ceiling flickers

Genres

2012-01-15T12:33:00.004-05:00

I considered beginning this post with some kind of disclaimer - "I really don't think and talk about books as much as this month's posts suggest, guys! I really do have a well-rounded life and spend more time socializing and exploring than talking! I leave the house! I get dressed on Sundays!" But it would be a lie.

Books. It's what's for dinner.

Anyway, my big excitement of the weekend was organizing the infamous 2012 Reading List into categories for easy browsing at libraries and used bookstores. It consists of thirty novels, nine non-fiction titles, nine biography/memoirs, and four poetry/essay/meditiation-type books. Interesting. Does this mean that my friends share my heavy inclination towards fiction? Or that the readers most likely to respond to social media requests for recommendations are the ones that love novels above all? Or that novels somehow stick in our hearts more strongly than other kinds of literature, burning until we stick in someone else's hands, and someone else, and someone else?

Or coincidence.

SIDEBAR
Stars in Amy's crown. I came home on Friday to find a fat envelope stuffed in the mailbox, containing her recommendation. She's now at the top of the list. If I die in February because I walked in front of a bus while texting, Amy will have the satisfaction of knowing that her contribution to the list did not go unfulfilled. Don't mean to guilt anyone into mailing me books, just saying...

Claire Marvel

2012-01-13T22:55:00.008-05:00

This is only my second book of the challenge so far, and I already have to write about it - can't even wait until the end of the month - because it's gutted me from heart to heel.

My friend Irene recommended it to me months ago. She was my supervisor before she was my friend - hired me back into my old world at B&N a few weeks after I arrived in this city. At first I couldn't work with her because she was so tough and so sharp, but then slowly she unbent, and then I unbent, and then one night, after an event we worked together, we went out for champagne at a little odd and elegant Victorian bar. And then we were friends. And there were more late nights, bottles and bottles of them, and secrets flowed. Somehow despite the business of the bookstore and the sharpness coming from both of us, we are true friends.

She recommended this book to me months ago. And probably more than once. When I began collecting books for this year, she brought it up again - "Did you ever read Claire Marvel?"

Well. I'll never forgive her for recommending it. Gutted me, tore open wounds I was happy to respect as scars. Beautiful, true, imagined, glorious, dark.

I told my roommate tonight, this is a book I'll recommend to anyone, objectively, because the words are rich and perfect. Every one unexpected, yet somehow exactly right, capturing the moment -the taste, the emotion, the heart- better than anyone ever has, but at the same time so sparingly that you are not distracted, but fall right into it. A book to be savored by anyone who loves words and the stories they tell.

But I wouldn't expect everyone to be devastated as I am. It must be said -quietly, opaquely, so as not to strip too much away from myself- I know why Irene pushed this book on me over and over again. This book tore me open. I started reading it on the train one day, having picked it up at the Strand, and had to bury it in my purse. I could only read it in great private gulps, because who wants to read their heart, with all its well-hidden weaknesses, laid open in gorgeous words, and to read this in the smelly bustle of a Manhattan train?

Read it, long after you've forgotten that I mentioned it to you. Because I don't like how much I live in its pages; I want you to love it, to breathe it in, and I don't want you to see me there.

Maybe in 2016...

2012-01-10T21:33:00.002-05:00

Excerpt from a serious work of literature, followed by thoughtful commentary:

It wouldn't be so bad to watch all these reality shows if they weren't so time-consuming. They're each two hours long! There's a dent in my couch the shape of my entire body and it got there after I watched a single episode of The Bachelor. I also like to watch American Idol, Survivor, The Celebrity Apprentice. That's like ninety-seven hours of TV to watch every week. That barely leaves any time to focus on what's truly important in life - Facebook and Twitter.

By the way, I've noticed that there is a show to find the "next" everything - the next model, the next chef, the next designer, singer, dancer, entrepreneur. Pretty soon there will be a reality show to pick the next president. We won't even have to leave the house to vote. "Sorry, sir, during this debate you did not stuff enough marshmallows into your mouth. You will not be moving on to the primaries. Please bring me your torch."

-Seriously, I'm Kidding by Ellen

A) Can presidential elections actually be like this? Seriously, I'm NOT kidding. I want to see Ron Paul prove his worth to the country by crying in the bathroom after telling Chris Harrison he's not really a girly girl, and he is here for the right reasons, he just doesn't like drama. President Obama should defend his office by making garlic ice cream or choreographing a dance to that song Jay-Z recorded for Beyonce's new baby.

B) My new career goal is to rocket to the top of publishing in time to edit Ellen's next book. I love the woman. I want to guide her em dashes.

The List

2012-01-08T16:15:00.004-05:00

Thanks, everyone, for your recommendations! I'm really excited about the variety of subject matter, and so many titles I've never heard of! It's going to be a great year of reading.

The Plan

Read the books.
Read them in the order they were recommended, for the most part, as I come across them via library, bookstore, etc. I'm liking this random thing, but I might juggle a little based on theme and mood, to give each title a fair chance.
Post baby reviews of each book on Goodreads.
And I think at the end of every month, I'll do a round-up of the books I read that month and highlight the ones that distinguished themselves in one way or another.

I'll update this as I go. Completed.

