Dear Ya'll,
Well, it's finally time to pack it up and move along. I wish I could say it was with mixed feelings but honestly, I'm so very ready to be a member of "real America" once again. No longer will my husband and I have to don disguises and drive our "other car" to New Jersey to secretly dine at chain restaurants in order to feel more connected to the rest of the country. We can now go out loud and proud to any Olive Garden we choose. The veil of shame will be lifted. And, to God be the glory, we are headed SOUTH to North Carolina where I will once again be amongst "my people", mosquitos, humidity, and FLIP FLOPS! (Can I get a what what on that last one?). I'm looking forward to once again communing with people who have a smile in their voice, Jesus in their hearts, a working knowledge of traffic laws, and well, manners. Granted, these are the same people most likely to be featured on www.peopleofwalmart.com, I love 'em. What's not to love? I can taste the fried okra and hear the flipping of the flops now. Lets take a moment to just let that sink in. *pause* Ahhhh....zen.
While most of my experience here in Brooklyn was, well, "an experience", there will be things I will miss about it. I have received what one local friend describes as a "Brooklyn Education". This is not a part of my educational background that I plan to divulge on a resume (unless I am trying to get a job with the Dept. of Corrections or the local looney bin). It will take months, possibly even years to work through all the anger management issues and paranoia associated with horn honking so that I can go back to being my former & better self. Obviously I will miss the pletheora of opportunities to be snarky. (Although, "my people" usually provide plenty of those opportunities as well....see www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com for examples) Here are a few more things I will *miss* about living in Brooklyn:
1. Paneantico Bakery. This bakery exists only to add inches to thighs, but it is truly a place blessed by the bakery gods. I hereby declare it to serve The. Best. Cheesecake. EVERRRRRR. Really. It's just impossible to imagine anyone coming close to creating that heavenly goodness anywhere else. I spent many (too many) a night indulging in an illicit affair with their raspberry chocolate cheesecake. Farewell, Paneantico. While I cannot pronounce your name, I will forever be reminded of our scandalous relationship every summer when I see myself in a bathing suit. But it was soooooo worth it.
2. Lulu's Cuts and Toys. This children's hair salon is nothing short of genius. Nowhere else can my son get a $30 haircut for $200. You see, at this dreamy little salon, children enter a world surrounded by wonderful toys. Sure, I am more than willing to pay $30 for a child's haircut (three times what my husband pays for his adult haircut) so that my child can sit peacefully in a firetruck, watch a movie, and have bubbles blown in his face all while being expertly coiffed. This is where he finally agreed to wear the cape and sit still instead of leaving a hairy, tear-stained monster. R learned to enjoy haircuts here, quite possibly because it also happens to be a toy store. Haircut: $30. Toys (because it's pretty impossible to leave without one or three): $50 Tip: $5 Parking Ticket: $115. Hey, it comes with the territory in this neighborhood. But my kid looks so adorable when we leave!
3. Fatty 'Cues: Dag nab it. We only found this place a few weeks ago but Holy BBQ. Hang onto your brikset baby. This place is awesome with a twist of wow. BBQ with an asian flare. Yes, it's as good as it sounds.
4. Receiving emails from people named Rocco Muffoletto. I mean, who has a name like that? (He works at the car dealership & reminds me to get my oil changed via email). I love asking for "Junior" when we drop off the dry cleaning. My kid goes to school with children named Pasquale, Antoinetta,Ace, Salvatore & Luca (for the record, R is probably one of two blue eyed children in all of Brooklyn. The second being my other son, E). It's like the next generation of the Corleones all grouped together at the lunch table. Great names.
5. Unprecedented access to the mafia world. See previous blogs about the bust across the street and also Gymboree. (Yes, Gymboree). I cannot watch Goodfellas without yelling "That's SOOO Bay Ridge!" every 10 seconds. I swear the ice cream trucks play the Godfather theme song if you listen long enough.
6. Watching the container ships come in late at night while I rock my baby and feed him his midnight meal. Every container ship that comes into the NY harbor passes by our house. It's pretty cool. (What's NOT cool is "fog horn season").
7. Manhattan. I love Manhattan. It would have been nice if I could have spent more time there. The access to theater, great food, parks and general awesomeness is unparalleled. Brooklyn is like the dirty little step-sister to Manhattan. Unfortunately this is where I spent 99% of my time and hence the reason I should probably be in therapy pronto. I will visit Manhattan many times throughout my life....Brooklyn, not so much. For the record, Times Square should be part of Brooklyn. Go there once, see it, and then never return.
8. Craft. This is Tom Colicchio's restaurant (as in Top Chef host). I stalk him much in the way I stalk Brian Williams. Sean and I splurged on several rediculously fabulous meals while we were here (hence my rediculous posterior size at the moment) and out of all the legendary places we've dined, Craft is by far the absolute best.
9. Brian Williams as in THE Brian Williams of NBC Nightly News. 'nuff said. I came, I stalked, I inappropriately accosted him at a silent auction/dinner and demanded a photo. We made eye contact and did the side hug. But for him, I would have given a full on hug. If you've read my previous blogs about personal space, you know that a full on hug is a Really. BIG. Deal.
10. Friends. We have some great friends here, old & new. The E family, who has treated us like family for many years...it was nice to finally get to live close enough to behave like family with them! So many wonderful Italian meals at their table....those will be missed. And others. I mean, where else can Swagger Wagon Mom hang out at a children's museum with a professional bartender sporting pin-up girl tattoos? Or catch the New York City Ballet's production of Nutcracker with two Naval Nuclear Power officers? Or attend a dinner party with Jermaine Jackson's former assistant? And I consider Brian Williams my friend. I mean, we definitely had some platonic chemistry during that whole silent auction incident. Or maybe that was just his fear I was feeling, but that's neither here nor there. He had feelings for me...of one kind or another.
11. Fairway Market. There has never been, nor will there ever be a grocery store as wonderful and over-the-top as you. I hesitate to even call you a grocery store because I feel like that cheapens you. You are a mecca for food lovers, gourmet chefs, wanna-be gourmet chefs, and people like me who just like to walk around, mouth agape, and inhale the smells of cheese, oils, meats....I think I might actually cry if I keep thinking about never going to Fairway again. Where else can I discuss the culinary attributes of saffron with a pair of gay leather-clad bikers from "The PA" (as they referred to Pennsylvania)? Where else can I find smoked Hungarian paprika or Madagascar vanilla beans with such ease? Where else can I walk in fear of collapsing the 15 varieties of apples stacked into high pyramids of color? Fairway, you helped me become a better cook, you helped me try new things, and you allowed me to understand why kosher meats cannot be stored with regular people meats (although apparently the Bible also contains this answer, but if I'm truly honest, God saw it necessary for me to learn this lesson while inadvertantly offending a Jewish person).
12. My oldest son's "Brooklyn Education" and overall experience as a resident of NYC. I did my best to shelter my child from public urination, fornication, and public intoxication, but there are things I'm proud the kid picked up on. I love that he knows that Daddy takes the R train to work. I like that he knows the difference between Brooklyn and Manhattan. It's pretty cool that we can go into the city and he says "I love this place". I was honored to take him to see his first Broadway Show (Mary Poppins) and even more touched that he is still talking about it...and still singing "Spoon Full of Sugar". It's funny that he knows that pigeons are acceptable birds to torture whereas the robins and finches in our yard are not. I love that he knows the difference between the Verazzano Bridge ("our bridge") and the Brooklyn Bridge. It's funny that he will ask to ride the Staten Island Ferry and it's sweet that he always looks for the Statue of Liberty when we're driving on the Belt Parkway. He's only 3 years old and, while somehow managing to develop a strange combination of a southern/midwestern accent while living here, he knows the proper way to eat a giant slice of Brooklyn pizza (folded in half). He met his very first best friend here and they developed a friendship that most adults would admire. He started preschool here and met other friends that helped shape how he interacts with people.
13. My second son's birth experience. We knew we would probably have baby #2 while stationed here, but the idea of giving birth in Brooklyn was probably the second most terrifying thought I could ever imagine next to waking up and finding out that they've outlawed the magical combination of peanut butter and chocolate (that would almost end my will to live). We did a lot of research and seriously considered just holding off on having another baby until we returned to "real America". But we went ahead & took the plunge and I have to say that I really had a pretty decent go of it in the obstetrics/birth dept, even if my OB did look like a cast-member on Jersey Shore. Admittedly, I chose a Staten Island based OB and a Staten Island Hospital, but I can't leave NY and not feel a little sentimental that this is where our littlest one was born. I also can't believe that I actually have a child with a City of New York birth certificate. It seems a little strange and I hope his personality does not one day reflect the stereotype. So far, so good on that.
14. Spring time. I'm usually more of an autumn girl, but while living up here, spring has become the highlight of my year because it signifies the end of the god-awful winters, slush/mud, and the wearing of socks. Spring is elusive and my personal jury is still out on whether or not 2011 has had a spring season yet. But on that first really nice day when all the planets align, the sun is out, and the need for a coat is diminished, people walk around in a happy, disoriented daze, as if we all just emerged from our caves and were experiencing sunlight for the first time in months. There's something especially wonderful about spring time in NY.
I have had my moments with this place. Pretty much on a daily basis. But I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish here and I'm proud to say I did them all and accomplished some things I swore I'd never do....like drive in Manhattan. 50% of my goals involved eating and food related things, but I also went to the Today Show & hugged Bon Jovi & Ann Curry, I saw an Opera at the Met, watched the New York City Ballet, learned the subway system without having to use a cheat sheet, and stalked & cornered Brian Williams and conned him into a hug & a photo without getting arrested. All in all, this experience was successful in terms of goals, but as Frankie said, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Unfortunately, I never became much more than a fish out of water here. NYC kicked my southern behind. But the truth is that although NYC did beat me, I'm totally okay with that because living here has taught me about who I really am, what I really believe in, and what is most important to me in life. There once was a time that I only wanted to move to the big city and see what would become of me. Now I have those answers and I can safely say that whatever becomes of me, it's best done down in warmer weather where the pace is slower & the crowds are sweeter.
And now I must sign off, close out this blog, and begin a new chapter. My first move being googling "big city detox programs" quickly followed by ridding my wardrobe of socks and closed-toed shoes.
Cheers ya'll, it's been a trip!
Double hugs, double kiss, no looking back,
L.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
An Open Letter to Door to Door Sales People in NY
Dear Door to Door Sales People in NY,
Do you know that in the rest of the country, one would never go to the dentist, be IN the dental chair, mouth agape, and staring into the blinding white light only to have a random person off the street walk in and try to sell the dentist and patient jewelry? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
Do you know that in the rest of the country, a woman would not have to stand at the receptionist counter in the pediatrician's office holding the world's heaviest baby in the world's heaviest baby carrier and wait while an Al Pacino look alike badgers the nursing and receptionist staff into buying a $10 pair of scrubs? And then have to wait an additional 5 minutes while he alternates between trying to make change for those purchasing and insulting those who are not? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
Do you know that in the rest of the country, a man and his wife can enjoy a lovely, romantic meal in a pretty nice restaurant and not have some random Chinese guy from off the street come in and try to sell pirated DVD's to them at their table? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
Do you know that in the rest of the country, a woman could get a pedicure at a day spa and not be interrupted by another random Chinese guy selling more pirated DVD's and have to wait while the nail technician stopped to peruse the inventory? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
Did you know that in the rest of the country, a woman could peacefully shop in the diaper aisle at Target and not be approached by a sketchy dude who looks like the love child of Ray Charles and Bob Marley (if that were possible) trying to sell her knock-off Gucci purses from a garbage bag? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
That is all.
L.
Do you know that in the rest of the country, one would never go to the dentist, be IN the dental chair, mouth agape, and staring into the blinding white light only to have a random person off the street walk in and try to sell the dentist and patient jewelry? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
Do you know that in the rest of the country, a woman would not have to stand at the receptionist counter in the pediatrician's office holding the world's heaviest baby in the world's heaviest baby carrier and wait while an Al Pacino look alike badgers the nursing and receptionist staff into buying a $10 pair of scrubs? And then have to wait an additional 5 minutes while he alternates between trying to make change for those purchasing and insulting those who are not? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
Do you know that in the rest of the country, a man and his wife can enjoy a lovely, romantic meal in a pretty nice restaurant and not have some random Chinese guy from off the street come in and try to sell pirated DVD's to them at their table? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
Do you know that in the rest of the country, a woman could get a pedicure at a day spa and not be interrupted by another random Chinese guy selling more pirated DVD's and have to wait while the nail technician stopped to peruse the inventory? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
Did you know that in the rest of the country, a woman could peacefully shop in the diaper aisle at Target and not be approached by a sketchy dude who looks like the love child of Ray Charles and Bob Marley (if that were possible) trying to sell her knock-off Gucci purses from a garbage bag? That would NEVER. HAPPEN.
