Love/Hate

That's my relationship with New York.

Just when I think I can't stand another minute of midtown at rush hour, teeming with dawdling tourists and pushy suits who glare at anyone who dare cross their paths. Or when I might cause physical harm to the 20 year old girls filling their aisle-blocking carts with the organic food I'm not sure how they can afford at Whole Foods. Or when I shudder at the thought of walking through another cloud of stinky sewer steam rising from the street. Or when every truck in Manhattan happens to be honking and revving their engines on the very street I'm attempting to walk down. Or when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, drop my bags of groceries, and call Eric to come help me because I simply cannot bear the thought of carrying those heavy bags another block (true story. Drama queen much?)...

Just when I wonder how it's possible to live here at all, New York does its thing:

It reminds me that the light is changing in the city, to something so beautiful, when everything is bathed in the amber glow of fall, gently taking over the sultry summer haze. And then it shows me that a Tasti DeLite is opening up around the corner from my office (!). And then it brings me to Riverside Park at sunset and yoga class when the city is just waking up, and everything around me, even if only for a few moments seens calm and clear and simple.

And then suddenly, New York feels good again.

In homage

To catch a recent 6 am flight, I caught a cab at 3:30 in the morning. This is obviously a ghastly hour to me, one which I see approximately three times a year, and usually there is a wedding, the Burp Castle, or, as in this case, an airplane involved. Everyone knows that New York is the city that never sleeps, but I was still amazed at the number and variety of people that were out at that time, the deadest time, the time when the world should be silent and sleeping.

This is a tribute to those people who are on the streets of New York, creating an eerily peaceful sense of motion in a city that thrives on just such a pulse.

To the doormen and security guards, finally reaching the last hours of the graveyard shift, standing in clusters on street corners and under awnings, silently sharing their final cigarettes of the night.

To the brave and stupid woman who stumbles off the subway in her white pants and 5 inch heels, teetering drunkenly home from another glittering night on the town, escaping once again the evils lurking in the shadows.

To the ConEdison workers, slowing traffic even when there shouldn’t be any, to make the repairs that will keep the lights on for the unknowing New Yorkers when they wake up in the morning.

To the hardest partiers, hanging on to the last moments of another Friday night, laughing with and leaning on friends and lovers in the doorways of the bars still sticky from the hours of Jager-bombs, Bud Lights, and dirty martinis.

To the crazy or the drug-addicted, waiting manically outside of diners and delis, screaming at no one and everyone, surviving the loneliest hour of the day.

To the middle-aged man in an SUV, windows rolled down, and music cranked up, unabashedly blasting Shakira at a time where no one would think to laugh.

To the lines of cars at McDonalds, filled with people just getting off work or just leaving the bars, never quite ready to go home and always ready for a Filet-o-Fish or Supersized fries, because everyone knows that the calories consumed at that hour don’t count.

It was all these people that painted the landscape as I rode silently through sleek, champagne-drunk Manhattan, across the bridge, and through a rawer, whiskey-soaked Queens. During the day, when everyone is in a hurry and people, except for those rare gems who cannot help but call attention to their eccentricity, are more in the way than part of the city’s beauty, it’s impossible to appreciate people- normal people, just doing what they do week after week, day after day. But at 3 am, when the mind and heart are too tired to judge, the city becomes a work of living art.

Lernin'

The other day I ventured back into territory I have not dared to enter since the days of book reports and learner’s permits: The Public Library.

Having avoided such places for (could it be?) almost ten years now for fear that I would be arrested immediately for the hundreds of dollars overdue fines and missing books that I probably still have on my record, my purchases at Borders have become so frequent that Eric has placed an official moratorium on buying books. Without new material for weeks now, I have become so desperate for books that I took a deep breath, told myself that if I can hold down a job I surely must be capable of returning a library book on time, and I returned to the booklover’s treasure trove.

I walked in and was instantly embarrassed that I have spent such a ridiculous amount of money on books over the last 10 years. I mean, every book I could ever want is housed for free right down the block from my apartment! I was never going to leave! So I walked the aisles, picking up any book whose pretty cover or catchy title caught my eye, taking in my surroundings and my fellow patrons in this revered place of culture and higher learning.

And then I saw it.

Another person, obviously thirsty for knowledge, sitting at one of the computers, typing with equal parts determination and enthusiasm, such that I thought for certain he must have just cracked the problem of his graduate thesis or made groundbreaking progress on his first novel. And, naturally, I snuck a glance over his shoulder, and, there, blaring at me in type large enough to take up the entire computer screen, was the masterwork:

YANKEES BASEBALL SUCKS!