The List

The Devil in the White City - Erik Larsson(Donna R.)
The Secret History - Donna Tartt (Donna R.)
Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon (Donna R.)
Father Elijah - Michael O'Brien (Zach and Laurel G.)
Love is a Mix Tape - Rob Sheffield(Donna R.)
Steinbeck's Ghost - Lewis Buzbee (Courtney K.)
Shantaram - Gregory David Roberts (Jennifer O.)
The Great War for Civilization - Robert Fisk (Nathan L.)
Lamb - Christopher Moore (Bethany J.)
House of Prayer No. 2 - Mark Richard (Susannah L.)
The Hour of the Star - Clarice Lispector (Marcy K.)
Nothing to Envy, Ordinary Lives in North Korea - Barbara Demick (Kaci R.)
Team of Rivals (Jennifer G.)
Year of Living Biblically (Jennifer G.)
Miss Buncle's Book - D.E. Stevenson (Talitha B.)
Object Lessons - Eaven Boland (Talitha B.)
The Dictator and the Hammock - Pennac (Amy M.)
Russian Debutante's Handbook - Gary Shytengart (Donna R.)
The Monk Downstairs - Tim Farrington (Dr. Bushey)
Zeitoun - Dave Eggers (Dr. Bushey)
House of Blue Mangoes - David Davidar (Julie K.)
Brave Companions: Portraits in History - David McCullough (Crystal H.)
Lee's Tarnished Lieutenant - William Garret Piston (Dean S.)
The Imperial Woman - Pearl S. Buck (Giles S.)
Hannah's Child - Stanley Hauerwas (Dean S.)
When the War Began - John Marsden (Doug C-J.)
A Boy Named Shel - Lisa Rogak (Giles S.)
An American Childhood - Annie Dillard (Crystal H.)
Angry Conversations with God - Susan Isaacs (Amy K.)
Claire Marvel (Irene B.)
The Last Gentleman - Walker Percy (Michael K.)
Confessions of an Opium Eater - Thomas De Quincey (Michael K.)
Cairo Trilogy - Naguib Mahfouz (Christine P.)
The Centaur - John Updike (Christine P.)
The Mercy Room - Gilles Rozier (Andrew B.)
Beat the Reaper - Josh Bazell (Bethany J.)
Willful Creatures - Aimee Bender (Andrew B.)
Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (Kate Z-Z)
Paradise - Toni Morrison (Morgan T.)
Another Life - Michael Korda (Rachel W.)
Walking on Air - R.S. Jones (Fiona S.)
Hannah Coulter - Wendell Berry (Naomi L.)
Journey by Moonlight - Antal Szerb (Jesse B.)
The King of Lies - John Hart (Julie K.)
From Beirut to Jerusalem - Tom Friedman (Nate L.)
Raids on the Unspeakable - Thomas Merton (Bethany P.)
Teaching a Stone to Talk - Annie Dillard (Bethany P.)
Beauty Will Save the World - Gregory Wolfe (Crystal H.)
Last Man in Tower - Aravind Adiga (Jonathan B.)
Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet - David Mitchell (Hannah V.)
Forever Amber - Kathleen Winsor (Elisha M.)
Strength in What Remains - Tracy Kidder (Laura R.)
All the Shah's Men - Stephen Kinzer (Nate L.)

Thanks, everyone! Feel free to add a few more if there's something I absolutely cannot miss.

Your Mission, should you choose to accept it

2012-01-03T23:19:00.002-05:00

...is to fill my 2012 Reading List!

A facebook status comment string spawned inspiration. Instead of murmuring, "Oh, I'll put that on my list!" when a friend mentions a random great book, I'm actually going to put it on my list. And read it.

In 2012, I'm challenging myself to read an entire list of books recommended by you, my fellow readaholics whose taste I know and trust. I want to read all your unsung favorites, the darkhorse heroes, the books that never make the New York Times Top Ten list, but that stuck with long after you passed the final page. The words that, in the words of Gabe Habash's recent column, when you finish, you feel like you're coming up for air.

My goal is to have a list of 50-75 titles by the end of January's first week. I've demanded suggestions on Facebook and Twitter, and gleaned 30 hot suggestions in a little over 24 hours. None of these I've read; many of them I've never heard of.

The Devil in the White City - Erik Larsson(Donna R.)
The Secret History - Donna Tartt (Donna R.)
Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon (Donna R.)
Father Elijah - Michael O'Brien (Zach and Laurel G.)
Love is a Mix Tape - Rob Sheffield(Donna R.)
Steinbeck's Ghost - Lewis Buzbee (Courtney K.)
Shantaram - Gregory David Roberts (Jennifer O.)
The Great War for Civilization - Robert Fisk (Nathan L.)
Lamb - Christopher Moore (Bethany J.)
House of Prayer No. 2 - Mark Richard (Susannah L.)
The Hour of the Star - Clarice Lispector (Marcy K.)
Nothing to Envy, Ordinary Lives in North Korea - Barbara Demick (Kaci R.)
Team of Rivals (Jennifer G.)
Year of Living Biblically (Jennifer G.)
Miss Buncle's Book - D.E. Stevenson (Talitha B.)
Object Lessons - Eaven Boland (Talitha B.)
The Dictator and the Hammock - Pennac (Amy M.)
Russian Debutante's Handbook - Gary Shytengart (Donna R.)
Myra Breckinridge - Gore Vidal (Elisha M.)
The Monk Downstairs - Tim Farrington (Dr. Bushey)
Zeitoun - Dave Eggers (Dr. Bushey)
House of Blue Mangoes - David Davidar (Julie K.)
Brave Companions: Portraits in History - David McCullough (Crystal H.)
Lee's Tarnished Lieutenant - William Garret Piston (Dean S.)
The Imperial Woman - Pearl S. Buck (Giles S.)
Hannah's Child - Stanley Hauerwas (Dean S.)
When the War Began - John Marsden (Doug C-J.)
A Boy Named Shel - Lisa Rogak (Giles S.)
An American Childhood - Annie Dillard (Crystal H.)
Angry Conversations with God - Susan Isaacs (Amy K.)

I'll update again in a few days, and post a final list eventually. And, of course, I'll update you all with my progress throughout the year. Lord willin' and the creek don't rise.