That is all.
L.
An Open Letter to New York City Crime Families
Dear NYC Crime Families,
Just as I was beginning to think that I'd been in Brooklyn too long to notice the daily oddities that make it the freak show that it is, you guys come and surprise me. I woke up this morning living in a Gangsta's Paradise. (yes, I just quoted Coolio. Get over it). I try to maintain a low profile, carrying on in the stereotypical "stay-at-home mom" fashion. I drive a minivan (gag). I stand outside my son's school shamelessly holding a tiny space ship umbrella on rainy days. I tend to smell like baby puke most days, but I wear a lot of dark colors so you can't see it after I rub it into my clothes. My fire alarm goes off anytime I cook anything above 400 degrees in my oven. My life is so plain it makes a box of bran flakes look delicious. So how come I have a front row seat to the largest mafia roundup in history? What, pray tell, does a boring mom like me, one who gets excited about making a new stir fry for dinner, have in common with a mafioso besides dining at Lai Yuen Chinese Restaurant (Bay Ridgers know what I'm talking about) and the sharing the same zip code? Well, right now we're both living on the same street.
Last night I thought God was just looking out for me when I got to the gym and it was closed. Three cheers for a pain free night! Then I noticed that the gym parking lot was roped off and filled with very important looking government mobile command post vehicles with fancy antennas and satellite dishes and guys wearing the snazzy yet cliche FBI jackets hanging out all around. I figured it was just an antiterrorism exercise, which would be a logical explanation for anything out of the ordinary where I live. Then a huge US Marshal's mobile command post pulls in and sets up shop. Hmmmmm. Interesting. (In case you're wondering, I live across the street from the gym....it's God's daily reminder that I'm not getting any skinnier!). This morning I wake up and the place is swarming with feds. (I've always wanted to use the phrase "swarming with feds" to describe my current location. I can check that off the bucket list!). There is heavy activity in the gym and it's not by people going to the 6:30am spin class. I know this because I usually laugh at those people. A while later, my friend sends me a Facebook post stating "100 of your neighbors got arrested in a mob sting". I laugh and suggest that this would be the reason for all the activity across the street. So I turn on CNN to hear about my fellow New Yorkers making the city proud when I realize quickly that yes, indeed this IS the reason the feds have set up shop across the street. Holy Cow! I take another peek out the window and there is the "prison bus" pulling up and unloading Italy's finest. Briefly I imagine that the bus is playing the theme song to The Godfather....like a little ice cream truck full of murderers pulling into jail. There they are, the good, bad & ugly of America's top crime families. It's like a hair gel convention for old, sleazy gangsters. Suddenly I have the urge to watch all the Godfather movies consecutively and eat cannoli. Unfortunately the gym is closed and therefore I cannot eat cannoli because I am unable to burn off those calories in a heated environment. I am beside myself with excitement.
So, Crime Families, I understand you're not having the best day. Stuff you've been getting away with from as far back as 1981 (according to the unreliable CNN), has finally caught up with you. If it's any consolation, I appreciate the fact that it caught up with you in my front yard. Watching a live version of Law and Order go down steps away from my front door has added a little spice to my otherwise droll day of rubbing baby puke into my clothes, learning about ear wax from our pediatrician, and determining discipline strategies for our unruly three year old. Perhaps explaining to our three year old the "situation" going down in the gym parking lot might actually assist in making my point that the little man needs to mind his mama or suffer consequences. It might be a gesture of community service if you could throw a threatening glance his way to drive the point home?
Admittedly I will never quite understand how someone so "un-NY" like me could find herself in so many stereotypical New York situations, but today's scenario was quite funny in my book. So thanks Crime Families. I hope they're good to you in prison.
Triple kisses, because that's how ya'll do it in the movies,
L.
Just as I was beginning to think that I'd been in Brooklyn too long to notice the daily oddities that make it the freak show that it is, you guys come and surprise me. I woke up this morning living in a Gangsta's Paradise. (yes, I just quoted Coolio. Get over it). I try to maintain a low profile, carrying on in the stereotypical "stay-at-home mom" fashion. I drive a minivan (gag). I stand outside my son's school shamelessly holding a tiny space ship umbrella on rainy days. I tend to smell like baby puke most days, but I wear a lot of dark colors so you can't see it after I rub it into my clothes. My fire alarm goes off anytime I cook anything above 400 degrees in my oven. My life is so plain it makes a box of bran flakes look delicious. So how come I have a front row seat to the largest mafia roundup in history? What, pray tell, does a boring mom like me, one who gets excited about making a new stir fry for dinner, have in common with a mafioso besides dining at Lai Yuen Chinese Restaurant (Bay Ridgers know what I'm talking about) and the sharing the same zip code? Well, right now we're both living on the same street.
Last night I thought God was just looking out for me when I got to the gym and it was closed. Three cheers for a pain free night! Then I noticed that the gym parking lot was roped off and filled with very important looking government mobile command post vehicles with fancy antennas and satellite dishes and guys wearing the snazzy yet cliche FBI jackets hanging out all around. I figured it was just an antiterrorism exercise, which would be a logical explanation for anything out of the ordinary where I live. Then a huge US Marshal's mobile command post pulls in and sets up shop. Hmmmmm. Interesting. (In case you're wondering, I live across the street from the gym....it's God's daily reminder that I'm not getting any skinnier!). This morning I wake up and the place is swarming with feds. (I've always wanted to use the phrase "swarming with feds" to describe my current location. I can check that off the bucket list!). There is heavy activity in the gym and it's not by people going to the 6:30am spin class. I know this because I usually laugh at those people. A while later, my friend sends me a Facebook post stating "100 of your neighbors got arrested in a mob sting". I laugh and suggest that this would be the reason for all the activity across the street. So I turn on CNN to hear about my fellow New Yorkers making the city proud when I realize quickly that yes, indeed this IS the reason the feds have set up shop across the street. Holy Cow! I take another peek out the window and there is the "prison bus" pulling up and unloading Italy's finest. Briefly I imagine that the bus is playing the theme song to The Godfather....like a little ice cream truck full of murderers pulling into jail. There they are, the good, bad & ugly of America's top crime families. It's like a hair gel convention for old, sleazy gangsters. Suddenly I have the urge to watch all the Godfather movies consecutively and eat cannoli. Unfortunately the gym is closed and therefore I cannot eat cannoli because I am unable to burn off those calories in a heated environment. I am beside myself with excitement.
So, Crime Families, I understand you're not having the best day. Stuff you've been getting away with from as far back as 1981 (according to the unreliable CNN), has finally caught up with you. If it's any consolation, I appreciate the fact that it caught up with you in my front yard. Watching a live version of Law and Order go down steps away from my front door has added a little spice to my otherwise droll day of rubbing baby puke into my clothes, learning about ear wax from our pediatrician, and determining discipline strategies for our unruly three year old. Perhaps explaining to our three year old the "situation" going down in the gym parking lot might actually assist in making my point that the little man needs to mind his mama or suffer consequences. It might be a gesture of community service if you could throw a threatening glance his way to drive the point home?
Admittedly I will never quite understand how someone so "un-NY" like me could find herself in so many stereotypical New York situations, but today's scenario was quite funny in my book. So thanks Crime Families. I hope they're good to you in prison.
Triple kisses, because that's how ya'll do it in the movies,
L.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
An Open Letter to Potential Corporate Sponsors
Dear Corporations of America,
Anger Management. Let's face it. Even I need it. Tony Robbins....get yourself some additional publicity by providing group therapy for this place full of issues. Even my husband will tell you, "L did not have anger management issues prior to moving to Brooklyn". Don't even ask me how that hole on the back of our door got there. This place will turn you rotten. ROTTEN I say!
Hand Sanitizer. Probably the most mentioned item in my blog. Don't leave home without it. What's that perfume you're wearing, L? Why...it's Eau de Purell! As Depeche Mode so wisely put it, "Just can't get enough".
Dunkin Donuts. Actually, I think they already are a corporate sponsor of NYC. Much like with the Suburu Forester, you are always within view of a Dunkin Donuts. I can't imagine what kind of stampedes Krispy Kreme would create here. These people be lovin' their donuts.
Duane Reade. This is the "Walgreens" of NYC and, much like Dunkin Donuts and Suburu, you cannot escape its glare. They're everywhere. I'm starting to think Duane Reade, whoever he may be, is sort of a Big Brother entity here. Always watching. Distributing drugs to the masses. Reporting back to the Mothership. Interesting thing about Duane Reade/Walgreens type stores here. People actually frequent these stores shop for groceries and stuff. It's more than just a "run in and grab your prescription, photo order and a pint of Ben & Jerry's" type place. The Walgreens in Bay Ridge has a produce section (granted, it's terrifying) and they advertise "fresh sushi" which to me sounds like they're trying to up their sales of Immodium and Pepto. I mean, who goes to Walgreens for sushi?
Dry cleaners/Laundry Services. Nobody has laundry in their apartments. Except us. Which makes us super cool people. :) Except my washer is broken right now so I am no longer cool and must pay someone (by the pound) to wash my kid's underpants because he's no longer buying my "Commando is Cool!" attitude. Anyway, there are more laundry service companies here than subway rats. So you know they're popular and good candidates for corporate sponsorship. Might even get some things cleaned up around here.
Double hugs, double profits,
L.
Everybody has a sponsor these days. Lindsay Lohan (well, AA sponsor, but close). Lance Armstrong. Nascar drivers. Tiger Woods (once upon a time anyway). And since NYC seems to be in a constant financial hole, I'm thinking it should look for some corporate sponsors as well. Now, I've only lived here one year, 19 months and 3 days (who's counting?) so I'm still classified as an "annoying tourist" to pretty much everyone, but I've had plenty of time to observe the territory and I have a few ideas. Please note I would like credit should any of these deals actually go through:
1. Suburu. Specifically the Suburu Forrester or Outback. One is never more than 10 feet away from a Suburu Forrester or Outback in NYC. Not the cool Suburu's, but more of the station-wagony ones. I'm not sure what the appeal is as they are pretty hideous looking (forgive me if you drive one. I wasn't talking about yours, per se.) It's New York's answer to the SUV for city life I suppose. Perhaps they choose station wagons to avoid paying the $10 oversized vehicle fee in parking garages. But my Lord, they're EVERYWHERE! Forget "punch buggy orange". We play "punch-Suburu"!
2. The color black. Hey, if colors can sponsor Sesame Street episodes, they can certainly sponsor a city. I have never seen so much black in all my life. It's like a giant funeral. People wear black clothes, dye their hair black, and then drive to work in their black cars. When in doubt, pick black. (and, if you really want to blend in, contort your face in a way that suggests today is your last day on death row before the big "grand finale". Then board the subway train, blast your ipod music and stare blankly into space. You will never be mistaken for a tourist.)
3. Big Tobacco. Good grief. Forget calling it the City That Never Sleeps (which is a HUGE fat lie if you've ever tried to get good cheesecake or dinner after 10 pm in areas that are NOT in Times Square). It should be called The City of Secondhand Smoke. I swear to you my toddler has a pack a day habit. I thought NY'ers were to supposed to be so trendy and ahead of the times, but HELLO! Smoking? Lame. And everybody everybody everybody is doing it. I saw a pregnant lady with a towel around her waist (a sure sign that her water just broke...because that was me 3 years ago) standing in front of a hospital smoking a cigarette before checking in. Not even joking.
4. Trash. Not to be confused with trash can manufacturers. Those people would so lose money in this market. However if you are a fan of polluting the streets with all manner of garbage, you should consider sponsoring the city. You'd have endless publicity for your cause.
