and to look right at her while speaking--a great practice for me to get into. What else. I also met Millie. I met her before I met Marilyn, actually. She stands not an inch taller than 4'10, and if I had to guess, she's German. Very warm, I can tell already, and to hear Marilyn speak of her, she's the resident cat lady/bird feeder. Fantastic.
Oh, so our neighborhood: M confirmed that we don't have a true affiliation. Apparently we're members of the Gramercy Park Neighborhood Association, although just north of us is Stuyvesant Park--originally populated by WWII vets in the 50s. Also, Union Square isn't far off, nor is the greater East Village (still not sure what all this encompasses). From what I could tell en route to 324, there are pah-lenty of reasonably-priced restaurants nearby; I even ordered takeout/delivery from a corner noodle house, Mee. Frankly, I can see no good reason to stray from Mee, ever. My *diet menu* selection (essentially anything vegetarian, according to Mee) of garlic stir-fried snow peas, Chinese broccoli, straw mushrooms and eggplant over brown rice left little to be desired. Tomorrow, come lunch, that will have changed, as I plan to top every meal w/ an even better one--par for the course in this foodtastic city, no? I pledge to eat six meals daily, in order that I may experience the full range of NYC fare. Mark my word, yo.
I'm going to take more pics in a few here. Rebecca, film director and official #5C dweller, has great taste. Lots of deep dark browns, Asian art prints and photography, overall earthy, organic feel... It's quite soothing. Plus, not only do we have our very own bedroom, but a Futon as well, just waiting for you to take advantage of. Get here!
Oh, so as nice as the digs are, I have one complaint: she's got too much. I mean, the place is by no means cluttered--on the contrary, her closets shelve the nicest, neatest sweater stacks. Cut from the same cloth, that Rebecca and I. BUT, I have my own clothing--and like her, too much of it. It looks as if Pea and I have one closet to share, and well, that simply ain't gonna cut it. Hmm. I am here first...
Same holds true for bathroom misc. While I'm all for Q-tips and shower poofs, I'd rather supply my own, you know? But as it stands now, hers run rampant. As I don't imagine she intended a *what's mine is yours* type of arrangement, thus far I've taken the liberty of stowing some select items of hers beneath the sink.
Dangit, I have a feeling the night's nowhere near over. Hell, I still have to scour the pages of the latest Time Out NY, figure out what tomorrow looks like...
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
I can almost taste it. Mm, cheesecake...
I’m on the second leg of my journey: O’Hare to LaGuardia. At only two hours, this leg’ll take half the time of the first, thank gawd. Plus, I just got pretzels and a CAN of Diet Pepsi. Humor me with little plastic cups of fizz, please don’t.
Oh, planes. On the flight from Seattle to Chicago, there was a woman sitting next to me, maybe 60, with her hubby to her left. They were a handsome couple in for hours more plane time, considering their destination of Liberia. They’re missionaries, turns out, and this is like their sixth mission trip. She was chatty at first, asking about my travel intentions, the usual. But after awhile she left me alone with my reading material, perhaps because of my reading material: a Time Out NY with plenty of cheeky ads, obvious references to secks and booze, you know. Or, could it have been the Salinger volume (thanks again, Susan) that convinced her of my ungodliness, thus compelling her to ignore me for the remainder of the flight? Eh, maybe, but why presume? I do too much of that.
I had an hour layover in Chi-town, just enough time to grab a salad (lame) and smoothie (better) and watch/listen to all the corporate business travelers around me talk shop. All those slick black suits forced me into acknowledgment of my own less-than-hygienic self, the self that lost out on a morning shower and now must pay. Ah, soon enough.
So my Sea-Tac drop-off was predictably emotional. My ma and pa drove me south against a backdrop of a clear-as-day Rainier, and once we’d gotten past the logistical nightmare of way-the-eff-too-much luggage, the emotions were no longer avoidable. I had already sort of lost it earlier this morning, but not as much of *it* as I lost while standing in that damn security line hugging Birdie and D.O.D. bye-bye. I felt like I was in the fourth grade again, preparing for my first solo flight to Minneapolis to visit my cousins Nels and Ibet (otherwise known as Elisabeth). I felt the lump rise up and that was it. I suppose I could have been a little embarrassed, considering several were staring as I indulged in a healthy bit of public sadness, but I wasn’t. Aside from the feelings part of it, the fact that I sort of momentarily lost clear vision and a sense of orientation was my primary difficulty. I found myself a little irritated that suddenly all these security people wanted something from me: boarding pass, ID, compliance … Can’t you see I’m struggling here guys? Gulp.