Your turn. Help me. Win fame for your heart's dearest read. Live forever via this illustrious blog. Fire away.

(Some of you have already done more than your fair share. You know who you are.)

In which I covet your books.

2012-01-02T14:09:00.003-05:00

It's January 2. I still haven't set my reading goal for the year.

I am uninspired by the idea of sheer quantity. I want a theme! I want a challenge!

In the meantime, I'm re-reading my Harry Potters, which I read for the first time last fall, after resisting for years on the usual grounds - distrust of the reading discrimination of the American public. To my begrudging surprise, the books are great, both in the writing and even more in their meaning, particularly as the mythology grows in the final books to a gorgeous and troubling exploration of love, courage, trust, loyalty, and sacrifice of self to the greater thing.

The movies are good, too, especially the final ones.

So, booky friends, help me out! Did you have a 2011 reading challenge? How did it go? What's your plan for 2012? How did you decide?

And more specifically, what books are your must-reads for the coming year? What did you read last year that was unforgettable? What has been on your TBR list for far too long? Feel free to send me complimentary copies.

More Self-Absorbed End-of-Year Blithering.

2012-01-01T01:42:00.006-05:00

If you open a bottle of champagne on New Year's Eve, you have to finish the whole thing by morning, 'else your dreams won't come true, right?

2011 was the best year of my life. Not unadulterated happiness, but progress and joy, and enough struggle to make me believe it was real. My roommate and I had a quiet New Year's Eve at home with a pizza and chick flicks - I had wanted a grand NYE, surrounded by my favorites, to give an important year its proper send-off, but that's not how the fortune cookie crumbled. And when midnight came, it felt too ridiculous to toast to the past year: "To grabbing your dreams, to loving your home, to being where you belong," these are things you say idealistically. Amid all the fear and heartbreak, these things fell in my lap, and I'm so lucky I can hardly bear to type about it in case I jinx it. What's next, life? (god? internet?) What will I look back on in 2012; what will I be clinking to for 2013?

Here's a few more bubbly goals for 2012, in case the other ones prove too easy. I want to wear fire-engine red nail polish, sing when people can hear me, take the initiative, wait for the light before I cross the street, eat olives without flinching, find a dashing date for my brother's wedding, drink champagne for no reason, pronounce French unabashedly,

I want to read books slowly and learn forgiveness.

I want to join a gym and get strong again (ohhh, damn you, budget).

I want to love my opinions.

I want to stop being afraid of iPhones.

I want to register to vote in New York City.

I want a vacuum cleaner that works, a dresser with all its drawers, and a rolling pin.

I want 400 followers on Twitter.

I want to be rowed across the pond in Central Park (that's right. Passive voice).

I want to have more triumphs than regrets, and a pile of goals siren-singing to me.

Your turn.

First Lady

2011-12-31T13:26:00.001-05:00

You know how sometimes you're mad at someone over something they did in your dream? Or you wake up frightened or sad and feel it all day long, because the dream was so vivid, in all its nonsensicality? Well, I think Barack Obama may have won my vote in November 2o12 based on something his wife did in my dream last night.

I met Michelle and Barack at the airport and took them to breakfast. Then I dropped Barack off at his day of meetings and Michelle and I hit the town - shopping, wine in the park, manicures, just a couple of tall, stylish women enjoying a girls' day out. Surprisingly, we were unbothered by citizens or media.
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Then we stopped by the bookstore where I used to work. In this dream, I had left the job recently enough (apparently for a new position as hostess for visiting dignitaries) that regular customers were still recognizing me as staff and asking for help. As I tried to show Michelle around the store, a shopper stopped me with a question, and went on to display a level of lunacy and rudeness that was unfortunately a common occurrence during my real-life days at that job. During the interaction, Michelle and I made eye contact. Then, with delicate but unmistakeable scorn, she rolled her eyes and offered the exact expression that my colleagues and I would offer when we noticed each other trapped in an interaction with a prize idiot.

In the dream, Michelle's instant grasp of the situation won my heart. And I woke up feeling like we're bff, like I want to text her saying "omg you won't believe the dream I had about you last night."

Of course, it remains to be seen if any other candidate arises who is remotely respectable as a president. Perhaps my dream was a quiet parable of how the 2012 election is shaping up, one figure of class and intelligence surrounded by bumblers and loons. On the other hand, maybe it just means tall girls must stick together.

Look What's Coming

2011-12-30T12:00:00.000-05:00

After a gorgeous Christmas, I'm enjoying the laziest days ever, thanks to my office being closed for the week. I'm reading the new books and playing the new board games and experimenting with the new beauty goods. Also, washing mountains of dishes after so many nights of holiday feasts with friends.

And pondering goals for the New Year. The one we're leaving has been one to remember, full of good, bad, unbearable struggle, unbreakable ambition, joy and heartache in equal splatters. I want the next year to match it in moments lived, at the very least. Of course there are surprises waiting that I could never prepare for or guess at, but I want to be intentional about growing, learning, refining myself as far as lies within my reach.

What do you think of the following?

Actually review the books I post on Goodreads. I read so many books, many of them in great gulps, and don't retain as well as I could wish. I'd like, looking back, to know why I gave this book three stars and that one four. How did I choose this book? What did I love? What were the shortcomings? What other books did it remind me of? Who would I share it with?

Write letters.

Stop caring about stupid things.

Start liking sushi. I work in publishing, in Manhattan. This is a non-negotiable.

Trust boldly - smartly but boldly.

Watch Beauty & the Beast frequently.

Get ye olde finances in order. Unromantic but needful. I'm a grown lady (and a recently promoted one! Joy to the world!) and it's time to start managing money accordingly. I won't go into the embarrassing details, but there's some affairs to be straightened out rather than remembered. 2012 is the time to be a big girl about it.