5. Tanning Salons. Well, you know it's summer when suddenly the human race turns a funky shade of orange (in our home we identify it as "oompha loompha orange", but it's different on everyone). (My favorite salon is "Alaska Tan" because when we think of Alaska, we think of "tan", right? hmmmm.) The Orange Ones tend to trod in the outer boroughs, although it is common to see them in the city as well. New York is full of every hue of the human race, but suddenly, come May, a new race emerges making everyone else a collective minority. It produces a shade like no other. Somehow a memo got leaked to the public that turning yourself the most unnatural shade of "burnt umber" (thanks Crayola!) is smokin' hot and the ladies (& gents!) ran with it. Also, apparently orange goes great with and is amplified by black (see corporate sponsor suggestion #2). Thankfully the rest of the "tannable" population tends to lean towards pasty white (a category I fit right into), however the tanning industry here is blowin' up from May to September. Don't light a match anywhere on Staten Island or the place may just go up in flames or the residents might melt.
Anger Management. Let's face it. Even I need it. Tony Robbins....get yourself some additional publicity by providing group therapy for this place full of issues. Even my husband will tell you, "L did not have anger management issues prior to moving to Brooklyn". Don't even ask me how that hole on the back of our door got there. This place will turn you rotten. ROTTEN I say!
Hand Sanitizer. Probably the most mentioned item in my blog. Don't leave home without it. What's that perfume you're wearing, L? Why...it's Eau de Purell! As Depeche Mode so wisely put it, "Just can't get enough".
Dunkin Donuts. Actually, I think they already are a corporate sponsor of NYC. Much like with the Suburu Forester, you are always within view of a Dunkin Donuts. I can't imagine what kind of stampedes Krispy Kreme would create here. These people be lovin' their donuts.
Duane Reade. This is the "Walgreens" of NYC and, much like Dunkin Donuts and Suburu, you cannot escape its glare. They're everywhere. I'm starting to think Duane Reade, whoever he may be, is sort of a Big Brother entity here. Always watching. Distributing drugs to the masses. Reporting back to the Mothership. Interesting thing about Duane Reade/Walgreens type stores here. People actually frequent these stores shop for groceries and stuff. It's more than just a "run in and grab your prescription, photo order and a pint of Ben & Jerry's" type place. The Walgreens in Bay Ridge has a produce section (granted, it's terrifying) and they advertise "fresh sushi" which to me sounds like they're trying to up their sales of Immodium and Pepto. I mean, who goes to Walgreens for sushi?
Dry cleaners/Laundry Services. Nobody has laundry in their apartments. Except us. Which makes us super cool people. :) Except my washer is broken right now so I am no longer cool and must pay someone (by the pound) to wash my kid's underpants because he's no longer buying my "Commando is Cool!" attitude. Anyway, there are more laundry service companies here than subway rats. So you know they're popular and good candidates for corporate sponsorship. Might even get some things cleaned up around here.
Double hugs, double profits,
L.
Friday, July 30, 2010
An Open Letter to Brooklyn Drivers:
Dear Everyone in Brooklyn and I do mean everyone,
Lets take a moment to talk about this, shall we?:
Raise your hand and raise it high if you've seen one of these before. Now, keep your hand raised if you know its purpose. Well, if you're so smart, then how come you jerks can't seem to respect the purpose? In case you need some traffic law awareness, allow me to remind you that the STOP SIGN is intended to incidate a point at which to come to a full and complete stop. Say it with me: "FULL AND COMPLETE". When grouped together, say, at a 3-4 way stop intersection, it is also acceptable to go the extra mile and look both ways before proceeding. It is also standard practice to follow a "first come first served" mentality when operating at a 3-4 way stop. It's not "he who drives the fastest while honking and waving your Brooklyn Peace Sign finger gets to go first". I know this is shocking information and you're probably scratching your heads right now wondering how you could have gone wrong all these years, but let me tell you--If you honk at me one more time while I am properly obeying a traffic sign, you won't have many years left to ponder this. I am losing my patience, as indicated by my mid-intersection, fist waving, window rolled down screaming rant at the intersection of Fort Hamilton Parkway and 101st St this morning. (Ironically this is the same exact intersection where I recently had an accident so maybe I know a thing or two about the location). It was helpful to have my friend D pull up at the intersection at the exact same time and roll down her window to encourage me by shouting "I HATE BROOKLYN" in support of my raging 8-months-pregnant tirade in the street. (Oddly enough, D was also at that same intersection at the time of my aforementioned accident....maybe she's my Brooklyn Driving Fairy Godmother? Or maybe she thinks I stand in that intersection full time and raise holy hell on a daily basis? Or maybe she thinks I'm just working my usual corner? Yikes. I should make a note to call her and clarify.) Anyway, today I'd had enough. Some call it pregnancy hormones. I call it "living in Brooklyn for 18 months and 29 days".
So what have we learned today folks? Red octagonal shapes on corners are not to be ignored. Stop you idiots. Just stop. And do not honk at the few who do take, oh, 5 extra seconds of your life by looking both ways. Like I said before--I'm 8 months pregnant. If I rush into an intersection due to your honking just because you're an impatient ego maniac who is going to be .0002 seconds late for your tanning appointment and end up hurting my unborn baby, you will be getting the ultimate tan in the Deep Down Under if you know what I mean.
Double time at the next stop sign, JERKS--
L.
PS: Forgive my abrasiveness, but this is a trait that you seem to understand so I figured I speak your language. Hopefully it fully translated my inner rage clearly enough for you.
PPS: Tanning makes you look like an oompha-loompha. Give it up.
Lets take a moment to talk about this, shall we?:
Raise your hand and raise it high if you've seen one of these before. Now, keep your hand raised if you know its purpose. Well, if you're so smart, then how come you jerks can't seem to respect the purpose? In case you need some traffic law awareness, allow me to remind you that the STOP SIGN is intended to incidate a point at which to come to a full and complete stop. Say it with me: "FULL AND COMPLETE". When grouped together, say, at a 3-4 way stop intersection, it is also acceptable to go the extra mile and look both ways before proceeding. It is also standard practice to follow a "first come first served" mentality when operating at a 3-4 way stop. It's not "he who drives the fastest while honking and waving your Brooklyn Peace Sign finger gets to go first". I know this is shocking information and you're probably scratching your heads right now wondering how you could have gone wrong all these years, but let me tell you--If you honk at me one more time while I am properly obeying a traffic sign, you won't have many years left to ponder this. I am losing my patience, as indicated by my mid-intersection, fist waving, window rolled down screaming rant at the intersection of Fort Hamilton Parkway and 101st St this morning. (Ironically this is the same exact intersection where I recently had an accident so maybe I know a thing or two about the location). It was helpful to have my friend D pull up at the intersection at the exact same time and roll down her window to encourage me by shouting "I HATE BROOKLYN" in support of my raging 8-months-pregnant tirade in the street. (Oddly enough, D was also at that same intersection at the time of my aforementioned accident....maybe she's my Brooklyn Driving Fairy Godmother? Or maybe she thinks I stand in that intersection full time and raise holy hell on a daily basis? Or maybe she thinks I'm just working my usual corner? Yikes. I should make a note to call her and clarify.) Anyway, today I'd had enough. Some call it pregnancy hormones. I call it "living in Brooklyn for 18 months and 29 days".
So what have we learned today folks? Red octagonal shapes on corners are not to be ignored. Stop you idiots. Just stop. And do not honk at the few who do take, oh, 5 extra seconds of your life by looking both ways. Like I said before--I'm 8 months pregnant. If I rush into an intersection due to your honking just because you're an impatient ego maniac who is going to be .0002 seconds late for your tanning appointment and end up hurting my unborn baby, you will be getting the ultimate tan in the Deep Down Under if you know what I mean.
Double time at the next stop sign, JERKS--
L.
PS: Forgive my abrasiveness, but this is a trait that you seem to understand so I figured I speak your language. Hopefully it fully translated my inner rage clearly enough for you.
PPS: Tanning makes you look like an oompha-loompha. Give it up.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
An Open Letter to Non "Cow People"
Dear Lady Who Was Mean To Me Today:
I'm sorry if you found my comments about New York offensive. Funny thing is, I wasn't even talking to you. And you have never met me! But that's okay. I can imagine how someone from New York might be offended when I say things like, "I don't ever think I will miss New York. I will miss the food and some other things, but honestly, I think I'll miss being hugely pregnant before I miss living in New York....and I'm not a fan of being hugely pregnant". I'm sorry if that statement, which was shared with someone who has spoken with me about her own similar opinions about New York, was offensive to you, a total stranger who was not even a part of the conversation.
What I don't get, and perhaps what further perpetuates my lack of attachment to this crazy place, is your response. You called me a "cow person". What, pray tell, is a "cow person"? I realize that I am 8 months going on 42 years preggo right now and look like I'm about to give birth to a full sized calf but I'm not an actual cow in "real life". I only play one on TV...and when I'm hugely pregnant. I am not employed by Chick-fil-A and therefore am not wearing the cow suit (another reason to not like NY....no Chick-fil-A!!!! GASP!). I'm not sure what a "cow person" is. I have never personally owned a cow and my high school did not have a 4-H program. I have had unprecedented access to cows on my Grandaddy's farm and have had the unfortunate experience of riding a cow and falling off into cow poo-poo, but again...how would you know that about me? In my defense, a duck is the closest thing to livestock I've ever owned thank you very much. Have you even actually seen a cow in person? Because I'm pretty sure in a blind taste test, 9 out of 10 people would agree that I am not a cow. My OB might say otherwise, but he'd be the 1 hold-out in that survey.
What's even more bizarre is that after you called me a cow person, you said that you'd rather, and I quote, "Hang on a cross than live in the boonies like where [I] grew up and have no life." Ouch. That's harsh. The thing about the boonies is that they are located far away from weirdos like you. Respect the boonies. Lots of positive things come from there. Ironically, I wouldn't call where I come from "boonies". Sure it's acceptable to be shoeless. Sure most meals are prepared using propane or a vat of oil. Sure at least 5 people on the block I grew up on own airboats. (You probably don't know what an airboat is, but I'll let you think that it's a magical boat that travels in the air a la George Jetson). Sure it gets reeeeeeeeeal dark outsiiiiiiide at niiiiiiight tiiiiiime cause 'dere ain't no city liiiiights gettin' in the way. I know where to get frog legs, alligator tail and fried turtle bites in a hurry. If that makes me a cow person....OK. Moo. I'm pretty sure that Jesus Christ would have SOOOO picked the boonies over the cross if he wasn't the Son of God with bigger responsibilities. I mean, he was kind of from there himself. Cows were present at his birth. And if the boonies are good enough for Jesus, they're good enough for this Baptist gal. I'm certainly not comparing myself to Jesus Christ, but lets be real. He never took public transportation and he didn't sleep at a Holiday Inn Express last night.
Look, I respect that some people....lots of people....can't imagine living anywhere else but NYC. I get it. I know those people. They can't go camping because it's too quiet. They are unfamiliar with the terms "covered dish" and "dinner on the grounds". They carry alternate pairs of shoes in their purses. They mock me for driving everywhere. I have been told by someone (in their WORST Brooklynese) that I have a "rediculous accent" and more than one stranger has stated to me, "you're not from here, huh?". That's okay! I don't mind not blending in because NY is a melting pot of all kinds of people. Even "cow people". I enjoy my NY friends because of our differences. They laugh at me, I laugh at them....it's a win win. We can learn from each other and have a pretty decent time. We will always be different. Crickets keep them up all night. Sirens keep me up all night. Everyone is different and that keeps things interesting.
My husband says that small towns breed big dreams. I believe that. Lots of greatness has come from the boonies. There's less competition and more room to grow ideas and garner support. I invite you to visit my not-so-small town down south any ol' time you want. (I mean, it was pretty much an orange grove when I was growing up but then they put in that big ol' shoppin' mall and things really took off!) Give it a try. Us cow folk might just impress you a little bit. There's a reason they call Florida the "Sixth Borough". New Yorkers move there in droves and then convert to "cow people" so they too can blend in and enjoy the lifestyle.
Double hugs, Moo Moo,
L.
I'm sorry if you found my comments about New York offensive. Funny thing is, I wasn't even talking to you. And you have never met me! But that's okay. I can imagine how someone from New York might be offended when I say things like, "I don't ever think I will miss New York. I will miss the food and some other things, but honestly, I think I'll miss being hugely pregnant before I miss living in New York....and I'm not a fan of being hugely pregnant". I'm sorry if that statement, which was shared with someone who has spoken with me about her own similar opinions about New York, was offensive to you, a total stranger who was not even a part of the conversation.