(That was today’s second goodbye, btw. At 6:00 a.m., I bid adieu to my security deposit—the protocol when one runs out of time to clean one’s apt upon vacating. Phooey.)
Now, having slept a little, I’m feeling better, which is nice, for I will be in New York City in ONE HALF OF ONE HOUR.
Heeeelloooo, NY! I mean, Sea Tac
Why must I do this? Everything's fine, but still, gulldurned risky, man. So about five hours ago Pea and I met up with a few friends at The Canterbury--yet another *goodbye drink.* We'd just gotten back from a last-for-now family dinner at this fantastic Greek, er, Turkish (the guy did NOT appreciate my reference to a Greek restaurant) joint called Olive You on Greenwood and 85th, which although dear and tres important (see pics), took me away from all that joyous packing everyone talks about. And of ccurse, the cleaning. Mm.
Yes, required tasks in mind, I still couldn't pass up a few more so longs--not a big deal, really, as we were back at 403 14th by 11:00. I'd already decided I'd forgo sleep tonight anyway. Figuring I'd use the time to tuck Pea into bed, send a few more informational intervu requests to magazines (earlier today I hit up two Rodale pubs and a few Conde Nast), and grr, packanclean, it seemed a logical recourse (me being such a generally logical person).
Where, then, is the logic in dismissing the role of alarm clock in all this? Where, then, is the logic in laying my head on a threateningly soft pillow with the assurance--the assurance!--that not only was a twenty-minute nap possible, it was unavoidable? Dear gawd, that 2:45 a.m. finds me with (a bit of) time to waste online is all the miracle I need. Pfft.
Like this whole deal is about logic anyway.
So next I'll head for 19th, where I'll rendezvous with The Littlefield a final time, soon to leave in a cloud of Comet dust. I hope to avoid the wrath of my fellow inhabitants as I take to the laundry room for a last load, add a little soundtrack to my packingancleaning, engage in other not noiseless things activities... Reminds me of this Sarah Vowell essay I read in the Seattle Weekly a few months ago. She wrote about living in NYC and having to carve out her quiet. For her, this was accomplished by living very, very quietly herself, so as not to disturb the other apt tenants. Through this practice, which involved literally tiptoeing around her studio, she was able to locate a sense of inner quiet--no matter her neighbors were bangin' and clangin' mere feet away. Maybe I'll try this in NY, but for now, it's all about FAST. If I can manage to moderate the noise level in the process, so be it.
Til May, Seattle.
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Monday, March 21, 2005
Welcome...
... Pearl & May, newest additions to the family. We think you'll fit in nicely.
Doubled over and then some
Three days ago I hopped a ferry to Southworth/Port Orchard to visit my longtime bud Mrs. Tara Rowland, formerly known as Ms. Tara Chowen, or, preferable to me, chow-chow.
The plan was to spend a good half-day there but—big surprise—the day got off to a late start. I missed my target ferry by five minutes, leaving me with an hour to spare before the next one. I made my way up Fauntleroy and settled on lunch at Joe’s, a little brew pub nearby. Ever timely, I returned to the dock with a ten-minute cushion, only to find the ticket window closed. The walk-ons were already lining up outside, so what to do but join them. But upon looking around, I noticed my ferrygoers clutching what I had a feeling I needed, and it wasn't getting any earlier.
Turns out I wasn’t alone in my quandary; the elderly woman to my right appeared equally perplexed. Our common cause confirmed, I spoke for us both, asking one of the attendants if we couldn’t just pay him. He shook his head and droned on about the trouble he’d get in, before finally getting to the part where he tells me that, if we run, we can maybe make it to the drive-up ticket booth in time. A glance back at my aged partner confirmed that, no, we would not be running anywhere, ever. But I could, and did. She slipped me a twenty and I was off—in hot-pink kitten heels no less. I saw the booth attendants up ahead, and as I drew nearer, it was hard to mistake their laughter. Glad someone was getting a kick out my misfortune. They sold me two tickets and an aboutface later, I was back in motion. All attention was on me as I ran/tripped down the cleared lane, backpack and purse bouncing and swinging. Some smiled knowingly, others frowned, and my elder counterpart stood patiently behind the gate, willing me to victory. Seconds later I reached her, handing her change and a ticket. She thanked me profusely and we cleared the rope. “Thanks to you, seven more cars made it on,” I heard. This attendant’s tone was hard to read, so I was unable to determine whether he was grumbling or congratulating me on a job well done (as in, *they have YOU to thank*).