Make soup more often.

I hope you approve of these, because I've gotten a jump start on most of them.

Cheers to the days ahead.

Joy to the World.

2011-12-19T00:38:00.006-05:00

In case you weren't aware, darling, Christmas is coming. And today was the first day that really felt as cold as winter.

After sleeping for half the morning (a miracle for me!), I came out to find that my roommate had made a pot of the pumpkin coffee she got for her birthday (thanks, Bethany's mom!) and found The Shop Around the Corner on TCM - we've just gotten obsessed with old films, thanks to White Christmas. Those old movies are cheesy and funny and the dialogue is smart as a whip! Plus the men are truly men, and truly gentlemen, even though they sing and dance. What's not to love?

Despite the cozy couch, another shop around the corner was waiting for us - the stores of Manhattan were singing to us, the kind of shopping that makes New York the best place to be at Christmastime if you, like me, pride yourself on finding the perfect gift for every name on the list. Even if you're dead broke and your list is 78% males (it's scientific fact that male persons are impossible to shop for, unless you're rich enough to buy Playstations or boring enough to buy boxers and ties).

I won't tell you where we shopped, in case you're on my list and prone to secret spoiling, but we ended up with full bags and gorgeous lips, thanks to a visit to the grown-up girls' playground, Sephora (oh you little black-and-white striped bag! with your burst of red tissue! true love that never hurts). And as we headed back to the train station at Union Square, we saw the greatest thing ever. Almost literally.

A little boy, round about four or so, was running joyously across the cement pavilion at the northwest corner of the park. He was laughing, his arms flung out, and as he ran, his pants fell down. He kept running. Little bare legs pumping in the chilly air, track pants fallen in bunches around his shins. Somehow he didn't trip. He just ran, and ran, and laughed. His mom caught up to him and yanked his pants back up. He took off running again as soon as he could break away from her, and we watched in fascination. Sure enough, pants came tumbling back down. Still running, still laughing. I think he knew everyone around was watching, and he loved it.

And heaven and nature sing.

How lovely are your branches

2011-12-02T20:22:00.000-05:00

It was unseasonably warm for Thanksgiving weekend, but we all wore scarfs and hats on principle. We trotted three blocks down Broadway in Astoria to the Christmas tree stand in front of C*Town, near the falafel truck that always wins the Vendy Awards. Not quite over the river and through the woods, but at least we didn't get stuck under a semi-truck.

The trees were bundled up in string, so we eyed them carefully for fatness and settled on one a little taller than I am. The air was piney. I was uncontainably excited about this, my first legit live Christmas tree, full-sized, needle-dropping, and all. The stand girl dragged our tree over to the measuring stick and announced the price, at which we recoiled. "This is a Fraser fir," she explained, "They're the most expensive because they smell the best and last the longest. The Douglas firs will come later, they're cheaper but they might not make it till Christmas." You get what you pay for. "We might get some Douglases in later tonight, you could come back if you want."

Like many businesses in New York, the Christmas tree stand is open 24 hours, and the girl explained that she has the day shift, 9 am - 9 pm. "How do you go to the bathroom?" was Andrew's question. Bethany and I were more concerned about food breaks. She was unfazed by our nosiness and explained that she's befriended the Vendy guys. They feed her and she limits her liquid intake.

The girl was skinny and pale, with dirty hands, falsely black hair, a lip ring, combat boots, a grungy sweater and lace underwear that showed above her jeans as she wrestled our tree to the baler and bent to trim its trunk. She had responded well to the first personal question, so I asked another one, a question that plagues me whenever I behold a Christmas tree stand employee. "What do you do the rest of the year?"

"Oh, I wander around," she explained cheerfully, slicing branches away to clear the trunk of our tree. "I just go places, then come back at Christmas to sell trees. I'm going to Guatemala next month, working on a boat. You know. I like different stuff." She sliced a disc off the trunk, and we of course wanted to know why. "The tree has to drink. The end dries up so you have to cut it clean again, so it can soak up the water." Her hair fell across her face as she peered at the severed piece. "Sorry, I like to count the rings. It's cool to know how old the trees are. This one's a good one."

We of course asked. Our tree is twelve. "It hasn't been bar mitzvahed!" Andrew sympathized. She baled our tree, pocketed our life savings (we loved our tree already), and the boys hauled it down Broadway, complaining about sap on their sweaters.

We wrapped it in lights. Hung all the ornaments and only broke one. It's the first thing I smell in the morning - better than coffee - and the first thing I smell when I get home at the end of the day - almost better than wine.

Happy Christmas.

In beauty green will always grow

2011-12-01T19:01:00.000-05:00

For the early years of my childhood, we spent the weeks around Christmas in Georgia with family, and only had an artificial table-top Christmas tree. In my teenage days, we raised ourselves to a full-size artificial tree, the decoration of which began with the maddening process of fitting color-coded branch ends into a metal base. The tree was old, and the paint was faded, worn away altogether in some places. My obsession with Christmas meant that I was always the one to tackle the nightmare, with the assistance of whatever brother could be bribed or threatened into participation.

I knew that real G0d-made trees were superior, with the passion you only show towards things which you longed for and never got as a child (this category in my therapist's notebook also includes "American Girl doll," "trip to Disneyworld," and "Barbie Dream Jeep, the one you can actually sit in and drive around"). When I grew up and had apartments of my own, heart warred with wallet at Christmastime. In shameful desperation, one broke bookstore year, I purchased a midsize artificial tree at Wal-mart for $12.