What I don't get, and perhaps what further perpetuates my lack of attachment to this crazy place, is your response. You called me a "cow person". What, pray tell, is a "cow person"? I realize that I am 8 months going on 42 years preggo right now and look like I'm about to give birth to a full sized calf but I'm not an actual cow in "real life". I only play one on TV...and when I'm hugely pregnant. I am not employed by Chick-fil-A and therefore am not wearing the cow suit (another reason to not like NY....no Chick-fil-A!!!! GASP!). I'm not sure what a "cow person" is. I have never personally owned a cow and my high school did not have a 4-H program. I have had unprecedented access to cows on my Grandaddy's farm and have had the unfortunate experience of riding a cow and falling off into cow poo-poo, but again...how would you know that about me? In my defense, a duck is the closest thing to livestock I've ever owned thank you very much. Have you even actually seen a cow in person? Because I'm pretty sure in a blind taste test, 9 out of 10 people would agree that I am not a cow. My OB might say otherwise, but he'd be the 1 hold-out in that survey.
What's even more bizarre is that after you called me a cow person, you said that you'd rather, and I quote, "Hang on a cross than live in the boonies like where [I] grew up and have no life." Ouch. That's harsh. The thing about the boonies is that they are located far away from weirdos like you. Respect the boonies. Lots of positive things come from there. Ironically, I wouldn't call where I come from "boonies". Sure it's acceptable to be shoeless. Sure most meals are prepared using propane or a vat of oil. Sure at least 5 people on the block I grew up on own airboats. (You probably don't know what an airboat is, but I'll let you think that it's a magical boat that travels in the air a la George Jetson). Sure it gets reeeeeeeeeal dark outsiiiiiiide at niiiiiiight tiiiiiime cause 'dere ain't no city liiiiights gettin' in the way. I know where to get frog legs, alligator tail and fried turtle bites in a hurry. If that makes me a cow person....OK. Moo. I'm pretty sure that Jesus Christ would have SOOOO picked the boonies over the cross if he wasn't the Son of God with bigger responsibilities. I mean, he was kind of from there himself. Cows were present at his birth. And if the boonies are good enough for Jesus, they're good enough for this Baptist gal. I'm certainly not comparing myself to Jesus Christ, but lets be real. He never took public transportation and he didn't sleep at a Holiday Inn Express last night.
Look, I respect that some people....lots of people....can't imagine living anywhere else but NYC. I get it. I know those people. They can't go camping because it's too quiet. They are unfamiliar with the terms "covered dish" and "dinner on the grounds". They carry alternate pairs of shoes in their purses. They mock me for driving everywhere. I have been told by someone (in their WORST Brooklynese) that I have a "rediculous accent" and more than one stranger has stated to me, "you're not from here, huh?". That's okay! I don't mind not blending in because NY is a melting pot of all kinds of people. Even "cow people". I enjoy my NY friends because of our differences. They laugh at me, I laugh at them....it's a win win. We can learn from each other and have a pretty decent time. We will always be different. Crickets keep them up all night. Sirens keep me up all night. Everyone is different and that keeps things interesting.
My husband says that small towns breed big dreams. I believe that. Lots of greatness has come from the boonies. There's less competition and more room to grow ideas and garner support. I invite you to visit my not-so-small town down south any ol' time you want. (I mean, it was pretty much an orange grove when I was growing up but then they put in that big ol' shoppin' mall and things really took off!) Give it a try. Us cow folk might just impress you a little bit. There's a reason they call Florida the "Sixth Borough". New Yorkers move there in droves and then convert to "cow people" so they too can blend in and enjoy the lifestyle.
Double hugs, Moo Moo,
L.
Friday, June 11, 2010
An Open Letter to The Man Who Played Bumper Cars With My Car Without Permission
Dear Sir,
Perhaps you enjoyed bumper cars as a kid at the fair, but take heed my friend....not all cars are bumper cars and while first appearences may lead you to believe otherwise, Brooklyn is not some carnival circus with free rides. I did not enjoy sitting on the playground and alternating my attention between watching my son and watching you repeatedly bump my car in your sad attempt to fit a giant purple Mercury minivan into a small space previously occupied by a Mini Cooper. I'm pretty sure the Malibu you also repeatedly bumped did not appreciate it either.
Don't get me wrong...I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt at first. I remained calm. I said to my friend, "Hey....so is it just me or is that guy an idiot for thinking he's going to fit that giant Barney the Dinosaur of a minivan into that small space?". After careful deliberation (and watching you exit your vehicle to give the scene a once over before continuing your plight), we decided that you were indeed an idiot and that someone should probably stop you before you broke something. That someone would be moi--an annoyed, sweaty pregnant woman in an unattractive outfit at the park.
I was in no mood for my Nice Nasty....people in Brooklyn don't get that style of confrontation....so away I go pointing my finger like I meant business. It wasn't the middle finger, which may have confused you as that is the standard operating procedure for Brooklyn confrontation, but it was my Finger of Authority. Just ask my two year old about its importance if you have doubts. The look on your face very much resembled the look on my son's face when he's caught acting like a turd and it proved to me that you knew exactly what was up, although I appreciate the innocent Brooklyn Shrug you gave me followed by, 'Is that your car, miss?'. No you idiot. That's not my car. I just have a passion for 2004 Honda Accords. I'm just a big ball of pregnant vigiliante walking the streets looking for vehicle injustice when it's 90 degrees outside. Of course it's my car!
After much discussion, most of which was me repeating, "You cannot park here! Why would you even try this?", and blank stares on your end, you finally decided to take my advice. Unfortunately you had wedged yourself awkwardly inbetween my car and the next and were pretty much stuck. Meanwhile, my child is running around on a playground shared by gang members, junkies, and happy toddlers. Fortunately a trusted friend was watching him, but still. My priority was getting back to the playground. Unfortunately, your idiocy required me to move my car, risking yet another parking ticket (and trust me, they know my plate number by heart!) so that your hideous purple minivan could squeeeeeze in just a little bit more.
I wonder had I not shown up to inform you of your stupidity, what you would have done? I can only imagine that you would have left your beast parked halfway between the curb and the street. And you, my friend, are a prime example of why people from New Jersey/New York should just not operate motor vehicles.
Although my car isn't exactly a shiney BMW, it's my ride, damn it. So how's about showing some respect? I will respect your Barney Car (though I will NOT sing the song), and I ask that you show the same respect for my humble Honda. You're lucky my main ride had a flat tire. Had you hit the non-ghetto tricked-out Highlander, we'd have had a much different conversation.
Double hugs, double park if you have to just don't be dumb like that again,
L.
Perhaps you enjoyed bumper cars as a kid at the fair, but take heed my friend....not all cars are bumper cars and while first appearences may lead you to believe otherwise, Brooklyn is not some carnival circus with free rides. I did not enjoy sitting on the playground and alternating my attention between watching my son and watching you repeatedly bump my car in your sad attempt to fit a giant purple Mercury minivan into a small space previously occupied by a Mini Cooper. I'm pretty sure the Malibu you also repeatedly bumped did not appreciate it either.
Don't get me wrong...I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt at first. I remained calm. I said to my friend, "Hey....so is it just me or is that guy an idiot for thinking he's going to fit that giant Barney the Dinosaur of a minivan into that small space?". After careful deliberation (and watching you exit your vehicle to give the scene a once over before continuing your plight), we decided that you were indeed an idiot and that someone should probably stop you before you broke something. That someone would be moi--an annoyed, sweaty pregnant woman in an unattractive outfit at the park.
I was in no mood for my Nice Nasty....people in Brooklyn don't get that style of confrontation....so away I go pointing my finger like I meant business. It wasn't the middle finger, which may have confused you as that is the standard operating procedure for Brooklyn confrontation, but it was my Finger of Authority. Just ask my two year old about its importance if you have doubts. The look on your face very much resembled the look on my son's face when he's caught acting like a turd and it proved to me that you knew exactly what was up, although I appreciate the innocent Brooklyn Shrug you gave me followed by, 'Is that your car, miss?'. No you idiot. That's not my car. I just have a passion for 2004 Honda Accords. I'm just a big ball of pregnant vigiliante walking the streets looking for vehicle injustice when it's 90 degrees outside. Of course it's my car!
After much discussion, most of which was me repeating, "You cannot park here! Why would you even try this?", and blank stares on your end, you finally decided to take my advice. Unfortunately you had wedged yourself awkwardly inbetween my car and the next and were pretty much stuck. Meanwhile, my child is running around on a playground shared by gang members, junkies, and happy toddlers. Fortunately a trusted friend was watching him, but still. My priority was getting back to the playground. Unfortunately, your idiocy required me to move my car, risking yet another parking ticket (and trust me, they know my plate number by heart!) so that your hideous purple minivan could squeeeeeze in just a little bit more.
I wonder had I not shown up to inform you of your stupidity, what you would have done? I can only imagine that you would have left your beast parked halfway between the curb and the street. And you, my friend, are a prime example of why people from New Jersey/New York should just not operate motor vehicles.
Although my car isn't exactly a shiney BMW, it's my ride, damn it. So how's about showing some respect? I will respect your Barney Car (though I will NOT sing the song), and I ask that you show the same respect for my humble Honda. You're lucky my main ride had a flat tire. Had you hit the non-ghetto tricked-out Highlander, we'd have had a much different conversation.
Double hugs, double park if you have to just don't be dumb like that again,
L.
Monday, April 5, 2010
An Open Letter to Personal Space Abusers
Dear PSA's,
I do not understand your problem, really. You live in a city with 12 million people. Cars park on top of each other (there are actually things called "bumper buddies" to protect your car during parallel parking bumps). People trip over each other to make it through the crosswalk. There is no room on the sidewalks. Standing room only on the express trains. Sharing tables in casual restaurants is common. Sitting EXTREMELY close to the next table (ie, can you pass the salt?) in formal restaurants is common. You would think that the desire for personal space would be welcomed with open arms, added to Christmas lists, and written up in Op/Ed pieces for the NYTimes, written in books about myths and legends. I agree that it is a luxury here, so why on earth, when the opportunity presents itself, would you not leap on it and grasp all the personal space you can amass?
I LOOOOOOVES me some personal space. When I was growing up people used to tease me about my "invisible circle". Nobody gets inside L's circle they'd say. (Obviously someone did, eventually, make it inside the circle seeing as how I have reproduced, but it's a wives tale that is still perpetuated today and I don't make any effort to correct it.) Somehow I grew up in the south and managed to avoid the "hugger" gene. In a land of people who hug to stab each other in the back.....eeeeeeeverybody be huggin' down south....I'm just not into it. I'm not a natural displayer of affection (except with my son, who I can't seem to keep my hands off of). I'm very awkward at greeting others and was once labeled as a "leaner" in terms of hugging by my own father. I go in from the side with a lean and sort of pat the shoulder of the greet-ee. On a scale of 1-10, I feel about a 6 in terms of bad about this habit of not being a hugger. I was never a huge fan of PDA (growing up, if my mom ever saw me holding hands with a boy she might as well have caught me doing the naughty in my book.) So you can imagine my horror when people stand too close to me when clearly there is plenty of room to NOT be standing so close.
In New York, people greet each other with that very European ritual of cheek kissing. I'm intrigued by this, but am not able to carry it off without looking like a robot. It's completely common to do this even with people you've met only once. And if the people are actually European, it's way worse. I swear they use tongue. I have no idea how to handle this situation. I usually try the avoidance tactic.....busying myself with Ryan's coat or by carrying a bulky item so that I can just wave and make my way past the greeting portion of the evening as quickly as possible. So far this has worked well for me. What has not worked well is avoiding those who just can't seem to get close enough on the subway, in the bookstore, and my favorite, the food market.
We live at the end/beginning of a subway line. We are the first/last stop depending on which way you're going. I love this because when I get on the train to go uptown, the train car is usually pretty empty and seats are plentiful. So WHY would someone come and sit right beside me in a car full of empty seats? I'd like to think it's my winning personality or blinding hotness that attracts people to me, but based on the people that flock my way, I must give off some kind of weird pheramone that only attracts the elderly and/or sketchy. This past weekend I had the "good fortune" of riding home on the train that was entertained not once, but twice by random subway mariachi singers. Why both groups chose to serenade me personally (despite my best effort to feign narcolepsy) is beyond me, but there I was, the victim of a "standing too close mariachi driveby musical". Ole! Once they left, everyone's favorite, the totally strung out junkie (second only to the person who boards with a fresh load of lunch in his pants), stumbles aboard. This guy was really out of his mind. I watched as he sat down next to a random old man and proceeded to fall asleep on the guy's shoulder. It struck me as odd that the old man didn't make any move to get up and move or shove the junkie onto the floor. He himself is probably a personal space abuser. Paybacks. Anyway, due to excessive drool, I thought the junkie was going to throw up. Evidentally he regained consciousness long enough to realize he missed a stop, so after standing up and giving an F-bomb laced dissertation on his feelings, he began looking for a new seat. I began to panic as there were plenty around me. Lucky me, junkie man picked the seat directly across from me. I was within prime projectile vomit radius, so I high tailed it to the opposite end of the train as quickly as possible.