So the lady. What a sweetheart—she asked if she could buy me a coffee once upstairs, an offer I politely declined. She sat across from me in a booth, and in between losing myself (and my stress headache, thankfully) in the steady wake churning outside my window, we exchanged smiles and extended sighs of relief. Oh, and speaking of, ahem, relief, Homeland Security was in the house, er, just outside the house, the U.S. Coast Guard surrounding the boat on all sides, *big safe guns* and all. It was the first I’d seen of that, although I know it’s pretty routine practice anymore. The ferry docked, and we met again in the pickup area where I saw the son she’d told me about. Again, we smiled and she thanked me, then we went our separate ways, never to meet again.
But Tar-tar was there waiting for me, the grinning G Babe in tow. Baby Graham has these great cornflower blue eyes and a sweet little bump of a nose—he looks just like his mommy. We wandered back to the car and drove to a familiar coffee shop, where we proceeded to spend the next three hours catching up on this and that and everything else.
I’ve found that whenever Tara and I get together, I’m guaranteed an all-out, laugh-until-I-cry session—usually more than one. Whether we’re talking about the past or the present, there’s just something about our dynamic that inspires hysterics. Part of it is that Tara sort of has her own zany take on language, tossing in words that others wouldn’t think to apply in a given conversation, using less-than-obvious expressions. I love it—and her—to pieces.
Then, there are certain recollections that simply cannot fail, causing us much spastic weeping/choking as we try in vain to contain ourselves. Following are a few cases in point. (Pardon the third person. I won’t do it again, swear.)
- Tara and Kristen meet George Harrison’s Cloud Nine album, specifically, a song called “Fab.” As fifth-graders, they develop a strange fixation with this song, mostly because it induces said weeping/choking. The obsession culminates in a series of phone calls placed to Everett Mall (gawd help) record stores, at which point they are unsure of the origin of said song. As they have next to no information to go on, one of them (ahem) resorts to singing a few known lines to poor, unsuspecting employees on the receiving end. They’re eventually able to place it, at which point their interest markedly wanes. The humor, years out, is vague at best, but the memory’s one of their most tangible.
- Monopoly board earrings, dice included. Playing card earrings. Shellacked Rold Gold Tiny Twist earrings. Wooden banana slug earrings. Christmas bulb earrings with blinking capacity, seasonal. Tied fly earrings, hot pink & black. Multi-jointed skeleton earrings, seasonal. Tara and Kristen wear these, and they really, really like them.
- Tara and Kristen are hanging out at Kristen’s one day after school when they happen upon a small can of *diced slugs.* Vacillating between shock and “no, it can’t be,” they take up tossing the sealed can around the house, darting and shrieking down the hallway, across the living room, the kitchen. At some point, Kristen’s mother arrives home from work and assures the two girls, who are no doubt jacked up on Laffy Taffy and Skor bars from a neighboring mini-mart, that no, the item in question does not contain mollusks, but peaches (a White Elephant contribution or something).
- Tara and Kristen are on one of their biweekly forays to Bartell’s Drugs, seeking the latest in CoverGirl LipSlicks, maybe a Bonne Bell LipSmacker or two. After long, long deliberation, they make their selections and proceed to checkout, but not before indulging in an impulse buy: a plastic (was it, t?) ball. They head for home on foot, taking the usual route: the highway, back then much quieter than today’s Costco and Wal-Mart-flanked version. On most days they’re sidetracked by almost anything, but not this day, for they have their ball. Who initiated what follows is up for debate, but somehow, someway, they get it in their minds to bounce the ball from one side of the road to the other, back and forth, back and forth. Not as funny as it is stupid, they don’t realize this at the time. Instead, they get a giant kick out of it when the tire of a passing car meets their bright red ball, causing it to pitch high into the sky. It’s still intact, which makes them laugh that much harder.
Gawd, it took so little, and, ur, still does, apparently. :)
(Tara: additions?)