Now I live in New York, where there's a Christmas tree stand on every corner, because no one could possibly waste their expensive closet space on storing a Christmas tree for eleven months. My first Christmas here, my home was a third of a tiny studio apartment, and we gloried in our table-top Christmas tree with its string of white lights and handful of brand-new ornaments. The second year, I was prepping to move on New Years' Day. There was no Christmas tree.

Now I live in a life-size apartment, and one of my roommates is a good Jewish boy whose first Christmas tree experience came just five years ago. He has embraced the view that chosen people choose Christmas trees, and on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, we unpacked our respective ornament collections.

Although the bulk of my ornament portfolio is still in my brother's closet in Detroit, I've acquired a decent hoard over the past two years. I'm a Christmas professional. It's what I do.

We laid everything out in readiness, checked the strings of lights, and rearranged the living room furniture.

And then we went out to get the tree.

Leave the gun, take the coffeebeans.

2011-11-30T19:32:00.004-05:00

As previously discussed, the office kitchen now has a coffeemaker. We have not yet, however, instituted an efficient system for ensuring that we always have coffee beans. So far, we have handled it by sending a panicked text to whoever hasn't gotten to the office yet.

This morning my colleague Molly was the lucky recipient."Grab coffeebeans on your way in PLEASE!" I texted her. Or so I thought.

Forty-five minutes later, after Molly had arrived and we both went into conference with one of our proofreaders, I received this response: "F**k you . Stop sending me texts." [sic]

I looked at Molly in bewilderment. "Wow, aggressive, Molly!"

She gazed at me blankly.

"Did you just text me? Did you get beans?"

"What??" was her understandable response, and we both stared at her phone on the desk behind us, a good five feet away, as the chair rolls.

"I texted you this morning to pick up coffeebeans, we're out of coffee."

"Oh no!!!" a shriek akin to that of Anne Morrow Lindberg looking into the crib.

"Yeah, I texted you to pick up beans and I got a really mean response back." I read it to her.

She cracked up. "NO! I never got that!" We double-checked her phone. Truth.

As it turns out, in the 917 area code there is an individual with a number one digit off from Molly's and a severe overreaction problem.

I corrected her number quickly. And we sent an intern to Fika to get coffeebeans.

The Slutty Chef

2011-11-29T22:43:00.010-05:00

I traveled over Thanksgiving. I went South to visit a legion of family that I haven't seen in over a decade, amounting to six aunts, two uncles, nine cousins, four never-before-met cousins-in-law, and eleven second cousins (or cousins once removed? unsure), three of whom are under a year old, aka babies. Handheld humans are my favorite kind. Oh yeah, and two brothers thrown in there.

Being my nerdy self, I brought three books on the trip. And being my nerdy self, despite the profusion of family quality time, I managed to race through them. I found myself in the Atlanta airport at 8:30 am, facing a two-hour flight with about twenty minutes of reading material.

Following a laborious decision process (I won't buy a magazine with Scarlet Johansson or a Kardashian on the cover), I forked over $3.99 of cold hard cash for the latest issue of Cosmo (cover girl: Adele. Acceptable). About six pages into it, I realized this was a dreadful mistake.

Cosmo is shallow and smutty. Approximately 53% of its pages are devoted to ad space. And 37% to sex advice, most of which I am too classy and/or dorky to find relevant. The remaining percentage (I've lost track of the math) is frighteningly obvious beauty, shopping, and relationship advice. I am curious whether the average Cosmo reader is vapid enough to find it enlightening, or if everyone just buys the magazine for the sex and they throw the additional articles in there as filler.

Anyway. I despaired of the entire pink, fragranced issue until I stumbled across one modest box that validated my $3.99.

"Lasagna cupcakes"?! Marriage of true minds! I obsessed over the idea of this recipe - and the unlikely charm of finding it in Cosmo - until I got the chance to make it. The recipe was pretty simplified (although I shudder to think what a lust-crazed and manicured Cosmo girl would make of it, without instructions like "Let noodles cool before touching them"), but in case you can't read that tiny print on hot pink, here's what you do:

Cook lasagna noodles al dente and trim them in thirds or so.
Spray a muffin tin with non-stick spray and fold in a noodle, like tissue lining a gift bag.
Layer in a spoon of tasty pasta sauce (adding garlic to mine next time), shaved or shredded parmesan, and a scoop of ricotta.
Top with a leaf of fresh basil and a generous pinch of mozzarella.
Put another bit of noodle on top and smoosh down.
Repeat sauce-cheese-cheese-basil-cheese. That's right, three cheeses, twice. You heard me.
Pop in the oven for 17 minutes or so, until cheese is golden and bubbly.
Remove, admire until cool.
Best served with caeser salad, garlic bread, and heaping portions of self-confidence. And, of course, wine.

(Make at your own risk - it seems everything within the pages of Cosmo is designed to "Make Him Crazy for Your Lovin'" or "Make Him Commit Despite Your Manipulative Practices" or "Make Him Be Nice To Your Weird Stepbrother." Haven't experienced any such effects so far, but it's only been a few hours.)

Thankful (No matter what percent I am)

2011-11-24T10:43:00.004-05:00

this nail polish
this wine, and the neighborhood wine store that sells it for $4.
semi-colons.
MTA (usually)
brother's new gig
roommates who make popcorn, respect closed doors, and become a family.
roommates who open their couch to your genetic family and never hint at an expiration date.
New Girl.
new work friends who are becoming real friends
old work friends who have remained true friends.
Downton Abbey (Reader, you watch it. It's that good.)
a boss who thinks employees should be happy, rested, and respected - and shows it by encouraging holiday travel plans.
relatives who welcome odd prodigals from the big city.
Chicago Manual of Style.
Rolos.

Biographical.

