Dear Queens County Fair,
When my friend called me and invited us to join her family for a day at the county fair in Queens, I have to admit that I agreed for only one reason--sheer curiosity. I had to know how NYC does a "county fair". Honestly, that seems like an oxymoron in the making, but it was a beautiful day and we didn't have anything on the agenda, so off we go to the Queens County Fair.
My husband was skeptical as well, mainly in regards to the location. According to the website, the fair is located on Green Meadows Farm. In Queens. A farm anywhere in the greater NYC area seems highly unlikely, but they do exist. As we sat in gridlock traffic and then exited the highway only to encounter NY's best attempt at a suburb, we wondered....how is it possible that there is a farm here? A farm on 73rd St? Odd. But there it was. A farm! Right there in the middle of town.
As my hopes began to rise, I was even more pleased to learn that there was a parking lot (props to you, Queens County Fair!) and the admission was only $7 per person. The only thing $7 will buy you in NY is probably a swift kick in the you-know-what (yeah, they charge for that too). $7 is dirt cheap. We paid more for the gyro's we ate once inside (well worth it though). By now I am giddy with excitement. A farm. With parking. And cheap admission. What a fantastic day!
Things only improved from there. The first event we encountered was an Arm Wrestling Competition (by weight class, mind you). Only in New York do they announce you, in order of importance, first by nationality, then by neighborhood, and then by your name as in, "And now....the Russian from Brighton Beach....Ivan Ivanovich!". I'm sure your Human Resources Department might have some complaints about this, although I found it extremely amusing!
My son's favorite part of the day was the NY Style Hay Ride. Picture a cab ride in NYC, only in a hay wagon affixed to the back of a tractor. This was no leisurely ride through the pasture. People here drive tractors in much the same manner as they operate their motor vehicles. It was the fastest, most insane ride of all time. Not intentional....that's just what it was. We thought it would be a nice time to sit back, chat with our friends and have a drink to cool off. Instead we held on for dear life as my son gripped my torso in fear. Good times on the hay ride. (The giant sign stating that pregnant women or people with back problems should not venture on the hay ride should have been my first clue. At least HR won't have complaints about that).
Of course no fair would be complete without a pig race and you didn't disappoint, Queens County Fair. Not at all. We saw Brittney SpareRibs and Kevin Bacon and Sir Spamalot run laps around a tiny track while full grown men cheered on wildly. At one point, some daschounds came out dressed as hotdogs and also took a lap, although I'm not sure what that was all about nor did they perform as well as the pigs. It was quite the sight.
Thank you, Queens County Fair, for giving me a taste of "normal America" this past weekend. It's nice to know that in the midst of chaos there is a place that almost reminds me of being back below the Mason Dixon Line. Thank you for the pleasant, G-rated fun we had and we can't wait to return next year!
Double Hugs, Double Kiss,
L.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
An Open Letter to Brooklyn Visitors
Dear Visitors,
Welcome to Brooklyn! By now you've probably seen the signs. "Welcome to Brooklyn....How Sweet It Is!" or "Welcome to Brooklyn....You Name It, We've Got It", etc. These are signs that the local government installed around town to welcome you to our humble borough. Well, who am I kidding....nothing about Brooklyn is humble. But anyway, these cutesy little directional ironies have popped up all over, supposedly to add some charm and humor to this charmless & humorless city. Be warned, gentle visitor. These signs are a bit misleading with just a hint of exaggeration. Based on my experiences here, I have submitted some suggestions for future signs to help "manage expectations" to use a phrase from my husband's vernacular. I mean, seriously, after you pass the "How Sweet It Is" sign you either laugh or wonder if you've made a wrong turn. The language used in my suggestions is considered "native" of these parts and not necessarily my first choice of vocabulary, but realistically, this is what you can expect. Without further adieu--my suggestions for more appropriately managing expectations for first time guests in Brooklyn:
1. Welcome to Brooklyn....OMG WTF was that??!
2. Welcome to Brooklyn....Prepare to Gain 20lbs. Cheesecake & Pizza Are Food Groups.
3. Welcome to Brooklyn...Don't Look Now But That Guy Is About to Pee on Your Shoes.
4. Welcome to Brooklyn...Now Get the Hell Out.
5. Welcome to Brooklyn...Quit driving and start walking if you want to live.
6. Welcome to Brooklyn...Where Everyone Hates You. We're Not Kidding.
7. Welcome to Brooklyn...Hope You're Packing Heat!
8. Welcome to F'ing Brooklyn where we're so F'ing happy you're here. Now get out of the F'ing way.
9. Welcome to Brooklyn...Hope you brought hand sanitizer!
10. Welcome to Brooklyn...Don't Make Eye Contact.
The one sign that is totally and completely accurate is located right near my house. It reads, no lie,"Now Leaving Brooklyn.....Fuhggetaboutit".
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
Welcome to Brooklyn! By now you've probably seen the signs. "Welcome to Brooklyn....How Sweet It Is!" or "Welcome to Brooklyn....You Name It, We've Got It", etc. These are signs that the local government installed around town to welcome you to our humble borough. Well, who am I kidding....nothing about Brooklyn is humble. But anyway, these cutesy little directional ironies have popped up all over, supposedly to add some charm and humor to this charmless & humorless city. Be warned, gentle visitor. These signs are a bit misleading with just a hint of exaggeration. Based on my experiences here, I have submitted some suggestions for future signs to help "manage expectations" to use a phrase from my husband's vernacular. I mean, seriously, after you pass the "How Sweet It Is" sign you either laugh or wonder if you've made a wrong turn. The language used in my suggestions is considered "native" of these parts and not necessarily my first choice of vocabulary, but realistically, this is what you can expect. Without further adieu--my suggestions for more appropriately managing expectations for first time guests in Brooklyn:
1. Welcome to Brooklyn....OMG WTF was that??!
2. Welcome to Brooklyn....Prepare to Gain 20lbs. Cheesecake & Pizza Are Food Groups.
3. Welcome to Brooklyn...Don't Look Now But That Guy Is About to Pee on Your Shoes.
4. Welcome to Brooklyn...Now Get the Hell Out.
5. Welcome to Brooklyn...Quit driving and start walking if you want to live.
6. Welcome to Brooklyn...Where Everyone Hates You. We're Not Kidding.
7. Welcome to Brooklyn...Hope You're Packing Heat!
8. Welcome to F'ing Brooklyn where we're so F'ing happy you're here. Now get out of the F'ing way.
9. Welcome to Brooklyn...Hope you brought hand sanitizer!
10. Welcome to Brooklyn...Don't Make Eye Contact.
I'm telling you...this place is bizarre. One day you love it, the next day you wonder how it's possible to survive a trip to the grocery store. Block to block things change dramatically. One minute you're in Little Russia and the next you're in Little Kabul. And then Little Israel. Everyone keeps to their respective nations and then there's me. The goofy white girl with toddler in tow asking for directions to the Children's Museum (ps...Hasidic Jews are not allowed to look Gentile women in the eye or speak to them in general. Did not know this and it created some awkward cultural moments for me, but thanks to Googling "What do hasidic jews have against me", I found the answer & thought I should share). I do think it's cool that we can give my son the "around the world" experience people usually pay $80 a pop for at Epcot. Sometimes I even hum "It's a Small World" for him and pretend what we're actually looking at are wooden puppets acting out a series of strange interpersonal scenarios, frequently diverting his attention to look at a wayward rodent to avoid bearing witness the passage of bodily fluids or the occasional outbreak fisticuffs. It's not necessariliy a "world of laughter, a world of cheer", but hey...we have good pizza. That's enough for me.