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Friday, March 18, 2005
The circle game
Events of the last week have me thinking about life cycles, about birth and death and everything in between. One dear person passed away this morning and I have a friend who's presently confronting some urgent health issues. Sandwiched between these circumstances are gleeful stories of new life, and new life pending. A longtime friend, I just found out, is nine weeks pregnant with her second child. She's a lovely mother to her first little Graham, and I know she'll grace this next one with the same beautiful mommy things. Then, Pea's sister is a couple months shy of bringing her first into the world, for which we're all excited. Yesterday, a friend forwarded me an email--friends of hers are new parents to an adopted baby girl. Their happiness shone through their words, making me smile like it was my own success.
The entrance of new life and the exit of lived life: the regularity, the logic, is perfect. The intense emotions wrapped around the experience feel dizzying.
Injustice enters when some are dealt premature exits. "It's not fair," while trite, is the only response that resonates.
Virgoan, through and through
I have a couple of pieces recently up:
http://www.edgeboston.com/index.php?ch=style&sc=fashion&sc2=features&sc3=&id=365
http://www.edgeboston.com/index.php?ch=style&sc=fashion&sc2=features&sc3=&id=352
Awhile back I responded to an ad on craigslist, posted by a Web magazine seeking freelancers. They bit, and I've since contributed the above stories. I'll be sending them two stories/month, which feels manageable--for now anyway. Thing is, the pay is beans, so we'll see. There is a perk in that I can pretty much write whatever I want, so long as I run it by the editor first. So far I'm two for two.
Fellow anal-retentive grammar freaks: I struggled, oh I did fight, for my style book-savvy punctuation/grammar. Yet, note that I didn't win all my battles.
I don't get it.
Turn up the heat, please
The moment finds me leaning, in classically poor posture, over my laptop. I'm sitting on the floor of my boxed-up apartment, Sarah McLachlan singing sweetly in the background, my trusty space heater (I'll miss you!) to my immediate left. I've got a bit of a history with heaters, actually. It began in my early high school years, when we were living at the old Stanwood 'stead. Every morning, I'd make my way downstairs, grab a bar breakfast (Nutri-Grains back then) and a magazine, and situate myself right up against the wall, hunched over and allied with the steady flow of warmth. Of course, there was some cheesy family joke attached to this, which I don't recall. Anyway, heaters--and they had to be right there by my side--maintained their mainstay status in my life for years to come. College roomies poked fun (all in good spirit, of course :), I developed the occasional heater burn, and still the relationship endured. But come to think of it, electrical devices didn't have an exclusive claim on me--campfires had the same effect. In fact, while camping in Index two summers ago with Crazy Dave and the lovely Kassaysay, I got a little too intimate with the fire, effectively mangling the rubber soles of my Pumas. Dummy.
I figure it's got to be about the simple reassurance that physical warmth provides--the immediate sense of physical comfort. We experience it as babies, wound securely in blankets like live sausages and held close to parents' hearts. Then, I don't know, sometimes just thinking about a hot bath takes me down a level, same with a steaming mug of hot chocolate (of course, I do like chocolate an awful lot, blurring my case).
And hell, who craves the cold anyway? Brr.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
The way to a woman's heart... will turn your stomach
So this happened back in Feb, but better late than never.
The back story: Valentine’s Day 2004 went off with several hitches. Pea and I had just sat down to a midnight dinner (hitch) of cabbage-wrapped lamb&chicken loaf (um, hitch) when we realized the gushing sound coming from the closet was, in fact, an indication that the upstairs tenant was sharing his discarded bathwater with us. A portion of our ceiling was leaking (hitch) in that no-nonsense sort of way, it was Hallmark’s kissiest day of the year, and we were at a complete loss as to what to do. But that lasted all of a minute as our hopelessness gave way to resourcefulness. We shot a plastic trash bin under the leak and Pea dialed up Bob, our good pal and Deselm Apt Manager. Of course, this proved fruitless (hitch), and nothing less than an old-fashioned door-pounding roused B from Dreamland. But he came through, the gushing ceased, we eventually ate, and the roasted red pepper sauce was fantastic.