2011-11-12T11:39:00.002-05:00

In my old age, I have become a fan of early weekend mornings. This is because I want maximum time to enjoy being lazy. If I let myself wake up naturally, I usually wake up around 9:30 or so, having been too tired and elderly to stay out past 10pm on a Friday night. This gives me hours to laze around the house, undressed and unwashed, drinking coffee, watching cartoons, prowling facebook, and reading the tome of the moment.

Currently, that tome is the Steve Jobs biography, rushed to the presses a month early to capitalize on the wave of consumer grief following the subject's death. I felt bandwagony, but was soon reading such "intensely great" reviews, to use Mr. Jobs' favorite phrase, that I couldn't resist. And great it is.

I have, at some point without really noticing it, become a biography junkie. The thicker, the better, meaning these are my weekend morning books, because they're too heavy (and beautiful) to carry around in my purse (getting nicked, smudged, and dented by keys, coffee receipts, rummages for lipgloss). In the last couple months I've read Disney, Catherine the Great, and now Jobs. World-changers - as Isaacson writes in his introduction, people who can stand at the intersection of humanities and science. I'm learning that such people are difficult to be around. They tromp on feelings, they ignore financial realities or manufacturing logistics, relentlessly pursuing a perfect realization of whatever visions scroll through their brains. Disney and Jobs, in particular, remind me of each other.

And I've caught myself lusting after possibly unwritten biographies of other entrepreneurs, such as the founder of Netflix, or the inventor of the escalator. I never would've expected myself to be an avid reader of business or technology, but as it turns out, that's where the history lies.

And I bet those great, ornery souls of the intersection also never slept in on Saturday morning.

Occupy the Coffeemaker

2011-11-05T10:13:00.003-04:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the dividing line between ignoble servitude and a real job is whether or not your employer provides coffee for you. As of this week, I am proud to announce that I have a real job.

Last week dissatisfied murmurs began to spread through the office. We were tired of fighting through Kardashian oglers to get to the Starbucks, tired of overpaying for overstrong coffee at the gourmet espresso bar, tired of impulse-buying muffins and salads at the sprawling lunch bodega. We were tired of bankrupting ourselves - and wasting company time - running downstairs for coffee every few hours. And soon it would be winter.

We circulated a petition, in the form of a friendly email reinforced with one-word g-chat statuses: COFFEE!!!

The response from The Man came quickly: our demand would be met. The next day, a coffeemaker, coffee grinder, a pound of beans from the gourmet shop, and an array of sugar and sweeteners appeared in the kitchen. We thronged around it with wide eyes and glad hearts.

Morale remains high and productivity has soared.

Caffeine to the masses.

Angela's

2011-11-01T19:32:00.004-04:00

Between my subway stop and my apartment is a bright and shiny little wine store called Angela's, run by an adorable Asian woman, who may or may not be Angela, and her happily hen-pecked husband. They are both always there. Always. And they notice everything. One week when I came in on successive days with different guy friends, I saw them look at each other slyly and that weekend, when I came in alone, Angela said to me with a twinkle in her eye, "No friends tonight, eh?" And once I heard her discussing a regular customer's male pattern baldness when his wife happened to come in. "Your husband, he wears the red hat? His hair go back, back, all gone? I see. I see!"

Tonight I reacted with horror and hopelessness at the register when I realized the debit card minimum had been raised from $10 to $15. Angela was comforting. "You are regular! For you, for you, just today, it's ok. You will buy more next time, yes? Yes."

As I swiped my card for my dispensated debit purchase, I noticed a strange Blackberry on the counter.
"Someone left their phone!"
Angela was jolly. "They will return! They will notice! Not for pizza."
Me: "Huh?"
Angela: "Once, I have man who forgets a whole pizza!" She mimed the box shape. "Left it on counter! He did not come back. My son was happy."

She went on to tell me that when the customer had next been in, she had teased him about it, but he didn't know what she was talking about. For me, leaving behind an entire fresh hot gooey pizza would be memorable. Do you forget a car accident? Would some sort of violent assault on the person or persons you hold most dear slip your memory? Could you shrug off utter tragedy?

Not me. As my roommate Bethany said, "Once I left a croissant at Dunkin Donuts, and it ruined my whole day." I will weep for the left-behind, unmissed pizza; I solemnly vow that every pizza - or bottle of wine - entrusted to my custody will make it home safe and sound.

(What happens next is none of your concern.)

Trick or Treat

2011-10-31T19:33:00.003-04:00

Two years ago at this time, I was getting off the bus in front of Port Authority, agog at the skanky nurses, skanky brides, skanky Dorothys, skanky cowgirls, skanky police officers, and skanky Statue of Libertys filling the streets. It had been a long, weird day of travel - I was exhausted, my suitcases were heavy, and I didn't know where I was going to live.

Fast forward twenty-four months. I found a place to live, then moved, then moved again and now have my very own room. Tonight when I got off the train and the streets of my neighborhood were clogged with families, swarms of kids fat from the sweatshirts and jackets under their little costumes. A little girl at the grocery store told me she liked my pirate costume. I appreciated her graciousness in including my black boots and black and white paisley scarf in the spirit of the evening.

And another New Yorkiversary is about to be inscribed - my brother Noah is moving here on Thursday, also with no job or place to live. Yet. Except my couch, for at least a week or two. (Maybe I set a bad example of the way adults make decisions and take care of themselves.) In any event, his clothes are a lot nicer than mine, though he doesn't have as many books, and poverty can be dignified as long as you're well-dressed or well-read.

What's coming in the last twelve months? I can't wait to find out.

