Sorry, Bugs

For Christmas this year my parents gave both my nephew and my great nephew bomber hats.  They, of course, both looked adorable in their cozy headwear.  But my nephew decided that he would prefer a hat one size larger.  This is how my folks happened to have an extraneous hat lying around the house.  Being prone to silliness, I put the hat on one night and attempted a little comedy.  My parents took one look at me and insisted that I needed a bomber hat of my very own.  I declined the offer.

The weather in New York this week made me long for the balmy days in Prague.  As I seriously contemplated frostbite, I thought longingly of that hat.  I emailed my dad and two days later the hat arrived on my doorstep.  As fate would have it, the weather had warmed considerably by then.  But I am all-too certain that it will cool again before spring arrives.

I tried on the hat and it was even cuter than I remembered.  I began to wonder how I would clean such an item and looked for a tag.  Sure enough there was one inside the hat: “Dry Clean by Furrier.”  Ruh roh.  That oh-so-soft-and -warm trim on my new hat?  That would be rabbit.  For a split second I considered sending it back.  But then I tried it back on.  And I remembered how cold it can be at the bus stop in the morning.  And it’s not like returning the hat would bring the poor little bunny back to life.  I may as well take advantage of his sacrifice.  Now if that cold weather would just come back . . .

Today in New York

As I left my apartment this morning in my typical rush, I opened the door into the hallway and noticed something flying.  As it landed in front of me my first thought was, “Butterfly?”  No, its crunchy outer shell indicated it was definitely not a butterfly.  Or anything else non-creepy.  As I slammed my door more forcefully than ever before (I usually attempt to be at least somewhat considerate of my neighbors) I realized I’d just had my first indoor roach sighting.  I’ve seen them on sidewalks but never on carpet.  Not how I wanted to start my day.

And then I continued rushing for the subway.  I was almost there when I felt my bag being tugged off my shoulder.  Not slipping, but being pulled.  Forcefully.  A man walking in the opposite direction was attempting to rip my bag off my arm.  At the same time I was thinking, “Well, I’ve lived here for more than a year, it had to happen sometime,” I turned in the direction he was pulling my bag and yelled “Hey . . . .”  And then I saw that he was laughing.  And that it was someone that I knew.  This near-mugging was spookily similar to the only time I picked up a hitchhiker and he turned out to be a guy I went to high school with.

I left for work early enough that the subway was extra crowded.  And slow.  After we’d been moving for a few minutes, the lights went out.  I suppose I knew on some level that subway tunnels were dark, but I hadn’t internalized it until this morning.  Thankfully there was a man working on his laptop near me.  The screen provided the only light.  And, after a few seconds, the lights came back on.  But the prospect of being stuck in a crowded subway car in the dark does make you think.

This evening I’ll have a New York experience of a different kind: I’m going to the 9/11 Memorial.  I’ve been watching the progress on the site for the last year.  I remember when the trees came in and the first day the waterfalls were tested.  I’m fascinated by the construction workers I see every day.  But something tells me it will be different to be inside.

Mr. Lowell

 . . . was my English teacher my senior year of high school.  I vividly remember his lament when a large number of his students (including yours truly) hadn’t chosen a topic for an assignment.  “Why can’t you find one thing that you’re interested in?”  Perhaps that was the case for my peers: they simply couldn’t generate enough interest in any one thing to write a paper about it.  For me it was quite the opposite; there were so many things that I was interested in that I couldn’t possibly narrow down the options.

And so it is with blogging.  Since moving to New York, I encounter fascinating tidbits on an at least daily basis.  I have no need to search for material.  The subway alone provides subject matter for thousands upon thousands of posts.  And yet, when it comes time to put fingers to keyboard, I can never decide.  And so I go on without updating, leaving the false impression that there’s nothing of interest here.  Au contraire.

As a sort of reparation for my blogging laziness I offer this . . .

Picture a diplomat’s car.  (You know you’ve seen them in movies.)  I’m willing to bet you’re imaging something black and shiny of European origin, quite possibly with tinted windows.  I see those a lot.  But they’re not diplomat cars; they’re rich people cars.  The diplomat cars I’ve seen have been Kias and Toyotas.  So, um, no, not exactly what you’d expect.

Fun While it Lasted

Today I shared my last post over at the Peanut Gallery Speaks.  Feel free to come shed a tear.

In practical terms, I think this means that I have no excuse for not updating here more frequently.  No promises on how that will pan out.

Man, I’m Good

But it poses a problem.

I recently launched a new product at work.  The one detail that wasn’t nailed down was a name for this glorious thing.  In my infinite wisdom, I decided to hold a contest, soliciting input from far and wide.  To encourage people to send in their best ideas, I offered a $10 gift card for the person who submitted the winning name.  We narrowed down the options, and then held a round of blind voting to determine the winner. 

Voting ended in a tie.  I can deal with that.  The real problem?  The two names that are tied to win were both submitted by yours truly.  Which is nice.  Kind of.  But it does make for a very awkward congratulations message out to the team.  How exactly am I going to word that?  “Thanks for all of your great ideas, but it turns out mine were better.”  I think I need to keep working on that.

White Dresses with Blue Satin Sashes

Early last week I decided to take the day off of work Friday.  And then I started to think that if I was going to take a day off, I really should plan to do something special.  And then I decided that I should turn it into a whole weekend of favorite things.  For me, on this weekend, my favorite things included:

• Taking the day off of work and sleeping in
• Watching morning TV, and a horrible made-for-cable movie
• A quick surprise visit from a friend
• Shopping during the work day (without all the weekend crowds)
• Getting my hair cut
• Going out for drinks with friends
• A delightful cupcake delivery from Butter Lane
• A nap without an alarm
• Re-buying a pair of shoes that I loved and returned once
• Treating myself to a manicure, pedicure, and chair massage

And the heat wave broke on Saturday, which I considered a lovely bonus.  And really, unless you were to throw in some bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, who could ask for anything more?

Inedible Dilemma

I must say that when New York introduced this whole restaurant grading thing, I was quite taken with it.  In a city with quite literally endless dining options, it’s nice to be able to have an additional element in the decision making process.  NYC requires all restaurants to post their inspection grades in their front windows or doors.  I love seeing those letters, and keep my eyes open for the 800-point font blue “A” that tells me my chosen establishment is as clean as it gets.

Walking home a few months ago I noticed that the pizza place on my block had received its grade: a big green “B.”  I wasn’t sure how to proceed.  The pizza is good.  The guys are friendly.  It’s a three-minute walk from my door.

One friend offered that this place would now be inspected more often, unlike those clean places that the inspectors would probably ignore for a good long while.  Another friend offered to look up the specific violations (yes, this is all public info).  Her thinking was that the violations may be minor, non-food related things that would make me feel better.  I didn’t dare take a chance on looking.  I knew that once I looked, there was no going back.

A few weeks ago, I noticed that the “B” was gone, and in its place was a notice that they were being re-graded.  Problem solved.  I was sure they would become an “A” and I would be able to enjoy the occasional slice in peace.

Last week I saw it.  The big orange “C.”  And, like everyplace I’ve seen with that letter out front, it’s empty.  I couldn’t help myself: I looked up their violations.  And what started out as a dilemma has been definitely solved. 

Anyone have a recommendation for a new pizza place?