Branching Out

Since I’m so good at keeping this blog updated (insert sarcasm emoticon here), I’ve started contributing to another blog too. I’m scheduled to appear once every three weeks, and since other people are relying on me, I’ll actually stick to that schedule. Feel free to hop over and check it out.

A Delight for the Senses

When I think of all the ways the city ignites my senses, I reflect on sights and sounds and energy. Rarely did I think of smells. Yet in many ways, the smells are what I’ve noticed the most these last few weeks.

There’s the scent of the street, which is either bad or neutral, never good. Add up the number of dogs that live in a neighborhood, then multiply that by the number of times they get walked each day, then add the cosine of the gross tonnage of refuse that is awaiting pickup and multiple that all by the square root of the average daily temperature. No one’s doing anything wrong per se, but sometimes it’s just not sniffy-delicious. On the upside, I’ve found that these odors rarely permeate more than half a block at a time.

The Metro North train has a distinctive scent all its own. Some combination of overheated brakes, old vinyl seats, and older spilled beverages. Sadly, I’ve arrived home more than once to discover that my clothing smells just like the vinyl of those seats.

And finally, there’s the scent of home. Or rather, almost home. Every night when I step outside the train station in Harlem, the smell of fast food fried chicken hits me, and my nose knows I’m almost home. All I have left to do is walk one block to the subway, ride the express one stop, then walk home. How sad is it that fried chicken has become my homing beacon?

Never is Here Again

I say way too many famous last words. I speak in hyperbole and I like it. Other than the amount of crow I have to eat. The best trick I’ve discovered for that is simply not admitting that I was wrong. No wrong, no crow.

Shortly before I moved to the city, someone mentioned that I should get my groceries delivered. I quickly shot down that idea. I love going to the market. I find it relaxing. (Sadly, this is true. I’m a born domestic.) I’ll have no problem popping into the store every other day for a few things.

Yesterday (aka day 13 in the new place), I placed my first online grocery order. I could blame this turnaround on any number of things. The most obvious is that my favorite credit card made me an offer I really couldn’t refuse. Another contributing factor is my excessive love of ginger ale. Nothing wrong with that love in and of itself, but I’ve just started to realize how heavy that nectar is. The other thing I’ve noticed is that the most convenient time for me to stop in the store is on my way home from work. Sounds brilliant, right? Until you realize that the aisles in these stores aren’t even wide enough for full-sized shopping carts, let alone full-sized humans with laptops in backpacks. The logistics just weren’t working.

I have no idea if the delivery thing will become a regular occurrence in my domestic life. But right now, I’m really looking forward to someone bringing all that Canada Dry right to my door.

Itinerant Life—Three Years Later

On the fourth Thursday in November in years gone by, my mother would often encourage us to remember the events 360+ years prior. That’s an awful long time to look back on. But, like my mother, I have a tendency toward nostalgia, and this past weekend I kept thinking back three years. On July 4, 2007, I moved from The O.C. to Atlanta. I spent the morning reading a book at Dana Point harbor, then headed for John Wayne airport, dropping the book at the library on my way. Later that evening, as I drove north from the Atlanta airport, I saw at least three different fireworks displays. I thought it was a great way to welcome me to the state.

I’ve thought a lot about that move, mostly because the date provides such a nice milestone. This weekend I completed my fourth move since that one. But this move was a milestone in another way too: it was the first time I’ve moved without employer-sponsored relocation since Labor Day 2002. It’s certainly more convenient to have a team of professionals pack everything, load it up, then put it in the correct rooms at my destination. But there’s a sense of independence that comes from doing it on my own.

My place in New York is my 15th address (not including the places I’ve lived with my parents). The upside of this is that I’m pretty good at unpacking: establishing a place for everything and getting everything into its place. The downside is that I find the mere thought of moving again overwhelmingly exhausting. In my experience, moving is a task that I may become better at with practice, but it certainly doesn’t get any easier.

The real upside is that when it comes to moving, I’m done. (At least for the foreseeable future.) I have a brand new place to explore and all the freedom I need to do it. Have MetroCard, will travel.

Am I the Only One?

My favorite pastime of late is packing avoidance. This weekend I indulged in such decadent things as reading a whole book in one day and squandering much time in front of the television. Sunday night I was vegging out and channel surfing, when I happened upon the pilot of a new drama. I found myself being pulled in by characters and story lines, and one of the characters bites the neck of a contractor and drains his blood.