In defense of Brooklyn, there are a few charming areas. I use the term lightly, but if you take a stroll down in Bay Ridge (where we live, yay!), Park Slope, DUMBO, or Brooklyn Heights (think Cliff Huxtable's neighborhood....and if you have to ask who that is, quit reading this immediately. You're too young), you will feel a little Sesame-Street meets Goodfellas, but it's nice. But for some reason, if you're like me, you will find yourself conducting business more often than not in the "OTHER" areas. You know what I'm talking about, even if you've never been here. And these are where they tend to throw up those fun little feel-good "Welcome" signs like "don't be afraid....it's all good. Just watch your purse" kind of signs. I just think it's hilarious because of the intense irony involved. If you've ever set foot in Brooklyn, even in the nicer areas, "sweet" would be one of the last adjectives you'd use to describe your surroundings. (PS, Brooklyners tend to only use one adjective, however it also works as a noun, verb and pretty much any of the other parts of speech).
The one sign that is totally and completely accurate is located right near my house. It reads, no lie,"Now Leaving Brooklyn.....Fuhggetaboutit".
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
An Open Letter to Gymboree
Dear Gymboree,
Since my son was 8 weeks old, I have been visiting your fine establishment, singing the bubble song and the clean up song and the hello-everybody-song. Both my son and I have been brainwashed by Gymbo, the happy mascot clown, and we gleefully purchase your special bubbles, adorable clothes, and chant the giddy mantras about various verbs all the way home. Heck, you even got me to attend a mommy yoga class. Now that's dedication on my end.
When we moved to NY, I was concerned about finding a Gymboree location that wouldn't cost the same as a college tuition, and behold, we found one mere blocks from our humble abode. I knew you wouldn't fail me! Off I go to locate the address, only to find myself driving up and down the same block over and over again. Finally I realize that Gymboree of Dyker Heights/Bay Ridge is located on the 2nd floor of the Knights of Columbus building. Interesting choice. How come you don't list that on your website? I think I'm about to answer that!
My only knowledge of the Knights of Columbus revolves around pancake breakfasts and Catholics playing bingo. Seriously, I had no idea what the place was except that it was a Catholic organization, mainly frequented by old folks. Well, that's probably how it is in "normal America". Friendly Catholics winning cash and serving up pancakes on Sunday mornings. Yum. In Brooklyn, not so much. I kid you not....it's a front for organized crime. The ratio of toddlers to mafia hitmen is probably 3-1 on any given Monday when we attend our class. In the parking lot lurks a man wearing a skull cap and dark jacket. He could easily be a sanitation worker, however his primary job seems to be smoking and monitoring the collection of black towncars and caddy's that park in the area next to the minivans and SUV's driven by Gymboree parents. As I enter the main entrance (located under the neon sign flashing the name of the local arch bishop), I can hear the blissful sounds of Gymbo blasting over the stereo, but before I can enter Happyland, I must first pass through the shrine to all Catholic community members since the dawn of time. Pictures of the local archdiocese posing with local mafia leaders adorn the walls. Statues, plaques, crucifixes and other memorabilia fill an entire wall encased in glass and surrounded by mirrors. There is a man, who looks exactly like George Burns without a shave, cigar included, is sitting in a glass-walled office just off the lobby. He winks at my son in that "don't worry, we don't take toddlers to swim with the fishes" kind of way. From a conference room to my right I can hear a wide variety of racial slurs being slung about, mostly between Irish and Italians. It appears they are playing dominoes, but then again, they could be hacking up a body. Who knows.
As I make my way to the stair case, one step closer to feeling less likely to die in a driveby shooting, I see a poster advertising the funeral of "Tony Bananas" at the Scarpacci Funeral Home. Tony Bananas? I assure you, Gymboree, Tony Bananas is not a mascot in competition for Gymbo's spot. Tony Bananas. Dear God.