A year later: a chance at redemption. See, for some reason, possibly because lamb is an inadequate substitution for prosciutto, Pea felt he had something to prove. Something to make up for, you might say. And to his credit, Valentine’s 2005 went off hitch-free, thanks in large part to Pea’s innovative casseroling technique. Here’s the secret:
1 cup moldy bell peppers, chopped
1 cup yellow onion, also moldy, also chopped
2 cups uncooked white rice
1 can year-old Mr. Pibb
½ cup Hershey’s syrup, preferably rancid
¼ cup cocoa powder
3-4 Trader Joe’s chicken sausages, spoiled
4-5 whole, uncleaned squids (Pea jigged for his own off Pier 76)
Without telling your girlfriend what you’re up to in the kitchen, layer uncooked rice in the bottom of a 9x13-in baking dish and top with peppers and onion. Drizzle with Hershey’s syrup and dust with cocoa powder. Next, lay sausages across mixture, interspersing with squids. Finish with a liberal pouring of Pibb, taking care to evenly coat the rice. Bake at 350 for as long as you can hold out. At your gf’s insistence, remove from the oven and present her with a fork. Watch her expression evolve from one of curiosity (what-?) to suspicion (the squids look overcooked, and is that an eye?) to repulsion (what the eff have you done??).
Finally, let her know you were simply cleaning out the fridge in as creative a way you could dream up, hear her laugh (only you!), return her hug, then whisk her off to Carmelita for the real thing.
vtinescasserole.jpgWednesday, March 09, 2005
Frog wine
Vacation’s over. I’m so not looking forward to work tomorrow. I have a crapload of stuff to attend to—both personal and professional. Need to finish/send off some articles, figure out my mad-ass schedule these last weeks in Seattle, draw up some procedures so that the lucky devil who takes over my position as Protocol Office Administrative Coordinator knows which end is up… Then there’s the fact that we now HAVE A PLACE TO LIVE, which calls for some extensive Internet research so that I may get to know my new ‘hood as well as I can before actually touching down there. Oh, and the whole employment thing: Thus far I’ve applied for a single internship—in publishing, with Penguin Group. I’d like to apply for at least three others, in addition to a half dozen actual jobs, prior to my departure date. Time to breathe.
So of the six wineries we visited in Napa, my favoritest was Frog’s Leap, recommended by the hostess of our b&b. We tasted a Sauvignon Blanc aged in stainless steel, no oak here. It was pretty good, although the biggest draw was its organic bent. Frog’s Leap is in fact the only certified organic winery in the valley, which is no small claim. In order to be certified, not only do the winery’s growers themselves have to comply with strict organic farming standards, they have to confirm that neighboring farms aren’t using practices that could contribute pesticide drift. The woman we spoke with mentioned an *agreement* with the surrounding wineries, which I imagine is pretty involved.
The grounds are beautiful—carefully tended but not overly manicured. They don’t only grow grapes, but strawberries, tangerines, chard, kale, peas, and more. We were sweetly invited to help ourselves to whatever looked good (nicest staff ever). I plucked a tangerine that was still a little hard and ate it anyway. Yum. Oh, and later I overheard an employee mention to a guest that her lunch would consist of sautéed greens “from out back.” Lovely.
There were chickens, too. :)
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Now I (have a place to) lay me down to sleep
Ooh-wee: we win! Pea and I, thanks to his marketing prowess, have sealed the deal on a one-bedroom apartment in The City—specifically, in the Gramercy Park neighborhood. For a measly (sheesh) $1500/month, we’ll lose ourselves in 450 square feet of spacious NYC livin’. Seriously, that’s big. It’s a fifth-floor walkup, which I don’t suppose is ideal, but hell, we’re active kids with plenty of verve; we’ll swing it. It also comes to us furnished in this great earthy/70s/dark wood style—hardly a far cry from my own décor preferences. Moreover, there are blocks of affordable restaurants in the vicinity—mostly ethnic haunts it sounds like, which is fantastic. Oh, and the apt is minutes away from a trail that follows the East River all the way up/down, and word has it the path is clogged frequently with runner-types, making me very happy (and safe). What’s not to love, I ask you? Little. Still, we’re not there yet…
And when will you visit, hmm?