And there you have it- the literary future of America.

All For Only $8.95

Dear friends,

As you know from many of my previous posts, New York City is a center of culture and the finer things in life. We have the opera, concerts in the park, Broadway, world class restaurants, museums, activities of all kinds for the mind, body and soul (Shoot the Freak, anyone?), all you can drink brunch, all you can consume sushi and sake, and- a rare culinary gem- the Never Ending Pasta Bowl at the O.G. (cool kid slang for the Olive Garden. When you're there, you're family!)

Do not, I repeat, do not, under any circumstances, go to two or more of those last three high culture hotspots in the span of less than a week. If you have any desire to feel the least bit spry or would like to venture more than 10 feet from a bathroom at any given time, I beg of you, stay away from the mouthwatering temptations of unlimited spicy tuna rolls or slightly congealed overcooked pasta accompanied by delicious butter-soaked, salt-encrusted breadsticks.


It is so not worth it.



If you have any dignity or self-respect, learn from my mistakes- wait at least a week; better yet, wait a month, two if you're feeling powerful, before you subject your body and your bathroom (and your husband or wife) to the aftereffects of such disgustingly delicious gluttony. Take it from me- there is plenty of sushi and mediocre pasta to go around.


Meanwhile, in other news...



There is a giant concert happening outside my office right now in celebration of the kickoff of the NFL season. While I suppose everyone has a right to throw a party for any old reason, is it really necessary to shut down all of midtown in the name of football? I mean, we have a giant park right in the middle of downtown, perfect for putting thousands of people who may want to skip work, grab some Coors Light, and pledge allegiance to Keith Urban and Eli Manning all in the same afternoon. But, I guess the NFL's right- Columbus Circle is MUCH more awesome.

When Good Intentions Go Wrong

Or Why I Am Lucky Eric Is My Husband. Or Why Eric Deserves An Award For Putting Up With Me and Keeping Me Fed.


This is the aftermath of my recent attempt to make a modest breakfast on my own.

I think I better stick to cereal.

Mr. Always Yelling Man, the Second

Riverside Park abounds with characters. We have Mr. Skinny Kind Of Cute Man Who Always Writes In His Journal And Wears No Shirt And Who We (Maybe) Like To Stalk Man. Then there's the always popular Mr. Sits On The Passive Lawn With His Shopping Cart And Garbage Bags And Yells About Nuclear Bombs Man. He's good times.

But, by far my favorite, is Mr. Always Yelling Man, the Second. In Stockton, there was this man who would sit outside Starbucks everyday and yell at customers that went in or out: "HI! HOW ARE YOU! HELLO! HAVE A GREAT DAY! GOODBYE!" and so on. I was pretty sure I would never meet another character quite as wonderful as Mr. Always Yelling Man.

Until now.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me present for you, Mr. Always Yelling Man, the Second.

He's an old man, with white skinny arms and a bit of a belly. His standard uniform is red track pants paired expertly with a fresh (we hope) white tank top. He sits on a bench near the boat basin, and extends (read: SHOUTS) a friendly greeting to all who may be lucky enough to pass by:

"GOOD MORNING!!!!!"

Now, it's important to keep in mind that New Yorkers do not like to be spoken to except by those who we are a)married to, b) friends with, c)work with, or d)are being served food or cocktails by (in minimal, necessary exchanges). But interrupt us with a neighborly hello while we are out enjoying the fresh Hudson River air? Don't even think about it.

You can imagine, then, that very few of these New Yorkers return Mr. Always Yelling Man, the Second's happy salutation. This does not go over well. "GOOD MORNING!!!!!" turns into

"HEY! HEYYYY! YOU! I'M TALKING TO YOU! GOOD-MOR-NING!!!!!"

I'm usually just so happy and shocked that someone is actually smiling and saying hello (and because he's funny. And because I'm a little scared of him), I always take off my I-Pod, attempt to catch my breath from my run, start to wave frenetically and shout right back.

"GOOD MORNING!!!!!"

Stuff You Don't Want To Hear

2 men yelling "SH%T!!" as their runaway Halal food cart (aka the hot dog cart of the new millenium aka Street Meat Vendor) rolls startling quickly down the hill towards you.



Also, there's a 20 ft inflatable rat stationed outside my office today. Curious.