Those Charmed Particles

2011-10-23T13:00:00.005-04:00

How lucky I was, arriving in New York just as everything was about to go to hell. I had no idea how fortunate I was at the time, eaten up as I was by my own present-tense concerns and taking for granted the lively decay, the intense dissonance, that seemed like normality. Only F. Scott Fitzgerald characters (those charmed particles) feel the warm gold of nostalgia even while something's unfolding before their enraptured eyes. For the rest of us, it's only later, when the haze burns off, that you can look back and see what you were handed, the opportunities hidden like Easter eggs that are no longer there for anybody, completely trampled. To start out as a writer then was to set out under a higher, wider, filthier, more window-lit sky. A writer could still dream of climbing to the top to see who was up there enjoying themselves.
-James Wolcott, "Norman Mailer Sent Me,"
Vanity Fair November 2011

Coming up on two years here, I'm thinking as I read the article. Worth every struggle.

It's never been bad, my life here, never regretted, but it's been more difficult sometimes than others - a filthy, window-lit sky, and every chance seems prematurely trampled. My boss' wife told me with a laugh that she and her first NYC roommates had three categories in their budget: clothes, food, rent; and only two could be met at any time. I laughed back, as if that was far in my past, too, instead of being just barely behind me and also easily around the next corner. Sure, now it's a little easier to pay the bills and still buy the books; I'm not taking it for granted that the roughest time I've had in the last handful of months was the week my coffeemaker was broken, or the day I had to attend an industry expo with a badly stuffy nose. It seems safe to say, I can make it here.

New York is the place where everyone - not just Fitzgerald particles, but all of us who ran out here for the potential that comes alongside the lively decay - everyone feels nostalgia even as it's happening, because we're all so hungry for our small particular dreams that are intertwined with the city itself, not just as the setting for the goal, but part of its identity. The eagerness to believe that your dirty wild Gotham dream is true and owned manifests as nostalgia, as Wolcott describes in his article, seeing yourself in the middle of a scene brand new and dying, strange and familiar, threatening, hopeful, yours.

The article goes on to relate yet another brick in the New York road: acts of kindness by relative strangers who, further along the climb than you, reach a hand back for no other reason than seeing themselves in the mirror of your greedy dream. For Wolcott, it was an unexpected response from Mailer to a college newspaper article, and a gruff Village Voice editor who answered his friend Mailer's request: I think he would be willing to live on hot dogs for a while...I would appreciate it if you would give him a little of your time. Wolcott concludes his piece, Everything that's happened to me since swung from the hinge of that moment, the gate that opened because one editor shrugged, Ah, what the hell. Then, of course, Wolcott dashed through, and proved he belonged so well that he's got an eight-page article in a Vanity Fair with Johnny Depp on the cover. (Remember my lifetime goal: become notable enough to contribute to Vogue's Nostalgia column; VF's Literary Lives is a close second).

And the helix of this city's lit world comes to meet itself: this summer, the house that hired me published a collection by the Voice's current society columnist, Michael Musto. I'm still pinching myself! Two years in, and I've snuck through the gate. Work is grand (not sure if I've ever written that sentence before). I'm doing something real, a puzzle piece towards where I want to end up, the weekdays pass with busy, interesting haste.

I'm losing track of my original point - if I had one, in the haze of Sudafed, Sunday afternoon, and Law & Order marathons. Fall has flashed in with all its glory falling, gaudy leaves and new titles so tempting that you just can't wait for paperback (welcome back, Eugenides! Can't wait to buy you and devour you). Find the magazine, read the article, and tell me what you think...is New York still for writers and climbers? Am I lucky?

"It makes me want to buy school supplies..."

2011-09-08T15:55:00.003-04:00

This week's autumnish chill had me snatching boots out from under the bed and unearthing tights from the back of my drawer.

I look cute and fally, but I am suffering: I spent the warm and sunny Labor Day weekend wearing shorts and frolicking around the parks of Astoria, sitting on the grass to eat potato salad, walking through the tall weeds along the river.

My gams are generously speckled with bugbites, now itching intolerably and inaccessible under my tights.

Torture.

Good morning from the berries.

2011-09-07T10:02:00.003-04:00

I have a carton of really fat, really tartsweet, really juicy blackberries for breakfast. And by fat, I mean FAT. Like a grape or a cherry tomato.

On the inside of the carton lid, I found a little bit of tasty inspiration.

"The greatest danger for most of us is not that our aim is too high and we miss it, but that it is too low and we reach it."
-Michelangelo.

Today, blackberries trump my Blackberry.

The Week in Nerdery

2011-09-03T09:50:00.000-04:00

Monday:
Office closed for a Hurricane Day. Read a third of this book in one sitting, followed by conversation with roommate on the ways in which it is a grown-up sibling of these books.
Received subscription to Chicago Manual of Style online. Rejoiced exceedingly.

Tuesday:
Requested Library of Congress numbers for the first time.
Learned about the secret formula buried in every ISBN, according to which the final digit is a check digit derived from a magical series of multiplications, additions, and divisions of the previous twelve. Mind exploded.

Wednesday:
Twenty-minute conversation with coworker about the serial comma, aka Oxford comma, during which we outlined our personal histories with it; shared at length our thoughts and emotions on its identity and critiqued those of our colleagues; and discoursed passionately on when it is dearly needed and when it is an annoyance.
Barely restrained self from ill-afforded purchase of this book.
Shared this website with (young, female) coworkers. Joy abounded. (Middle aged, male) supply orderer not impressed or persuaded.

Thursday:
Boss delivered desktop file holders to the editorial bullpen. Shrieks of glee, followed by a very satisfying frenzy of alphabetizing and organizing, binder-clipping and label making.