Finally we get to Gymboree. Children are dancing around, singing songs about sharing and butterflies and choo choo trains. They are walking on balance beams and bouncing on the "air log" and climbing through hoops and down slides. All happening just one floor above a mass gathering of the Archie Bunker fan club/mafia hitmen domino club of America meeting one floor below. Not surprising, the room is encased in mirrors and insanely tacky Italian decor. We're talking gold and brass and crystals. It's a ballroom apparently. Gymboree...you rent a ballroom from the KoC? Hmmmm. So this is what a mafia wedding would look like if everyone showed up in Pampers. The windows are placed oddly high...it's impossible for even the tallest member of the mafia to see out. I think this is to prevent drive by assassination attempts, but that's just me romanticizing the situation. Perhaps what is most disconcerting is the bar located in the room. It's not a little bar. It's a fully stocked, premium top shelf bar. Behind a giant cage door, but still. My kid is bouncing on the air log and asking what that green stuff is in the bottle. I'd like to tell him it's Midori Sour, but my gut is telling me it has something to do with the "operation" downstairs.
So, Gymboree, we are parting ways. We attended for a while and I began to find humor in greeting Donny Brasco and John Gotti on my way to watch my son dance around with other kids, but the place just gives me the creeps.....and my son would rather run wildly around the room than participate in group activities these days. Perhaps one day we shall meet again under different, less intimidating circumstances. I'll miss that funny clown.
Double Hugs, Double Kiss,
L.
Since my son was 8 weeks old, I have been visiting your fine establishment, singing the bubble song and the clean up song and the hello-everybody-song. Both my son and I have been brainwashed by Gymbo, the happy mascot clown, and we gleefully purchase your special bubbles, adorable clothes, and chant the giddy mantras about various verbs all the way home. Heck, you even got me to attend a mommy yoga class. Now that's dedication on my end.
When we moved to NY, I was concerned about finding a Gymboree location that wouldn't cost the same as a college tuition, and behold, we found one mere blocks from our humble abode. I knew you wouldn't fail me! Off I go to locate the address, only to find myself driving up and down the same block over and over again. Finally I realize that Gymboree of Dyker Heights/Bay Ridge is located on the 2nd floor of the Knights of Columbus building. Interesting choice. How come you don't list that on your website? I think I'm about to answer that!
My only knowledge of the Knights of Columbus revolves around pancake breakfasts and Catholics playing bingo. Seriously, I had no idea what the place was except that it was a Catholic organization, mainly frequented by old folks. Well, that's probably how it is in "normal America". Friendly Catholics winning cash and serving up pancakes on Sunday mornings. Yum. In Brooklyn, not so much. I kid you not....it's a front for organized crime. The ratio of toddlers to mafia hitmen is probably 3-1 on any given Monday when we attend our class. In the parking lot lurks a man wearing a skull cap and dark jacket. He could easily be a sanitation worker, however his primary job seems to be smoking and monitoring the collection of black towncars and caddy's that park in the area next to the minivans and SUV's driven by Gymboree parents. As I enter the main entrance (located under the neon sign flashing the name of the local arch bishop), I can hear the blissful sounds of Gymbo blasting over the stereo, but before I can enter Happyland, I must first pass through the shrine to all Catholic community members since the dawn of time. Pictures of the local archdiocese posing with local mafia leaders adorn the walls. Statues, plaques, crucifixes and other memorabilia fill an entire wall encased in glass and surrounded by mirrors. There is a man, who looks exactly like George Burns without a shave, cigar included, is sitting in a glass-walled office just off the lobby. He winks at my son in that "don't worry, we don't take toddlers to swim with the fishes" kind of way. From a conference room to my right I can hear a wide variety of racial slurs being slung about, mostly between Irish and Italians. It appears they are playing dominoes, but then again, they could be hacking up a body. Who knows.
As I make my way to the stair case, one step closer to feeling less likely to die in a driveby shooting, I see a poster advertising the funeral of "Tony Bananas" at the Scarpacci Funeral Home. Tony Bananas? I assure you, Gymboree, Tony Bananas is not a mascot in competition for Gymbo's spot. Tony Bananas. Dear God.
