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?

Odd Jobs

As I glanced a critical eye over the office bathroom, I realized that no one here knows I have a background in the janitorial arts.  And that got me thinking about all the other jobs that never made it to my resume.  Read more here.

Call me an Instigator

One of the ways I amuse myself on public transportation is by attempting to make small children laugh.  I test the waters with a quick smile and fleeting eye contact.  If the child seems receptive (and the mom doesn’t seem pre-disposed to irrational anger), I move into material.  My repertoire isn’t broad.  I start out with smiles of escalating size, move through variations on peek-a-boo, and wind up in a series of silly faces.  If all goes well, I can keep the average 2-year-old entertained for about two subway stops.

Last night there was an adorable little boy sitting across from me on the subway.  (My best guess is that he was 18-24 months old.)  He couldn’t stop laughing and smiling at me, even when I was just sitting there.  So of course I played along.  His mom got in on the action by holding her son’s hands over his eyes so he was playing peek-a-boo back.  Somewhere along the way he got a little too rambunctious.  I hadn’t noticed, but I know this to be the case because his mom started reprimanding him.  Apparently when the little boy got laughing, he was bumping into the man seated next to him.  Mom considered this extremely rude.  When the boy didn’t immediately stop, she pinched the back of his leg.  And big tears started rolling down his cheeks.

This is not the first time I found myself in this situation.  Last fall I witnessed a little girl on the bus get slapped by her mother after I got her too wound up.

So now I’m wondering if I’m to blame.  Neither of these children was behaving in a way that I thought required correction, let alone physical reprimand, so I’m not sure I could have predicted this outcome. 

Should I just go back to reading Scottish Life and pretending that I don’t see anyone?

Goodbye, Crazy

It’s been a long time since I’ve lived in a stand-alone house.  I’m somewhat used to sharing walls and hallways with strangers of all kinds.  There have been plenty of stories, though none of them seem particularly memorably right now.  But why do so many people play loud techno on Saturday mornings?

Anyway.  The people in the apartment next door don’t get along very well.  I base this judgment on the number of yelling matches I’ve overheard and the volume at which said matches occur.  About a week ago I woke up at 2am to horror-movie-worthy screams in the hallway.  There are door slams and fights that continue into chase scenes down the hall.

And then there’s the weed.  I’m about as laissez-faire as it gets: I couldn’t care less what anyone does in the privacy of their own home.  But when the elevators in my building open on my floor, I can tell by the smell whether my neighbors are entertaining.  Apparently, good hosts provide copious amounts of pot.  Apologies to all of the people who have left my home disappointed by my lack of hospitality.

As I left this morning, I almost tripped over the movers taking the neighbors' boxes out of the apartment.  I have no idea if they will be moving to one location together or going their separate ways.  All I know is that I breathed a great big sigh of relief.

Can’t say I’m gonna miss you.

A Dog’s Life

Walking down my block the other night, I couldn’t help but notice a golden retriever out for a stroll with his human friend.  He caught my attention because of how often he stopped to sniff things, and how long he attempted to linger when he did.  The person on the other end of the leash kept urging him forward, trying not to break her already slow stride.

I arrived home and collected my mail, and then, as I was waiting for the elevator, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “C’mon.  We’re home.”  I looked toward the door and saw that same golden retriever splayed on the sidewalk in front of the building, while the woman tried to talk him into standing up and coming inside.  I’m still wondering if he was lying down in protest, insisting on staying outside because it was such a nice night.  Or, had the day been so long that he simply couldn’t go any farther?  I know that feeling, but what I’ll never know is what that sweet doggy was thinking.

A Minor Moral Defeat

I’ve been doing my taxes by hand since—well, since I’ve had to file taxes.  Granted, in the beginning, it was easier.  Technically, EZ.  But I have taken a certain amount of misguided pride in this yearly ritual.  I grab my number two pencil and the instruction book from the IRS, and hang out with a bad movie on cable.  In recent years I’ve made a small concession to my own fallibility: I check my math with a little red calculator.

I’ve filed in as many as three states in a year, and each year there seems to be another form I need to fill out.  Friends and acquaintances seem shocked when I ignore their suggestions for tax software.  Come on.  I’m a math junky.  This isn’t even hard math.

Last night I breezed through my federal return.  Connecticut didn’t take me much longer.  I made it three quarters of the way through New York when I hit a wall. For three months last year I lived in New York and worked in Connecticut.  Both states expected me to pay taxes on this income.  In the New York instructions, I found a vague reference to credit for taxes paid to another state, but try as I might, I couldn’t find any information on how to actually claim it.  I searched and searched, but kept coming up empty.

And so for the first time ever (when it comes to taxes), I gave up.  I completed everything online in TurboTax.  And that silly little software that I’d avoided using for more than a decade increased my return.  Substantially.  I guess this is one more piece of evidence that I am in fact fallible.

The Bane of My Existence

That would be the backpack. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve employed this handy tool with some frequency at different points in my life. Distributing the load I’m carrying over two shoulders instead of one is better for my back, and assuages my fears of becoming lopsided from carrying everything on my right shoulder all the time. I also love that a backpack leaves my hands free to ward off predators . . . okay really I just want my hands free to gesticulate wildly.

As handy as a backpack can be, I’ve come to loathe them. Or at least the people who where them. Apparently, before one is allowed to purchase a backpack, they are given a spatial awareness test. If they pass, they are forbidden from completing the purchase. How is it possible that no one seems to realize that when they put something on their back (or over their shoulder) it actually protrudes? I dodge these hunchbacks on a daily basis. Usually I’m successful, but the closer they come, the more irritated I become.

So, here’s a little educational info for users of public transit:

• When you put a backpack on your back, it does not magically meld into your torso, allowing you to take up the exact same amount of space as you do naked
• When you put a large bag over your shoulder, it often extends out further than your body
• When you carry a large umbrella horizontally, you are effectively wielding a weapon

What are the odds of the millions of people who need this information actually receiving it and understanding that it applies to them?

That’s what I thought.

Perhaps I’ll invest in body armor.

No Need for Ruby Slippers

In my sophomore year of high school we studied Hemingway. For extra credit, Chelsea Thaxter (such a cool name that I didn’t forget it) gave a presentation on the Home / Not-Home concept. I don’t remember much about it, only that both Home and Not-Home had a distinct mood and feeling, and nothing to do with actual location. Read more here.

Adaptation

I journeyed to the wilds of Connecticut on Saturday to see my friend Monica, her husband, and their newly-purchased house. As we were making plans, she asked me if I needed to do any suburban shopping. I thought and thought, and much to my surprise, the answer was no.

For the first few months I lived in New York, I felt like I was running a small import company (not Vandelay Industries). I would grocery shop over my lunch break and bring things home on the train. I’d shop in Maine and stuff my suitcase. On my last day of work in Connecticut, I went on a Target run that filled both the trunk and backseat of my car.

But now? I think I may have started to get the hang of this whole city thing. I have a couple little markets I frequent. There are a few items I prefer to have delivered, and I’ve found a service I like for that. And, to feed that suburban shopping hunger, I finally made the pilgrimage to the Target in Harlem. And it was amazingly simple to get there and get back home with all my purchases.

It’s like I figured out one more piece of this puzzle.

Full Canine Employment

Yes, it’s been awhile. So you know it must take something important to get me back to the keyboard.

What could be more important than finding a job for a dog? How about funding a therapy dog for a little girl who desperately needs one. One of my favorite bloggers wrote this much better than I did, so I suggest you hop over to this post.

If you have a blog, or any kind of network, please share Evalyn’s story.