Last week I was at Barnes and Noble perusing the cookbook section, which was HUGE. Tons of cookbooks. This pleased my soul and I hoped to settle in for a good time of looking at pictures of pretty food that I'll never really know how to make properly. So WHY would someone decide to come and destroy my moment by standing elbow to elbow with me on the same dang aisle? Hello? There are a thousand cookbooks to look at, covering at least 4 aisles. Must we literally be rubbing elbows? I moved over. She moved over. I wanted to scream out, "WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?????" but I respect the sanctity of bookstores, so I mumbled it under my breath as I went to explore other options. Ah....the New Fiction table. I like this place too. I am the only one at the table. Personal space! Oh wait....here comes an elderly woman who, I'm not kidding, positions herself between me and the table. And I was standing pretty close to the table. I have made inadvertant contact with her posterior. I move. She moves next to me. I begin to fantasize about a city full of Matt Lauers, Howie Mandels, and others who maybe have some OCD about personal space. I also meditate on hand sanitizers and make a mental note to add "Inventor of Hand Sanitizer" to my list of favorite people (which also includes "Inventor of the Epidural" and "Inventor of the Magic Eraser Sponge").
And finally, the PSA's in the Food Town market. I am bent over looking for meat in the meat cooler. I just want a nice sirloin to try out one of those recipes I will likely screw up. I am minding my own dang business. Suddenly, I hear the cackle of an old woman saying, "Why would you hit me with your pocketbook?". I glance up. Evidentally, this is a question I'm supposed to answer based on her glare. I take inventory. My "pocketbook" (I hate that word...I have no books in my pocket. It's a PURSE for crying out loud...even handbag is acceptable) is on my opposite shoulder. I apologize anyway and go back to my digging. Again she says in her loud, old-lady speak, "Why do you keep hitting me? You keep hitting me with your pocketbook!". Now, if you've ever heard a northener say the word "pocketbook", you know the whiney pitch that comes with it. I'm not sure why, but everybody, man/woman/child, sounds like Fran Drescher when they say "poooooocketbook". Nails on a chalkboard for me. At this point, I'm ready to formally introduce her to my pocketbook. I snapped. All the PSA's I've encountered this week have led me to this moment, here in the Food Town meat section. I unleash. This woman was accusing me of hitting her, not once, but twice, with my PPOOOOOOOOCKetbook. Obviously, if that really did occur (which I'm 100% certain it did not), it was simply because she was standing in my personal space. I looked that old geezer right in her beady little eyes and said through gritted teeth with my best mean face, which made my toddler cry once, "I already apologized. I did not HIT. YOU. Now MOVE. OVER., let me get my meat so I can GET. OUT." (I put extra emphasis on the "t" sounds to further dig in my point.) That seemed to shut her up. My husband calls that my "Nice Nasty". He thinks that's a southern adaptation of the world knows as a "bitch". And it's true. A NiceNasty is a bitch with a smile. Southerners excel at this. We'll stab you in the back after we serve you tea and offer you a cupcake for the road on the way to the hospital to have the knife removed. Then we'll call you and invite you to church. Nice to meet you. :)
So, PSA's, I ask that you respect the space. Enjoy it when you have a moment where you're not pressed up against someone else. Appreciate a little elbow room. It's good for you!
No hugs or kisses today,
L.
I do not understand your problem, really. You live in a city with 12 million people. Cars park on top of each other (there are actually things called "bumper buddies" to protect your car during parallel parking bumps). People trip over each other to make it through the crosswalk. There is no room on the sidewalks. Standing room only on the express trains. Sharing tables in casual restaurants is common. Sitting EXTREMELY close to the next table (ie, can you pass the salt?) in formal restaurants is common. You would think that the desire for personal space would be welcomed with open arms, added to Christmas lists, and written up in Op/Ed pieces for the NYTimes, written in books about myths and legends. I agree that it is a luxury here, so why on earth, when the opportunity presents itself, would you not leap on it and grasp all the personal space you can amass?
I LOOOOOOVES me some personal space. When I was growing up people used to tease me about my "invisible circle". Nobody gets inside L's circle they'd say. (Obviously someone did, eventually, make it inside the circle seeing as how I have reproduced, but it's a wives tale that is still perpetuated today and I don't make any effort to correct it.) Somehow I grew up in the south and managed to avoid the "hugger" gene. In a land of people who hug to stab each other in the back.....eeeeeeeverybody be huggin' down south....I'm just not into it. I'm not a natural displayer of affection (except with my son, who I can't seem to keep my hands off of). I'm very awkward at greeting others and was once labeled as a "leaner" in terms of hugging by my own father. I go in from the side with a lean and sort of pat the shoulder of the greet-ee. On a scale of 1-10, I feel about a 6 in terms of bad about this habit of not being a hugger. I was never a huge fan of PDA (growing up, if my mom ever saw me holding hands with a boy she might as well have caught me doing the naughty in my book.) So you can imagine my horror when people stand too close to me when clearly there is plenty of room to NOT be standing so close.
In New York, people greet each other with that very European ritual of cheek kissing. I'm intrigued by this, but am not able to carry it off without looking like a robot. It's completely common to do this even with people you've met only once. And if the people are actually European, it's way worse. I swear they use tongue. I have no idea how to handle this situation. I usually try the avoidance tactic.....busying myself with Ryan's coat or by carrying a bulky item so that I can just wave and make my way past the greeting portion of the evening as quickly as possible. So far this has worked well for me. What has not worked well is avoiding those who just can't seem to get close enough on the subway, in the bookstore, and my favorite, the food market.
We live at the end/beginning of a subway line. We are the first/last stop depending on which way you're going. I love this because when I get on the train to go uptown, the train car is usually pretty empty and seats are plentiful. So WHY would someone come and sit right beside me in a car full of empty seats? I'd like to think it's my winning personality or blinding hotness that attracts people to me, but based on the people that flock my way, I must give off some kind of weird pheramone that only attracts the elderly and/or sketchy. This past weekend I had the "good fortune" of riding home on the train that was entertained not once, but twice by random subway mariachi singers. Why both groups chose to serenade me personally (despite my best effort to feign narcolepsy) is beyond me, but there I was, the victim of a "standing too close mariachi driveby musical". Ole! Once they left, everyone's favorite, the totally strung out junkie (second only to the person who boards with a fresh load of lunch in his pants), stumbles aboard. This guy was really out of his mind. I watched as he sat down next to a random old man and proceeded to fall asleep on the guy's shoulder. It struck me as odd that the old man didn't make any move to get up and move or shove the junkie onto the floor. He himself is probably a personal space abuser. Paybacks. Anyway, due to excessive drool, I thought the junkie was going to throw up. Evidentally he regained consciousness long enough to realize he missed a stop, so after standing up and giving an F-bomb laced dissertation on his feelings, he began looking for a new seat. I began to panic as there were plenty around me. Lucky me, junkie man picked the seat directly across from me. I was within prime projectile vomit radius, so I high tailed it to the opposite end of the train as quickly as possible.
Last week I was at Barnes and Noble perusing the cookbook section, which was HUGE. Tons of cookbooks. This pleased my soul and I hoped to settle in for a good time of looking at pictures of pretty food that I'll never really know how to make properly. So WHY would someone decide to come and destroy my moment by standing elbow to elbow with me on the same dang aisle? Hello? There are a thousand cookbooks to look at, covering at least 4 aisles. Must we literally be rubbing elbows? I moved over. She moved over. I wanted to scream out, "WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?????" but I respect the sanctity of bookstores, so I mumbled it under my breath as I went to explore other options. Ah....the New Fiction table. I like this place too. I am the only one at the table. Personal space! Oh wait....here comes an elderly woman who, I'm not kidding, positions herself between me and the table. And I was standing pretty close to the table. I have made inadvertant contact with her posterior. I move. She moves next to me. I begin to fantasize about a city full of Matt Lauers, Howie Mandels, and others who maybe have some OCD about personal space. I also meditate on hand sanitizers and make a mental note to add "Inventor of Hand Sanitizer" to my list of favorite people (which also includes "Inventor of the Epidural" and "Inventor of the Magic Eraser Sponge").
And finally, the PSA's in the Food Town market. I am bent over looking for meat in the meat cooler. I just want a nice sirloin to try out one of those recipes I will likely screw up. I am minding my own dang business. Suddenly, I hear the cackle of an old woman saying, "Why would you hit me with your pocketbook?". I glance up. Evidentally, this is a question I'm supposed to answer based on her glare. I take inventory. My "pocketbook" (I hate that word...I have no books in my pocket. It's a PURSE for crying out loud...even handbag is acceptable) is on my opposite shoulder. I apologize anyway and go back to my digging. Again she says in her loud, old-lady speak, "Why do you keep hitting me? You keep hitting me with your pocketbook!". Now, if you've ever heard a northener say the word "pocketbook", you know the whiney pitch that comes with it. I'm not sure why, but everybody, man/woman/child, sounds like Fran Drescher when they say "poooooocketbook". Nails on a chalkboard for me. At this point, I'm ready to formally introduce her to my pocketbook. I snapped. All the PSA's I've encountered this week have led me to this moment, here in the Food Town meat section. I unleash. This woman was accusing me of hitting her, not once, but twice, with my PPOOOOOOOOCKetbook. Obviously, if that really did occur (which I'm 100% certain it did not), it was simply because she was standing in my personal space. I looked that old geezer right in her beady little eyes and said through gritted teeth with my best mean face, which made my toddler cry once, "I already apologized. I did not HIT. YOU. Now MOVE. OVER., let me get my meat so I can GET. OUT." (I put extra emphasis on the "t" sounds to further dig in my point.) That seemed to shut her up. My husband calls that my "Nice Nasty". He thinks that's a southern adaptation of the world knows as a "bitch". And it's true. A NiceNasty is a bitch with a smile. Southerners excel at this. We'll stab you in the back after we serve you tea and offer you a cupcake for the road on the way to the hospital to have the knife removed. Then we'll call you and invite you to church. Nice to meet you. :)
So, PSA's, I ask that you respect the space. Enjoy it when you have a moment where you're not pressed up against someone else. Appreciate a little elbow room. It's good for you!
No hugs or kisses today,
L.
Friday, February 12, 2010
An Open Letter to Ms. I.....A Nice New Yorker
Dear Ms. I,
Thank you for returning my cell phone to me. I sincerely appreciate your effort to contact nearly every number in my phone and notify everyone I know (and maybe haven't spoken to in like 5 years or so) as to the whereabouts of my missing phone. Not everyone would take the time to do so or be as remarkably thorough as you were or take the time to go as far as searching through the emails on my phone to find my email address to send me notice that you had found my phone in your trash pile. Due to your diligence, I had several emails waiting for me on my computer (including yours) from various friends and relatives concerned for my well being and notifying me of your contact information.
I imagine you may be wondering how my phone wound up in your trash pile to begin with. Funny story. I had a super posh hair appointment today at my relatively posh salon. Because the snow is piled like 10 feet in the air on the sides of the roads right now, I opted to take the train and walk to my appointment instead of driving for fear of finding nowhere to parallel park. (How very NY of me!) I even took advantage of the complimentary shiatsu massage between my wash & cut. I was super relaxed and carefree as I walked home, my shiney new haircut glimmering in the sun...not a care in the world....until my foot came across a slick patch of ice on the sidewalk in front of your building, causing me to become rather unstable and basically launch face first into your trash pile. While that was not my ideal landing zone of choice, I am grateful that it was there to break my fall as I'm expecting a Baby Clutz in a few months and wouldn't want to injure the little booger (we'll let him/her figure out how to do that all on his own). Nothing can break a gal's spirit faster than sitting on a sidewalk in a pile of garbage with a great haircut but torn "good jeans" and a bloody knee. In my haste to "walk it off" and not start crying in public, I hurried away from the trash, failing to notice that my cell phone had exited my purse. My knee hurt like hell in a handbasket and all I wanted to do was limp home and go to sleep!