Finally we get to Gymboree. Children are dancing around, singing songs about sharing and butterflies and choo choo trains. They are walking on balance beams and bouncing on the "air log" and climbing through hoops and down slides. All happening just one floor above a mass gathering of the Archie Bunker fan club/mafia hitmen domino club of America meeting one floor below. Not surprising, the room is encased in mirrors and insanely tacky Italian decor. We're talking gold and brass and crystals. It's a ballroom apparently. Gymboree...you rent a ballroom from the KoC? Hmmmm. So this is what a mafia wedding would look like if everyone showed up in Pampers. The windows are placed oddly high...it's impossible for even the tallest member of the mafia to see out. I think this is to prevent drive by assassination attempts, but that's just me romanticizing the situation. Perhaps what is most disconcerting is the bar located in the room. It's not a little bar. It's a fully stocked, premium top shelf bar. Behind a giant cage door, but still. My kid is bouncing on the air log and asking what that green stuff is in the bottle. I'd like to tell him it's Midori Sour, but my gut is telling me it has something to do with the "operation" downstairs.
So, Gymboree, we are parting ways. We attended for a while and I began to find humor in greeting Donny Brasco and John Gotti on my way to watch my son dance around with other kids, but the place just gives me the creeps.....and my son would rather run wildly around the room than participate in group activities these days. Perhaps one day we shall meet again under different, less intimidating circumstances. I'll miss that funny clown.
Double Hugs, Double Kiss,
L.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Open Letter to Dr. Svetlana G.
Dear Dr. G,
While I admit that I have had disagreements with my insurance in the past, I didn't think they'd exact that kind of revenge on me when they selected you as my primary care physician. Nothing personal, but your office was a bit daunting to say the least. The fact that it was the size of my bathroom aside, it was odd that your receptionist was just kind of hanging out behind a desk, chillin' out maxin' and relaxin' all cool (who doesn't love Fresh Prince!?) in her see-through blouse, right there in the middle of the "waiting room" which was more like 3 square feet of carpet with 2 cafeteria chairs and a bookshelf full of medical files easily accessible for anyone to snag and use for light waiting room reading. It was even more frightening when the receptionist (who I'm guessing was 16, max) called my insurance company, ON SPEAKER PHONE, and proceeded to give them my name, social, birthdate and bra size (not really, but might as well have!) right there, loud as could be, with other people in the waiting closet (I'd say "waiting room" in most instances, but clearly, this was a closet at one time). Thankfully the other two people there appeared to be strictly Russian speaking so I was safe on that end. And they were safe on my end because when you took them into the "exam room" which again, was probably a closet at one time to include the original slatted closet door to allow for minimum privacy), I was unable to understand any of their ailments. You were speaking only Russian. (This is when I became concerned that I'd have to "act out" the purpose of my visit to make up for the obvious language barrier, but then again, acting out "Can you please renew my birth control prescription?" isn't exactly easy to maneuver).
When it was finally my turn, I was expecting to be seen by your nurse, but alas, you have no assistants other than your receptionist/bra model who apparently has no qualms about busting into the exam closet when you have a phone call without even knocking or apologizing. I was, however, relieved to learn that you do speak English. I was really worried about the game of charades I was going to have to play. Thank you for handling my primary issue quickly, but honestly, you didn't have to spend the next half hour trying to talk me into having other medical conditions. No, I do not have allergies. No, I do not have a drinking problem (I'm not Russian, remember?). No, I don't do drugs and I don't need the assistance of an obstetrician at this time (remember why I'm here? Maybe I will have to act this out after all!). I don't have a heart condition, blindness or swimmer's ear. It was almost offensive when you sighed, looked off into space, deep in thought, desperately trying to find something wrong with me. Be happy for me! I'm basically healthy!
I will give credit where credit is due though. Thank you for looking at me and saying, "Well, obviously you don't have a weight problem so I'm not going to weigh you." I LOVED this (although I could do without maybe 20lbs that I'm carrying around). A quick scan of your office showed me that you probably don't have a scale, but I'll just go with your assessment. I like that better.