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Bunny porn
I’m in Napa for a long weekend with my dad, who is nearing the end of his marathon as I type. I’m in my hotel room now, and in a few here, I’ll drive our rental to the race finish (at the aptly-named Vintage High School) where I’ll whoop it up as he crosses the line. He hopes to re-qualify for Boston, which I’m sure he’ll manage, but as any runner knows, it’s impossible to predict what race day will hold in store, however rigorously one trained in the months prior. Hell, I just finished a 5K (assoc w/ the marathon) and I’m beat. Then again, my current training regimen is hardly rigorous; lately, it’s all I can do to lace up the Brooks and make it out the door a few days a week. It’s not that I don’t want to get back into it--I do. It’s just that NYC is taking up all my thought-energy, which somehow translates to physical exhaustion by the day’s end, making it harder than usual to drag myself out of bed in the a.m. That, and I’m sick and tired of Capitol Hill’s mean-ass, um, hillage. The first morning I loop that reservoir in Central Park, I’ll drop to the grass and thank the gawds above for a fine piece of flat land. (Erin: you ready?)
Oh, quick: Yesterday, while running along one of Napa’s busier streets, I saw a perplexing sign in front of a photography studio/supply shop. It read: PORTRAITS WITH LIVE BUNNIES. Uh, do I stand alone, or does that sound decidedly porn-y?
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Ouch
For a few weeks now, I’ve been feeling something I haven’t felt in years: growing pains. Okay, so I don’t even really know what that means (hardly technical language), but I know that the sensation in my left knee/calf region is taking me back to my tenth, eleventh, twelfth years of life, when the nagging, familiar ache would set in and the only remedy was the hand of Mom or Dad that would magically massage it away in no less than 30 minutes. Some weeks/months, the *condition* would strike with frustrating frequency, always at night, and there was no guarantee I’d be sleeping under my own roof at the time. I remember it happened once when I was staying over at my Aunt Billee’s house, which was kind of a big deal considering not everyone--not even aunties--have magic hands. Don’t get me wrong, the woman gave it her best, but that ache wasn’t going anywhere fast.
Seventeen years later, the ache is back, and I find its timing interesting. And while the new culprit has nothing to do with lengthening limbs, it’s still hard to shake. Thing is, this time around, magic doesn’t come in the form of a pair of hands. In fact, I don’t think magic’s involved, as these days, I allow the ache to subside on its own--and it always does.
I think it’s a trend that’ll carry over--this whole self-reliant thing. This move will open doors to plenty of opportunity, as well as plenty of discomfort. Personal and professional growth is inevitable, but I expect to trip and fall and cry all over the place. There’s comfort, though, in knowing I can trust my own hands to pick me up and fix me.
Whatchu lookin' at?
I’m moving to New York City in 18 days, where I’ll be joined by Pea about a week after that. Considering I’ve checked off 27 years of life in cities with no more than 100 miles between them, a cross-country move feels huge. In an effort to keep in touch with as many Seattle area friends and family members as possible, I’ll be keeping a blog in which I will chronicle my mayhemic life as a New Yorker.
Speaking of The Move, I recently read some good essays on the topic. One deals with the total lack of inhibition one finds in NY, the invariable loss of self-consciousness, and the you-can’t-phase-me toughness that one takes on almost inadvertently.
During her first months there, the author found herself at the receiving end of all sorts of oddness. There was the time some random passerby grabbed her by the arm and snarled, “TELL me you have a nail file!” Then there were/are the subway toenail manicurists--feet in hands, clipping theirs in transit. She also had a particularly nasty sublet-gone-wrong experience where the woman who was letting her an apartment decided, a year into the deal, to stop ferrying our author’s rent checks to the landlord. She’d figured out what was going on when she came clean to the landlord about the changed living arragement (confession spurred by something else), only to hear that she *owed* a good few months’ worth in rent. Oops. But rather than chalk the whole sad episode up to a freshman’s mistake, she fought. Oh, did she fight. When she couldn’t get her money back the easy way--“Um, yeah, could you send me the $4,000 you owe me?”--she hauled the evildoer off to court. Months passed before she finally, after tireless phoning--“Look, give me my effin’ money!”--claimed victory. She talks about the fact that such aggression is not in her nature, that when she leaves the city for periodic family visits and vacations she assumes her inherently sweet disposition.
I’ve found myself wondering if this will be my fate, too. But I don’t know, I’m hardly aggressive. Hell, I have a hard enough time requesting paper over the default-plastic at the grocery store checkout. What would I have done in her situation? Cursed, through wimpy tears, the immorality of my (select) fellow humans? Ur, prolly. Then again, maybe I’ll go all “oh no you di-in’t” on ya’ll. Of course, you’ll only see the inner k10-beast if you come to visit; I don’t imagine she’ll make the return trip home for Christmas.