Fast forward 30 minutes, as my son was pooping in his big boy underwear, I realized that OMG! I didn't have my phone! Between dealing with the potty training crisis and tending to my bloody knee, I decided that the only place it could be was in your trash pile. Off we go (clean underwear and all) to reclaim the phone. Fortunately you saw me rooting through the garbage and came out with my phone in hand. I would have hugged you had it not been for the poop/trashy smell all over me or the bloody pants that I was still wearing. I was a health hazard waiting to happen despite my fabulous haircut (which may not have been looking so fabulous at that point in time). But thank you for being an Honest Abe and really trying to get it back to me. You must be from the south or at least spent some time there. :)
Double hugs, double antiseptic,
L.
Thank you for returning my cell phone to me. I sincerely appreciate your effort to contact nearly every number in my phone and notify everyone I know (and maybe haven't spoken to in like 5 years or so) as to the whereabouts of my missing phone. Not everyone would take the time to do so or be as remarkably thorough as you were or take the time to go as far as searching through the emails on my phone to find my email address to send me notice that you had found my phone in your trash pile. Due to your diligence, I had several emails waiting for me on my computer (including yours) from various friends and relatives concerned for my well being and notifying me of your contact information.
I imagine you may be wondering how my phone wound up in your trash pile to begin with. Funny story. I had a super posh hair appointment today at my relatively posh salon. Because the snow is piled like 10 feet in the air on the sides of the roads right now, I opted to take the train and walk to my appointment instead of driving for fear of finding nowhere to parallel park. (How very NY of me!) I even took advantage of the complimentary shiatsu massage between my wash & cut. I was super relaxed and carefree as I walked home, my shiney new haircut glimmering in the sun...not a care in the world....until my foot came across a slick patch of ice on the sidewalk in front of your building, causing me to become rather unstable and basically launch face first into your trash pile. While that was not my ideal landing zone of choice, I am grateful that it was there to break my fall as I'm expecting a Baby Clutz in a few months and wouldn't want to injure the little booger (we'll let him/her figure out how to do that all on his own). Nothing can break a gal's spirit faster than sitting on a sidewalk in a pile of garbage with a great haircut but torn "good jeans" and a bloody knee. In my haste to "walk it off" and not start crying in public, I hurried away from the trash, failing to notice that my cell phone had exited my purse. My knee hurt like hell in a handbasket and all I wanted to do was limp home and go to sleep!
Fast forward 30 minutes, as my son was pooping in his big boy underwear, I realized that OMG! I didn't have my phone! Between dealing with the potty training crisis and tending to my bloody knee, I decided that the only place it could be was in your trash pile. Off we go (clean underwear and all) to reclaim the phone. Fortunately you saw me rooting through the garbage and came out with my phone in hand. I would have hugged you had it not been for the poop/trashy smell all over me or the bloody pants that I was still wearing. I was a health hazard waiting to happen despite my fabulous haircut (which may not have been looking so fabulous at that point in time). But thank you for being an Honest Abe and really trying to get it back to me. You must be from the south or at least spent some time there. :)
Double hugs, double antiseptic,
L.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Open Letter to Hungry People in NY
Dear Those that Hunger and Thirst Like I Do At Traditional Meal Times,
When I was growing up, Sunday dinner was almost as important as attending church. Everybody knew that if the Baptist service didn't end at noon sharp we'd never reach the Golden Corral before the Methodists did and we'd have to wait (always graciously thanking the Catholics for going to mass on Sunday mornings, or even better, Saturday nights to make way for the hungry stampede of Baptists on Sunday afternoons). Dining out after church is a tradition my husband and I continued after our marriage began. It never failed that just after the offering, but before the special music, my husband would put his arm around me, lean in close and whisper, "Hey...where do you want to go for lunch?". This was never a problem when we lived in Texas. We'd always park strategically, backing in to our spot near the church parking lot exit so that we could haul out of church like bats out of hell and scurry on down to El Chico's (with our bulletin in hand for a 20% church bulletin discount!). In New York, this is not a tradition we continue for a variety of reasons, however mostly because you just can't get a meal at noon on a Sunday to save your life.
We tried it once. We walked quite a long ways actually to "restaurant row" on Third Avenue only to be greeted by a long line of "closed" signs. No matter that their hours of operation were posted and that they should have long been serving up the slices and the noodles and whatever else they made. But the doors were locked. We walked for, no lie, 6 blocks before coming to a place that, upon seeing us tugging at their locked door, let us in. I felt like Mary and Joseph the night Jesus was born. Take pity on us. Let us into your stable so we may dine. I'm wearing uncomfortable shoes that are making my heels bleed (a common theme for me). How a restaurant can forget to unlock their doors an hour after they are supposed to be open is beyond me. If I were working for tips, I'd be darned sure that door was open. Time is money. Except in NY.
I have my theories about why you cannot get a meal to save your life at a restaurant at noon on a Sunday. Realistically, we're white bread Baptists living in the land of enthusiastic, high metabolizing Italian Catholics. Those people have done their church thing the night before. They had breakfast at a diner and then went over to Mama Leone's (or whoever their mama is) and gathered around her table with 75 of their closest relatives for chicken cutlets, antipasti, homemade bread, macaroni (which I've learned means all manner of pasta, and most definitely NOT the cheesy box mix you and I are thinking of), and cannolis. Honestly, if I had that option every Sunday I would be doing the same thing. But not all of us have a Mama Leone (although I do have a close family friend we call Mama E up in Pearl River and if it weren't such a long drive, I'd be up there every night for dinner!)
So, for us it's PB&J on white bread or leftovers. For now. But once we're back south of that Mason Dixon, we're all about the stampede once again. And maybe next time we'll do the Olive Garden (oooooohhhh....that's sacrilege!)
Double Hugs, Double Kiss, Double Sauce on My Macaroni,
L.
When I was growing up, Sunday dinner was almost as important as attending church. Everybody knew that if the Baptist service didn't end at noon sharp we'd never reach the Golden Corral before the Methodists did and we'd have to wait (always graciously thanking the Catholics for going to mass on Sunday mornings, or even better, Saturday nights to make way for the hungry stampede of Baptists on Sunday afternoons). Dining out after church is a tradition my husband and I continued after our marriage began. It never failed that just after the offering, but before the special music, my husband would put his arm around me, lean in close and whisper, "Hey...where do you want to go for lunch?". This was never a problem when we lived in Texas. We'd always park strategically, backing in to our spot near the church parking lot exit so that we could haul out of church like bats out of hell and scurry on down to El Chico's (with our bulletin in hand for a 20% church bulletin discount!). In New York, this is not a tradition we continue for a variety of reasons, however mostly because you just can't get a meal at noon on a Sunday to save your life.
We tried it once. We walked quite a long ways actually to "restaurant row" on Third Avenue only to be greeted by a long line of "closed" signs. No matter that their hours of operation were posted and that they should have long been serving up the slices and the noodles and whatever else they made. But the doors were locked. We walked for, no lie, 6 blocks before coming to a place that, upon seeing us tugging at their locked door, let us in. I felt like Mary and Joseph the night Jesus was born. Take pity on us. Let us into your stable so we may dine. I'm wearing uncomfortable shoes that are making my heels bleed (a common theme for me). How a restaurant can forget to unlock their doors an hour after they are supposed to be open is beyond me. If I were working for tips, I'd be darned sure that door was open. Time is money. Except in NY.
I have my theories about why you cannot get a meal to save your life at a restaurant at noon on a Sunday. Realistically, we're white bread Baptists living in the land of enthusiastic, high metabolizing Italian Catholics. Those people have done their church thing the night before. They had breakfast at a diner and then went over to Mama Leone's (or whoever their mama is) and gathered around her table with 75 of their closest relatives for chicken cutlets, antipasti, homemade bread, macaroni (which I've learned means all manner of pasta, and most definitely NOT the cheesy box mix you and I are thinking of), and cannolis. Honestly, if I had that option every Sunday I would be doing the same thing. But not all of us have a Mama Leone (although I do have a close family friend we call Mama E up in Pearl River and if it weren't such a long drive, I'd be up there every night for dinner!)
So, for us it's PB&J on white bread or leftovers. For now. But once we're back south of that Mason Dixon, we're all about the stampede once again. And maybe next time we'll do the Olive Garden (oooooohhhh....that's sacrilege!)
Double Hugs, Double Kiss, Double Sauce on My Macaroni,
L.
Open Letter to Euro Moms...And Some Non-Euro Moms
Dear Braless Wonders....You Know Who You Are,
And here we are again--the underwear conversation. It's not even summer time yet and the "ladies" are swingin' free already. I realize that after a cold winter the "girls" were excited to go out without 65 layers covering them up during yesterday's warm spell of 50 degrees, but one additional layer...say, a bra...would be helpful. Think of the children. And the other moms. Music class is NOT a place to debut your jubblies for the spring season. It is not spring yet, trust me. Or trust your hooters....they say it all. Now, some of you can certainly pull this off. I'm not sure how, but maybe your kids are adopted or you have an excellent plastic surgeon. Or maybe it's some magic European spell that allows your knockers to stay where God originally planted them. Yes, I envy you for that but that's beside the point. Even if my girls were back in their original region of origin I would still "dress them up". It's just nice manners.
I'm not sure what it is about you Germans that give you the idea that it's perfectly okay to waltz (and jump and run and skip and twirl) without your knockwursts in their proper casings, but it's just not okay. The music room is small. Someone is liable to get injured. And to the Italian mom....BAD DECISION. You were not blessed with the German genes girlfriend. Tie those suckers down, would ya?
I love you European moms because you're so carefree and beautiful and skinny and, well, you have fun accents. I love that your JCREW quality offspring can speak fluently in many languages. But you wouldn't let them out without diapers (I hope). So lets all work on some kind of multi-national agreement that would allow for all of us to be comfortable around you. Yes, it makes me a little uncomfortable when I'm the only mom around who is not in on your very exciting and animated German conversation, probably talking about how fantastic it feels to be out without a bra on and how uptight the poor American mothers are in their bra-wearing stupors. I can get past that. I'm not bilingual. So sue me. I just can't get past the breastesses. As Heidi Klum would say, "auf wiedersehen" to the braless look. (I am aware that Heidi Klum also says, "In fashion, one day you're in. The next day, you're OUT" but I'm pretty sure she's not talking about boobs.
Summer will be here....one day....eventually.....I hope and it will be time for all of us to get out our summer clothes. Lets not have a repeat of last summer's "case of the missing underpants" episode (see previous blog) and lets go for the gold and get all our girlie parts secured. It's a pact!
Double Kiss, Double Hugs, Double D's!
L.
And here we are again--the underwear conversation. It's not even summer time yet and the "ladies" are swingin' free already. I realize that after a cold winter the "girls" were excited to go out without 65 layers covering them up during yesterday's warm spell of 50 degrees, but one additional layer...say, a bra...would be helpful. Think of the children. And the other moms. Music class is NOT a place to debut your jubblies for the spring season. It is not spring yet, trust me. Or trust your hooters....they say it all. Now, some of you can certainly pull this off. I'm not sure how, but maybe your kids are adopted or you have an excellent plastic surgeon. Or maybe it's some magic European spell that allows your knockers to stay where God originally planted them. Yes, I envy you for that but that's beside the point. Even if my girls were back in their original region of origin I would still "dress them up". It's just nice manners.
I'm not sure what it is about you Germans that give you the idea that it's perfectly okay to waltz (and jump and run and skip and twirl) without your knockwursts in their proper casings, but it's just not okay. The music room is small. Someone is liable to get injured. And to the Italian mom....BAD DECISION. You were not blessed with the German genes girlfriend. Tie those suckers down, would ya?
I love you European moms because you're so carefree and beautiful and skinny and, well, you have fun accents. I love that your JCREW quality offspring can speak fluently in many languages. But you wouldn't let them out without diapers (I hope). So lets all work on some kind of multi-national agreement that would allow for all of us to be comfortable around you. Yes, it makes me a little uncomfortable when I'm the only mom around who is not in on your very exciting and animated German conversation, probably talking about how fantastic it feels to be out without a bra on and how uptight the poor American mothers are in their bra-wearing stupors. I can get past that. I'm not bilingual. So sue me. I just can't get past the breastesses. As Heidi Klum would say, "auf wiedersehen" to the braless look. (I am aware that Heidi Klum also says, "In fashion, one day you're in. The next day, you're OUT" but I'm pretty sure she's not talking about boobs.