Double hugs, double kiss, double the size of your office please!
L.
While I admit that I have had disagreements with my insurance in the past, I didn't think they'd exact that kind of revenge on me when they selected you as my primary care physician. Nothing personal, but your office was a bit daunting to say the least. The fact that it was the size of my bathroom aside, it was odd that your receptionist was just kind of hanging out behind a desk, chillin' out maxin' and relaxin' all cool (who doesn't love Fresh Prince!?) in her see-through blouse, right there in the middle of the "waiting room" which was more like 3 square feet of carpet with 2 cafeteria chairs and a bookshelf full of medical files easily accessible for anyone to snag and use for light waiting room reading. It was even more frightening when the receptionist (who I'm guessing was 16, max) called my insurance company, ON SPEAKER PHONE, and proceeded to give them my name, social, birthdate and bra size (not really, but might as well have!) right there, loud as could be, with other people in the waiting closet (I'd say "waiting room" in most instances, but clearly, this was a closet at one time). Thankfully the other two people there appeared to be strictly Russian speaking so I was safe on that end. And they were safe on my end because when you took them into the "exam room" which again, was probably a closet at one time to include the original slatted closet door to allow for minimum privacy), I was unable to understand any of their ailments. You were speaking only Russian. (This is when I became concerned that I'd have to "act out" the purpose of my visit to make up for the obvious language barrier, but then again, acting out "Can you please renew my birth control prescription?" isn't exactly easy to maneuver).
When it was finally my turn, I was expecting to be seen by your nurse, but alas, you have no assistants other than your receptionist/bra model who apparently has no qualms about busting into the exam closet when you have a phone call without even knocking or apologizing. I was, however, relieved to learn that you do speak English. I was really worried about the game of charades I was going to have to play. Thank you for handling my primary issue quickly, but honestly, you didn't have to spend the next half hour trying to talk me into having other medical conditions. No, I do not have allergies. No, I do not have a drinking problem (I'm not Russian, remember?). No, I don't do drugs and I don't need the assistance of an obstetrician at this time (remember why I'm here? Maybe I will have to act this out after all!). I don't have a heart condition, blindness or swimmer's ear. It was almost offensive when you sighed, looked off into space, deep in thought, desperately trying to find something wrong with me. Be happy for me! I'm basically healthy!
I will give credit where credit is due though. Thank you for looking at me and saying, "Well, obviously you don't have a weight problem so I'm not going to weigh you." I LOVED this (although I could do without maybe 20lbs that I'm carrying around). A quick scan of your office showed me that you probably don't have a scale, but I'll just go with your assessment. I like that better.
Double hugs, double kiss, double the size of your office please!
L.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Open Letter to New York City
Dear NYC,
So, I just found out you might not be "all that" after all. You go around parading yourself on a global level as the ultra chic center of all that is holy and cutting-edge in, well, everything, but see....that's a lie. NYC....you're kidding yourself if you think you've got the monopoly on the SuperFabulous market. I know this because this past weekend, I went to Boston.
Here are a few reasons why you should watch your back:
1. In NYC when you approach a subway attendant, they immediately pretend to be (1) asleep, (2) deaf (3) blind (4) deaf & blind & asleep and (5) dead. In Boston, you do not have to approach the subway attendant because chances are, he/she has left her insular world behind the plexiglass and is standing by the ticket machines eager to help. Yes. EAGER to do work. Imagine that.
2. In NYC, you will...WILL...encounter fecal matter on a daily basis. It could be anywhere...anytime. Lurking in subway elevators, playgrounds, planter boxes, and sidewalks (ie, right in the middle, not tucked away). We're not talking about doggie doo. In Boston, never once did I feel the overwhelming need to vomit/douse myself in hand sanitizer and light a match. Not once!