Really? Another one of these?

I’ve clearly missed a major memo. While I’m all for the willing suspension of disbelief, this whole vampire/werewolf obsession that seems to be everywhere just isn’t my thing. My suspension of disbelief stops somewhere around the attractive man falling in love with the witty, yet frumpy, heroine. I have no interest in vampires, time travel, or magic potions. I am happy to cede the point that some of this stuff may be well written, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Does it?

It’s Official

There have been many moments in my life that seemed to point to nerdiness. Several years on the math team come to mind. Or the fact that my books and CDs are alphabetized. Or that I know to the penny how much I’ve spent every single day for the last 11 years. Today I’ve taken it to a new level.

If all goes according to plan (and that’s a capital I, capital F), I’ll be moving in 13 days. The apartment I’m hoping to move into is approximately half the size of my current place. So, over the course of the last four weeks I’ve been donating, gifting, and posting on craigslist. (By the way, if you know of anyone looking for a patio table or a treadmill, let me know.) I think I’m down to an amount of stuff that will fit. Make that, I hope I’m down to an amount of stuff that will fit.

To test this theory out, I started creating different furniture configurations in my mind. Then I moved those configurations into PowerPoint. Then I measured my furniture to verify I had the dimensions right, and built a 1:25 scale drawing of the new apartment. None of the configurations seemed quite right, so I’ve now created a paper doll version of my scale model. My parents will be visiting this weekend, and I have every intention of putting my mother’s creative mind to work on my layout. I picture us having a lovely time rearranging paper cutouts on my scale floor plan until we have something that’s just right. Then, as I cut out little shadows of my furniture, it hit me.

I’m definitely a nerd.

Obnoxious: odiously or disgustingly objectionable: highly offensive

As I stepped on the subway Tuesday evening, I was happy to find plenty of open seats. As I took one, I noticed the young woman sitting across from me intently applying make-up. Staring into her compact mirror, she repeatedly dabbed her brush in powder, then blew the excess powder off the brush, while I watched a lovely little cloud of powder drift toward me. I thought how tacky it is to apply make-up in public. I thought how humid it was to be applying make-up. I thought how shiny my own face must be due to said humidity. As the clouds continued billowing toward me, I thought all sorts of things. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the man to my right look at the make-up process, then roll his eyes and shake his head.

As she continued working on her face, her brush knocked a chunk of make-up out of the compact and onto the floor. I thought about the mess that would inevitably make. And then she surprised me: she bent over to pick the make-up of the floor. I thought how I had misjudged her. Obviously she was considerate enough not to leave a mess. She then put the make-up she’d picked up back into her compact, then continued to dab her brush in it, blow the excess off, and apply it to her face. I thought I might throw up.

People had been getting on and off the train, and at this point it was a little more crowded. As another cloud wafted my way, I looked to the left and saw two women standing up, mesmerized and appalled by my make-up-applying friend. We shared a smirk and a headshake. When the next cloud formed, I looked toward them again, and we shared another moment. Shortly after, the young woman closed her compact, put it in her bag, and got off at the next stop. And I thought that was the end of this amusing little scene.

Just after she exited the train, the young man to my left began talking.

Him: You really shouldn’t laugh at strangers.
(I turned and confirmed he was talking to me.)
Me: I never laughed out loud. I kept it inside.
Him: It was pretty obvious.
Me: She picked up make-up from the floor of the subway
and put it on her face!
Him: It was pretty obnoxious.
Me: Wait . . . I’m obnoxious??!!!!

I had erroneously assumed until this point that he was being sarcastic.

Him: Yes, you were being really obnoxious.
Me: Well, I found it obnoxious that she was blowing make-up on everyone around her. That was the reason I noticed her in the first place.
Him: You don’t know her. You were obviously looking around trying to find people to make fun of her with. It was obnoxious.
Me: Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.
Him: It was obnoxious to laugh like that.
Me: I guess this is kind of circular. You thought I was obnoxious. I thought she was obnoxious. I wonder who she thinks is obnoxious.
Him: It’s obnoxious to laugh at strangers like that.

And I finally got smart enough to turn away from him and remain silent until my stop. Now that I’ve had a couple days to reflect, I can say with certainty that at least one person on that train was most definitely obnoxious. And I feel pretty certain that it wasn’t me.