Summer will be here....one day....eventually.....I hope and it will be time for all of us to get out our summer clothes. Lets not have a repeat of last summer's "case of the missing underpants" episode (see previous blog) and lets go for the gold and get all our girlie parts secured. It's a pact!
Double Kiss, Double Hugs, Double D's!
L.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Open Letter to Snarky Blog Readers
Dear Friends,
Wow...I've sure made this a lame-o blog by getting all excited about it and then not writing anything for like three months. BOOOO me! Perhaps it is due to the fact that I've lived in the Big Apple for a whole year now (wow!--and still alive!) and what once used to strike me as God-awful Hideousness now barely strikes a chord at all. Wait...who am I kidding. I'm still as shocked as ever by some of the stuff I see, but by the time I get home to write about it....well, I have usually spoken to my therapist and all is well again. I'll admit that I haven't seen a person pee in public in about a month now (granted I was in Florida for three weeks so that helped that statistic!). I did see two people fornicating in the driver's seat of a vehicle parked in front of a preschool at 4'oclock in the afternoon a few weeks ago, but hey...it's cold outside so the park bathroom was probably their Plan B this time. Speaking of fornication....I'm expecting my second bebe' in September, so I GUARANTEE you that I will have more stories coming your way....if' you're a fan of obstetrical humor. Let's just say when I met my OB/GYN for the first time I ran home to Google him to make sure he wasn't a cast member of Jersey Shore. (He bares a strong resemblance to "The Situation". I'm thinking of calling him "The Speculum".) Anyway, if he ever runs out of KY in his office, he can just reach for a glob of hairgel from his gleaming, shiny, spikey hair. I will give The Speculum credit though--he's totally awesome and SO not like that crazy Russian doctor I had a few months back. He has a real office. No closets. And nurses! He has nurses! Hooray!
OK, so enough about hair gel and "down there" business. I've been in NY a whole year now so I figured I'd give you a list of things I've learned in this bizzaro year. Without further ado:
1. Tourists often wonder if NYC is dangerous. Will they die in a subway mugging? Be held at knifepoint at the deli? No, my friends. You're perfectly safe as long as you stay away from a three-way stop intersection. This will increase your chances of living twenty-fold. New Yorkers have NO IDEA. NONE. BADA BING BADA NADA idea how to operate in a three-way stop situation. There is usually no stopping. It's rolling. It's a race. And God help you if you're a pedestrian. The honking...the yelling...the screeching of tires....And that's just me! The others don't stop at all! AVOID AVOID AVOID.
2. When someone asks you "are you online"...they are not inquiring about your internet status. I learned this at the grocery store when someone asked me, "Are you On Line?". I said...."No. I'm at the grocery store". So they got in front of me. Apparently, "on line" means "in line". And so it goes.
3. If you think you're parked too close to a fire hydrant, you probably are. And it will cost you $115 for your trouble. Don't even try it. Meanwhile, you can double park in the middle of a lane of traffic, during rush hour, run in to pick up your deli order and stay and chat a while and run no risk of being ticketed. None at all. Have two cappuccinos. It's all good. Oh, and feel free to do a u-turn from the far right lane to the far left lane going the opposite direction during a red-light situation. Also totally OK. (and I wondered why our car insurance nearly TRIPLED when we moved here!)
4. Always take your shoes off at the door. As a kid growing up, we never did this. Heck, I rarely even wore shoes. It's Florida! But here, you wear big shoes. And when you enter someone's home, you remove them at the door. It is gauche to wear shoes in the house, mainly because you probably stepped on all manner of bodily fluids on the way over and nobody wants that on their carpet.
5. Apparently mustard is the only appropriate topping for a hot dog. And thin slice is the only type of pizza...unless you like squares, which, as you'll read in a previous post, is a huge source of contention among NY'ers. There's gelato, spumoni, and icecream. Know the difference. Follow the rules. Establish your loyalties. And have your order ready when they answer the phone. Just blurt it out. And prepare to wait.
6. Customer Service is not a priority. Never. Nowhere. Fuggetaboutit. I've learned to stop yearning for the "thank you, come again's" so often heard in my home land. Although I do like to freak them out by saying, "Good morning" and "you have a great day!". Hilarious.
7. Umbrellas? Useless. See, it's easy to remember...two words that start with "u".
8. Hours of Operation are mere suggestions. So what if the sign says, "Open at 11am". That could mean 2pm. (And it has, on more than one occasion in my experience). Restaurants in particular operate on their own schedules, not those of their paying customers. Even if you have a brunch reservation for 11am....too bad so sad if you have to come back in ("maybe 20 minutes to an hour"). And do not be offended if the restauranteur gives you major attitude for daring to show up before the restaurant opens, even if they should have opened an hour ago according to their sign (and by all means, DO NOT point out the sign. Don't.) . They are angry just like the rest of New York. If you want something on time, go to McDonalds. If you can find one.
Well, I'm sure there are more things...like uptown/downtown knowledge is really important when getting on the subway, the use of turn signals is a waste of time, and the best cheesecake in the world is located at Paneantico on Third Avenue. And I've met some pretty neat-o NY'ers who, while totally supporting the stereotypes, still manage to be pretty decent people. Just stay on their good sides and ignore their foul-mouths. I'll add more as they come to me. For now, enjoy and stay tuned. I'll write more sooner rather than later. Promise.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
Wow...I've sure made this a lame-o blog by getting all excited about it and then not writing anything for like three months. BOOOO me! Perhaps it is due to the fact that I've lived in the Big Apple for a whole year now (wow!--and still alive!) and what once used to strike me as God-awful Hideousness now barely strikes a chord at all. Wait...who am I kidding. I'm still as shocked as ever by some of the stuff I see, but by the time I get home to write about it....well, I have usually spoken to my therapist and all is well again. I'll admit that I haven't seen a person pee in public in about a month now (granted I was in Florida for three weeks so that helped that statistic!). I did see two people fornicating in the driver's seat of a vehicle parked in front of a preschool at 4'oclock in the afternoon a few weeks ago, but hey...it's cold outside so the park bathroom was probably their Plan B this time. Speaking of fornication....I'm expecting my second bebe' in September, so I GUARANTEE you that I will have more stories coming your way....if' you're a fan of obstetrical humor. Let's just say when I met my OB/GYN for the first time I ran home to Google him to make sure he wasn't a cast member of Jersey Shore. (He bares a strong resemblance to "The Situation". I'm thinking of calling him "The Speculum".) Anyway, if he ever runs out of KY in his office, he can just reach for a glob of hairgel from his gleaming, shiny, spikey hair. I will give The Speculum credit though--he's totally awesome and SO not like that crazy Russian doctor I had a few months back. He has a real office. No closets. And nurses! He has nurses! Hooray!
OK, so enough about hair gel and "down there" business. I've been in NY a whole year now so I figured I'd give you a list of things I've learned in this bizzaro year. Without further ado:
1. Tourists often wonder if NYC is dangerous. Will they die in a subway mugging? Be held at knifepoint at the deli? No, my friends. You're perfectly safe as long as you stay away from a three-way stop intersection. This will increase your chances of living twenty-fold. New Yorkers have NO IDEA. NONE. BADA BING BADA NADA idea how to operate in a three-way stop situation. There is usually no stopping. It's rolling. It's a race. And God help you if you're a pedestrian. The honking...the yelling...the screeching of tires....And that's just me! The others don't stop at all! AVOID AVOID AVOID.
2. When someone asks you "are you online"...they are not inquiring about your internet status. I learned this at the grocery store when someone asked me, "Are you On Line?". I said...."No. I'm at the grocery store". So they got in front of me. Apparently, "on line" means "in line". And so it goes.
3. If you think you're parked too close to a fire hydrant, you probably are. And it will cost you $115 for your trouble. Don't even try it. Meanwhile, you can double park in the middle of a lane of traffic, during rush hour, run in to pick up your deli order and stay and chat a while and run no risk of being ticketed. None at all. Have two cappuccinos. It's all good. Oh, and feel free to do a u-turn from the far right lane to the far left lane going the opposite direction during a red-light situation. Also totally OK. (and I wondered why our car insurance nearly TRIPLED when we moved here!)
4. Always take your shoes off at the door. As a kid growing up, we never did this. Heck, I rarely even wore shoes. It's Florida! But here, you wear big shoes. And when you enter someone's home, you remove them at the door. It is gauche to wear shoes in the house, mainly because you probably stepped on all manner of bodily fluids on the way over and nobody wants that on their carpet.
5. Apparently mustard is the only appropriate topping for a hot dog. And thin slice is the only type of pizza...unless you like squares, which, as you'll read in a previous post, is a huge source of contention among NY'ers. There's gelato, spumoni, and icecream. Know the difference. Follow the rules. Establish your loyalties. And have your order ready when they answer the phone. Just blurt it out. And prepare to wait.
6. Customer Service is not a priority. Never. Nowhere. Fuggetaboutit. I've learned to stop yearning for the "thank you, come again's" so often heard in my home land. Although I do like to freak them out by saying, "Good morning" and "you have a great day!". Hilarious.
7. Umbrellas? Useless. See, it's easy to remember...two words that start with "u".
8. Hours of Operation are mere suggestions. So what if the sign says, "Open at 11am". That could mean 2pm. (And it has, on more than one occasion in my experience). Restaurants in particular operate on their own schedules, not those of their paying customers. Even if you have a brunch reservation for 11am....too bad so sad if you have to come back in ("maybe 20 minutes to an hour"). And do not be offended if the restauranteur gives you major attitude for daring to show up before the restaurant opens, even if they should have opened an hour ago according to their sign (and by all means, DO NOT point out the sign. Don't.) . They are angry just like the rest of New York. If you want something on time, go to McDonalds. If you can find one.
Well, I'm sure there are more things...like uptown/downtown knowledge is really important when getting on the subway, the use of turn signals is a waste of time, and the best cheesecake in the world is located at Paneantico on Third Avenue. And I've met some pretty neat-o NY'ers who, while totally supporting the stereotypes, still manage to be pretty decent people. Just stay on their good sides and ignore their foul-mouths. I'll add more as they come to me. For now, enjoy and stay tuned. I'll write more sooner rather than later. Promise.
Double Kiss, Double Hugs,
L.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
An Open Letter to the Fei Long Asian Food Market
Dear Fei Long Food Market Employees,
I had the pleasure(?) of visiting your Asian food market with my inlaws, one of which is a bonifide Chinese person. Thank God she came along (although I hope she wasn't offended by my constant gagging). Anyway, first I wish to thank you for providing parking. This is a rarity in these parts and you gain an automatic bonus point for doing so, however don't get excited. You're about to lose that bonus point. I have been to many a gas station restroom in my day, but never have I experienced one as filthy as your store. Strange comparison, but it's all I have. I'm probably being kind.
Let's start with the "seafood/zoo" department. Live turtles stacked one on top of the other in an industrial sized garbage can? Ick. Live frogs stacked one on top of the other in an industrial sized garbage can? Double ick. I mean, honestly....how do you bag that stuff? I saw a dude pick up a giant LIVE blue crab out of a tank and put it in a paper bag. That seems like a bad idea for so many reasons. I have seen acquariums in fish markets before, however I have never seen aquariums where 50% of the fish are floating belly-side up and other fish are sniffing around them debating the ethics of eating their own kind. I'm guessing you don't have too many takers for those. (I'd like a pound of the floaters please...can you filet them?).
Also, can someone please tell me when I would be using "Pig Uterus" or "Bull Aeorta" in a recipe? Can you dip them in chocolate? Because that might help the taste. I'm just speculating here, but I'm thinking that a uterus is probably pretty chewy. Chocolate makes everything better, but some things are beyond help (hint hint).
I'm not exactly sure when I will get over the horrors of what I saw at your market. Probably never. My poor son....he tripped and fell on the floor and I seriously considered stripping him naked on the spot and burning his clothes in the street. I will admit that the fall was my fault as he was chasing after me. I was running like hell to get out of there. Every man for himself.
Anywho....if I ever need to wish the Health Department a merry Christmas, I know just what to get them. 2lbs of lizard hearts and a card with your name on it.
We will not be hugging or kissing thank you very much,
L.