3. In NYC, you will more than likely encounter at least 10 people a day whose bathing status is "unknown". Never once have I left the house and not passed multiple people who remind me that I need to restock on deodorant (or hand sanitizer). In Boston, everyone grooms. Everyone at least has a bath. I can tell. I'd shake hands with 99% of the Bostonians I saw. I'd shake hands with 10% of NY'ers.
4. In NYC, you will hear the F-bomb used as a noun, verb, adjective, pronoun, and exclamation. All day long. You will find yourself yelling, "Duck? Where are the ducks?" so that your two-year old doesn't start asking for the F-ing apple juice the next time he's thirsty. In Boston, they just say "Wicked" all the time. Strange, but charming. I'd rather hear my son ask for the wicked juice any day of the week.
5. In NYC, if you are lost, well....people will refer you to #4 on my list. In Boston, they approach the obviously lost and assist without hesitation. They may even offer to purchase you a beer and trace your family history back to the days of Sam Adams and Paul Revere. They're just wicked nice like that.
6. In NYC, you can get drunk at any bar at any time of the day. In Boston, you can get drunk at any bar at any time of the day. So I guess this one is a draw.
7. Boston is home to Harvard, MIT, and Boston University to name a few. In general, people there seem pretty astute. NYC is home to Columbia, Cornell & NYU. However it is also home to 8 million insane and dirty people. Those people seem to be running the city and all the major operations that I encounter every day. Not sure where those smart kids are, but if they're really smart, they're all hanging out in Boston.
8. In NYC, when you're done with any beverage/paper/bag, etc, chances are you will throw it on the ground. Littering is the accepted practice in NYC and it is encouraged by the city as there are very few trash cans. In Boston, there are newspaper recycling cans in the subway and trashcans every 100 feet (my husband, the engineer, actually counted this). It is clean. The absence of garbage is refreshing and I guarantee you that with the absence of trash comes the absence of rodents, although my son missed seeing the "kitty cats" on the subway as he calls them here.
9. The subways in NYC are "use at your own risk". They are multifunctional. The NYC subway system is a urinial on rails, a home for the city's homeless population, a hub of entertainment for the out-of-tune-and-drunk-street-performer variety (usually using body parts as musical instruments if a real instrument is not available), and a spot for people to engage in public displays of insanity. The Boston "T" as it's called is a hub for transportation. Imagine that. I did not enter the underground with the same cause for alarm as I do in NYC. I did not need a weapon or a plan of escape. I did not need to collapse the stroller, squeeze through the turnstile without my child losing a limb, and I didn't sweat. It's handicapped accessible and the elevators are used for elevating.....not toilets. Nobody tried to guilt me into giving money by telling me I'm a bad example for my son. Yay Boston!
10. In NYC, I have an Ally McBeal fantasy of taking a baseball bat and bashing in the windows of every car that honks at me. So, as you can imagine, I think about this all day long when I'm driving. Everybody honks. I have nightmares about honking. Driving here has drawn out my inner road rager and I have found myself screaming and waving my fists in the air at cars who are jerks (my son has started imitating me. It's embarrassing because he's actually pretty accurate). It's awful. In Boston, I didn't hear honking and never once added "baseball bat" to my shopping list. Refreshing.
So there are just a few reasons why NYC should seriously get off the ego trip. Boston has got it together. And they have awesome historical sites and groovy restaurants and amazing parks. NYC....you are not the mother of all big cities. You can't fool me anyway.
No kisses or hugs for you today,
L.
So, I just found out you might not be "all that" after all. You go around parading yourself on a global level as the ultra chic center of all that is holy and cutting-edge in, well, everything, but see....that's a lie. NYC....you're kidding yourself if you think you've got the monopoly on the SuperFabulous market. I know this because this past weekend, I went to Boston.
Here are a few reasons why you should watch your back:
1. In NYC when you approach a subway attendant, they immediately pretend to be (1) asleep, (2) deaf (3) blind (4) deaf & blind & asleep and (5) dead. In Boston, you do not have to approach the subway attendant because chances are, he/she has left her insular world behind the plexiglass and is standing by the ticket machines eager to help. Yes. EAGER to do work. Imagine that.
2. In NYC, you will...WILL...encounter fecal matter on a daily basis. It could be anywhere...anytime. Lurking in subway elevators, playgrounds, planter boxes, and sidewalks (ie, right in the middle, not tucked away). We're not talking about doggie doo. In Boston, never once did I feel the overwhelming need to vomit/douse myself in hand sanitizer and light a match. Not once!
3. In NYC, you will more than likely encounter at least 10 people a day whose bathing status is "unknown". Never once have I left the house and not passed multiple people who remind me that I need to restock on deodorant (or hand sanitizer). In Boston, everyone grooms. Everyone at least has a bath. I can tell. I'd shake hands with 99% of the Bostonians I saw. I'd shake hands with 10% of NY'ers.
4. In NYC, you will hear the F-bomb used as a noun, verb, adjective, pronoun, and exclamation. All day long. You will find yourself yelling, "Duck? Where are the ducks?" so that your two-year old doesn't start asking for the F-ing apple juice the next time he's thirsty. In Boston, they just say "Wicked" all the time. Strange, but charming. I'd rather hear my son ask for the wicked juice any day of the week.
5. In NYC, if you are lost, well....people will refer you to #4 on my list. In Boston, they approach the obviously lost and assist without hesitation. They may even offer to purchase you a beer and trace your family history back to the days of Sam Adams and Paul Revere. They're just wicked nice like that.
6. In NYC, you can get drunk at any bar at any time of the day. In Boston, you can get drunk at any bar at any time of the day. So I guess this one is a draw.
7. Boston is home to Harvard, MIT, and Boston University to name a few. In general, people there seem pretty astute. NYC is home to Columbia, Cornell & NYU. However it is also home to 8 million insane and dirty people. Those people seem to be running the city and all the major operations that I encounter every day. Not sure where those smart kids are, but if they're really smart, they're all hanging out in Boston.
8. In NYC, when you're done with any beverage/paper/bag, etc, chances are you will throw it on the ground. Littering is the accepted practice in NYC and it is encouraged by the city as there are very few trash cans. In Boston, there are newspaper recycling cans in the subway and trashcans every 100 feet (my husband, the engineer, actually counted this). It is clean. The absence of garbage is refreshing and I guarantee you that with the absence of trash comes the absence of rodents, although my son missed seeing the "kitty cats" on the subway as he calls them here.
9. The subways in NYC are "use at your own risk". They are multifunctional. The NYC subway system is a urinial on rails, a home for the city's homeless population, a hub of entertainment for the out-of-tune-and-drunk-street-performer variety (usually using body parts as musical instruments if a real instrument is not available), and a spot for people to engage in public displays of insanity. The Boston "T" as it's called is a hub for transportation. Imagine that. I did not enter the underground with the same cause for alarm as I do in NYC. I did not need a weapon or a plan of escape. I did not need to collapse the stroller, squeeze through the turnstile without my child losing a limb, and I didn't sweat. It's handicapped accessible and the elevators are used for elevating.....not toilets. Nobody tried to guilt me into giving money by telling me I'm a bad example for my son. Yay Boston!
10. In NYC, I have an Ally McBeal fantasy of taking a baseball bat and bashing in the windows of every car that honks at me. So, as you can imagine, I think about this all day long when I'm driving. Everybody honks. I have nightmares about honking. Driving here has drawn out my inner road rager and I have found myself screaming and waving my fists in the air at cars who are jerks (my son has started imitating me. It's embarrassing because he's actually pretty accurate). It's awful. In Boston, I didn't hear honking and never once added "baseball bat" to my shopping list. Refreshing.
So there are just a few reasons why NYC should seriously get off the ego trip. Boston has got it together. And they have awesome historical sites and groovy restaurants and amazing parks. NYC....you are not the mother of all big cities. You can't fool me anyway.
No kisses or hugs for you today,
L.
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