I had the pleasure(?) of visiting your Asian food market with my inlaws, one of which is a bonifide Chinese person. Thank God she came along (although I hope she wasn't offended by my constant gagging). Anyway, first I wish to thank you for providing parking. This is a rarity in these parts and you gain an automatic bonus point for doing so, however don't get excited. You're about to lose that bonus point. I have been to many a gas station restroom in my day, but never have I experienced one as filthy as your store. Strange comparison, but it's all I have. I'm probably being kind.
Let's start with the "seafood/zoo" department. Live turtles stacked one on top of the other in an industrial sized garbage can? Ick. Live frogs stacked one on top of the other in an industrial sized garbage can? Double ick. I mean, honestly....how do you bag that stuff? I saw a dude pick up a giant LIVE blue crab out of a tank and put it in a paper bag. That seems like a bad idea for so many reasons. I have seen acquariums in fish markets before, however I have never seen aquariums where 50% of the fish are floating belly-side up and other fish are sniffing around them debating the ethics of eating their own kind. I'm guessing you don't have too many takers for those. (I'd like a pound of the floaters please...can you filet them?).
Also, can someone please tell me when I would be using "Pig Uterus" or "Bull Aeorta" in a recipe? Can you dip them in chocolate? Because that might help the taste. I'm just speculating here, but I'm thinking that a uterus is probably pretty chewy. Chocolate makes everything better, but some things are beyond help (hint hint).
I'm not exactly sure when I will get over the horrors of what I saw at your market. Probably never. My poor son....he tripped and fell on the floor and I seriously considered stripping him naked on the spot and burning his clothes in the street. I will admit that the fall was my fault as he was chasing after me. I was running like hell to get out of there. Every man for himself.
Anywho....if I ever need to wish the Health Department a merry Christmas, I know just what to get them. 2lbs of lizard hearts and a card with your name on it.
We will not be hugging or kissing thank you very much,
L.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
An Open Letter to People Who Want to Order a NY Pizza
Dear Future Pizza Eaters,
If you are visiting the greater NY area, you've probably thought about ordering a real "NY Style" Pizza. If you are from Melbourne, FL, save yourself the time and go to Bizzarro's. It truly is the best Brooklyn Style pizza I've ever had. But anyway, if you're like me, your primary experience with pizza comes from calling 1800-PizzaHut. I have even ordered pizza online in my lifetime. Ordering pizza in "real America" probably goes something like this:
"Thank you for calling Pizza Palace. Will this be for delivery or carry out?"
"Delivery"
"Please state your address"
"Blah blah blah".
"Would you like to try our super duper spectacular special this evening?"
"I'd like a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese please".
"Would you like that hand-tossed, pan, handtossed pan, thin crust, original crust, spicy crust, cheesy crust, crispy crust, soft and mushy crust, or whole-wheat crust?"
"Original crust, pan please".
"Thank you. Can we interest you in some sodas or garlic bread?"
"No thank you, but I do have a coupon for 10% off."
"Your total comes to $20. Please give the coupon to the driver. We'll deliver in about 30 minutes."
"Have a nice evening".
"You too."
Now, in NY, that scenario never happens. Never. I learned this the first time I ordered pizza here. If you don't have a menu handy, don't bother calling. I was overwhelmed almost to the point of tears the first time I called for pizza. I am better prepared now and can blurt out my full order and address in 15 seconds (the maximum time given to each order). They don't like it when you don't know what you want. Specials? Whatever. Coupons? Schmupons. Options? It's pizza. Don't screw it up with options. Here is what it is like to order pizza in Brooklyn:
"Goodfellas." (Barely audible. Some screaming & banging in the background).
"I'd like to place....."
"Whaddaya want." (not a question, but a statement.)
"A large pizza with..."
"We don't have large lady. 16" or 18"."
"How many slices are in a 16"?"
"Depends on how you cut it."
"Ok. I'd like a 16" for delivery please".
"Call back when you know what you want on it." Click.
"Goodfellas."
"I'd like to place an order for delivery. A 16" pepperoni."
Mumbling and grunting in Italian followed by, "You picking it up?"
"Um....I said delivery."
"Address."
"Blah blah blah."
"Fine." Click.
And so the mystery begins. How much is it? When will it get here? They didn't take my name or number. What if they lose it? We have waited 90 minutes for a pizza delivery and we have waited 30 minutes for a delivery. I have no idea how they've gotten our order right every time. A miracle. St. Margherita of Naples---blessings upon that pizzeria.
Just when you think you have basic ordering down, they throw you a curve. Squares vs. rounds. This is a big deal here. When we first moved in, I asked a guy doing some repair work in our house where the best place for pizza was and he said, "Spumoni Gardens--if you like squares." I asked him, "What's the difference between a square and a round?" and his answer was, "One is square and one is round." That was it. At the time I thought, "Who cares what shape your pizza comes in?" but I later learned that squares are sicilian style with thick crust and sauce being the primary topping. And for the record, Spumoni is a type of Italian ice cream, not to be confused with gelato. Some people look down on those who like squares. Personally, they are not my favorite, but I do like the spumoni so I will go to the place that serves the squares occasionally. This is a debate that could go on for hours if you happen to offend a round lover. PS--asking for thick crust here is like asking for a punch in the face. It's sacrilege. Go to Pennsylvania for that stuff.
So if you plan to order pizza in NY, your best bet is to know going into the game exactly what you want and practice saying it as fast as you possible can. Everything is cash only. Don't even ask. And if you speak Italian, I think they're automatically nicer to you. I don't speak Italian. I've had to learn the hard way.
Double hugs, double napkins,
L.
If you are visiting the greater NY area, you've probably thought about ordering a real "NY Style" Pizza. If you are from Melbourne, FL, save yourself the time and go to Bizzarro's. It truly is the best Brooklyn Style pizza I've ever had. But anyway, if you're like me, your primary experience with pizza comes from calling 1800-PizzaHut. I have even ordered pizza online in my lifetime. Ordering pizza in "real America" probably goes something like this:
"Thank you for calling Pizza Palace. Will this be for delivery or carry out?"
"Delivery"
"Please state your address"
"Blah blah blah".
"Would you like to try our super duper spectacular special this evening?"
"I'd like a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese please".
"Would you like that hand-tossed, pan, handtossed pan, thin crust, original crust, spicy crust, cheesy crust, crispy crust, soft and mushy crust, or whole-wheat crust?"
"Original crust, pan please".
"Thank you. Can we interest you in some sodas or garlic bread?"
"No thank you, but I do have a coupon for 10% off."
"Your total comes to $20. Please give the coupon to the driver. We'll deliver in about 30 minutes."
"Have a nice evening".
"You too."
Now, in NY, that scenario never happens. Never. I learned this the first time I ordered pizza here. If you don't have a menu handy, don't bother calling. I was overwhelmed almost to the point of tears the first time I called for pizza. I am better prepared now and can blurt out my full order and address in 15 seconds (the maximum time given to each order). They don't like it when you don't know what you want. Specials? Whatever. Coupons? Schmupons. Options? It's pizza. Don't screw it up with options. Here is what it is like to order pizza in Brooklyn:
"Goodfellas." (Barely audible. Some screaming & banging in the background).
"I'd like to place....."
"Whaddaya want." (not a question, but a statement.)
"A large pizza with..."
"We don't have large lady. 16" or 18"."
"How many slices are in a 16"?"
"Depends on how you cut it."
"Ok. I'd like a 16" for delivery please".
"Call back when you know what you want on it." Click.
"Goodfellas."
"I'd like to place an order for delivery. A 16" pepperoni."
Mumbling and grunting in Italian followed by, "You picking it up?"
"Um....I said delivery."
"Address."
"Blah blah blah."
"Fine." Click.
And so the mystery begins. How much is it? When will it get here? They didn't take my name or number. What if they lose it? We have waited 90 minutes for a pizza delivery and we have waited 30 minutes for a delivery. I have no idea how they've gotten our order right every time. A miracle. St. Margherita of Naples---blessings upon that pizzeria.
Just when you think you have basic ordering down, they throw you a curve. Squares vs. rounds. This is a big deal here. When we first moved in, I asked a guy doing some repair work in our house where the best place for pizza was and he said, "Spumoni Gardens--if you like squares." I asked him, "What's the difference between a square and a round?" and his answer was, "One is square and one is round." That was it. At the time I thought, "Who cares what shape your pizza comes in?" but I later learned that squares are sicilian style with thick crust and sauce being the primary topping. And for the record, Spumoni is a type of Italian ice cream, not to be confused with gelato. Some people look down on those who like squares. Personally, they are not my favorite, but I do like the spumoni so I will go to the place that serves the squares occasionally. This is a debate that could go on for hours if you happen to offend a round lover. PS--asking for thick crust here is like asking for a punch in the face. It's sacrilege. Go to Pennsylvania for that stuff.
So if you plan to order pizza in NY, your best bet is to know going into the game exactly what you want and practice saying it as fast as you possible can. Everything is cash only. Don't even ask. And if you speak Italian, I think they're automatically nicer to you. I don't speak Italian. I've had to learn the hard way.
Double hugs, double napkins,
L.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Open Letter to the Queens County Fair
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Open Letter to NY Summer
Dear Summertime (if that's what you want to call yourself),
Dude! What was that? Seriously.....that's all you've got? A handful of 90 degree days followed by buckets and buckets and buckets of rain? Come on....the humidity didn't even break 75%. Surely that cannot be all she wrote in terms of summertime. That was more like Spring. Wimpy.
Here are my concerns: This morning, I saw a street sweeper sucking up a pile of leaves. I saw people raking....piles of leaves. I saw Halloween candy at the grocery store. We booked our Christmas airfare. I debated wearing a cardigan this morning. My NY Magazine for this week covered all the fall activities in the city. And last week's issue was all about fall fashion. My Southern Living magazine is starting to feature recipes using butternut squash and 50 different ways to cook with apples. I'm on high alert here as you can imagine.
Fall is my all time favorite season (perhaps because Fall exists only my imagination...I've never lived anywhere besides Huntsville that actually, technically, had an Autumn), however this year it is bittersweet because now I am enlightened. I know what comes next. It's like not wanting to watch Old Yeller even though you know it's a good story because you also know what happens to Old Yeller in the end. He FREEZES TO DEATH. Well, not exactly, but same difference. Even my excitement over the opportunity to wear cute boots (I want flat boots past the knee this year, according to NY Mag) and decorate with all my favorite colors isn't enough to get rid of that nagging "OMG" feeling that reminds me that soon I will be wearing different, less attractive boots and that God-awful coat that smells like the subway no matter how many times I Febreeze it and take it to the dry cleaners.
So Summer, come on. Don't be a prude. Let it all hang out sister. Give us everything you've got because all too soon I will be writing letters apologizing for my demands and begging you to come back to us.
Double hugs, double kiss,
L.
Dude! What was that? Seriously.....that's all you've got? A handful of 90 degree days followed by buckets and buckets and buckets of rain? Come on....the humidity didn't even break 75%. Surely that cannot be all she wrote in terms of summertime. That was more like Spring. Wimpy.
Here are my concerns: This morning, I saw a street sweeper sucking up a pile of leaves. I saw people raking....piles of leaves. I saw Halloween candy at the grocery store. We booked our Christmas airfare. I debated wearing a cardigan this morning. My NY Magazine for this week covered all the fall activities in the city. And last week's issue was all about fall fashion. My Southern Living magazine is starting to feature recipes using butternut squash and 50 different ways to cook with apples. I'm on high alert here as you can imagine.
Fall is my all time favorite season (perhaps because Fall exists only my imagination...I've never lived anywhere besides Huntsville that actually, technically, had an Autumn), however this year it is bittersweet because now I am enlightened. I know what comes next. It's like not wanting to watch Old Yeller even though you know it's a good story because you also know what happens to Old Yeller in the end. He FREEZES TO DEATH. Well, not exactly, but same difference. Even my excitement over the opportunity to wear cute boots (I want flat boots past the knee this year, according to NY Mag) and decorate with all my favorite colors isn't enough to get rid of that nagging "OMG" feeling that reminds me that soon I will be wearing different, less attractive boots and that God-awful coat that smells like the subway no matter how many times I Febreeze it and take it to the dry cleaners.
So Summer, come on. Don't be a prude. Let it all hang out sister. Give us everything you've got because all too soon I will be writing letters apologizing for my demands and begging you to come back to us.
Double hugs, double kiss,
L.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