Friday:
Made an unprofessionally audible joy noise at my desk when I discovered my little buddy Adam's first review in Shelf Awareness today.
Came home from work to find a package from Random House waiting for me. I had a pretty good idea what it was and started jumping in the air and hooting even as I tore it open. Yup. I was right. An advance copy of this book. Eeeeeeeeiiii!! That's right, the most anticipated biography of the fall, in my greedy hands already! Go ahead with your jealous salivating. I won't notice, I'll be reading.

I'd Like to Buy A Vowel.

2011-09-01T07:53:00.004-04:00

I dreamed I was pulling a heavy suitcase through Grand Central Station, hurrying to catch the 3 o'clock train to wherever I was going - the last train of the day. The community relations manager from my old bookstore was following me through the crowds, trying to get me to slow down because she wanted to ask me about letters.

"Are lowercase letters cheaper than uppercase? " she asked me. "Will it save if we just buy the lowercase ones?" And in dreamland, I knew she was talking about the letters that filled every conversation that happened in the store. Not alphabets for kids to play with, not fonts or flash cards or workbooks. In the world of this dream, the store ordered letters, alongside shopping bags, toilet paper, and coffee cups, to supply every question, answer, joke, complaint, or observation.

and now the economy was making every sentence look like this. my manager would walk in and say, "sharon, this customer is looking for to kill a mockingbird. sharon, do we have any more copies of the little engine that could to go on the table upstairs?" Inarticulate sounds - hmmmm - uhhh - would be frowned upon, and when you absolutely must snort in disgust at some idiocy, only one S to your psht, please. Between customers, we would all have to stand silently at the information desks, no personal chitter chatter, and imagine the kind of limits that would be put on breakroom conversation!

And you know what would be next: punctuation. Every comma, parenthesis and question mark would be carefully rationed, with semi-colons and em dashes an occasional luxury, perhaps something to be purchased on your own dime using your employee discount.

chilling no wonder i was running for the train

And you know what would be next? Punctuation.

Irene

2011-08-28T18:32:00.006-04:00

We had a little hurricane. I say little, because that's what it turned out to be, at least comparatively speaking. But it is in the nature of hurricanes to be temperamental, and NYC, collectively speaking, braced its brash self for the worst and is now disgruntled at being blessed with the best.

Of course, for me the hurricane was pretty damn fun. A government order to be lazy and gluttonous and overdose on weather-focused television program? Sir yes sir. Ok, so maybe the mayor didn't actually say, "Buy gummie bears, donuts, frozen pizza, lots of wine and lounge on the couch all day watching cute young meteorologists brace their brawny forms against the wind and waves." And he probably wouldn't be pleased to hear that we went to get Chinese food just as the wind picked up and the rain got serious about its purpose in life. Panic is delicious!

Behind Roomie you see all our patio furniture
and our taped windows, replete with our initials.

But for the most part, we did what was officially recommended. We filled the bathtub. We charged up our phones, iPods, iPads and computers. We taped the windows and pulled everything in off the porch. We bought jugs of water and non-perishable snacks. (For me, the scariest part of the hurricane was my Friday-evening trip to the local grocery store, where nervous hordes nearly rioted when the Poland Springs guy showed up with a new pallet of 2.5 gallon jugs). We gathered together our assorted booklights, crankable flashlights and aromatherapy candles (I think we even had a menorah or two). It seems that at some point, when I wasn't paying attention, I became an adult.

Now that Irene has moved on coyly, New Yorkers are snarking. Mayor Bloomberg and NJ Governor Christie, both of whom were blunt and bossy in their insistence that the tristate area prepare with gravity and heed the mandatory evacuation zones, are now under snide criticism for "overpreparing." MTA shut down altogether and won't be back up until tomorrow at the earliest; eyes are rolling violently at this "overreacting."

My street in the morning

I say, STFU. And I'm not just defending overreacting as one who is frequently guilty thereof. I'm saying, those two men, and their teams, were smart and cautious, emphatic when they needed to be and aggressive about their responsibility for the safety of the millions under their custody. That is the nature of leadership. Of course I'm sure they were playing the politics, at least in the back of their mind - no one wants to be the one who didn't learn from Katrina, and both came under some criticism for being too cavalier during the blizzard emergencies this winter. But who cares? They kept the city safe. The places that flooded were nearly empty, because of their insistence. The branches that fell, the waves that crashed on the beach and washed over the boardwalk and down the street, did so safely, because of their obsessive reminders that we all stay indoors until further notice.

And Irene could've been worse. So much worse. It was her own caprice, unmeasurable, that spun her slower, father, gentler - she could just as easily have unleashed a matchless PMS on this overcrowded city. As I speak, the winds are still whipping the trees furiously, frighteningly, and this is hours after she's left town. I'm not going to be the snide idiot that wants more broken windows or higher waters to justify minor inconveniences. I say, Bravo, Bloomie. Next time, do just the same, por favor.

Rainey Park, East River, Roosevelt Island, Manhattan...safe and sound

Sharon Gets Real Job, Earth Shakes

2011-08-23T20:01:00.002-04:00

So I was sitting here at my desk, discussing a project with a couple colleagues, when the building rocked gently.

I internally panicked thanks to memories of that NBC miniseries "Earthquake!" (I think it starred Rob Lowe?). Then, as no one else seemed to notice anything unusual, I repanicked. I have a brain tumor. I'm going insane. My vertigo is relapsing from that time I rode the Orbitron three times in a row at the neighborhood carnival. I'm a character in a book that just got thrown away by someone who bought an e-reader.

Then I felt it again.
Me: "Ok, did anyone feel that??"
Managing editor: "Stop drinking ventis.
Intern, who hails from California, nodding calmly, "Oh yeah, it was probably an earthquake."
Editor: "Nah, they've been working on the floor below us all day. Just construction."
Me: "It felt like the whole building shook. Is that what an earthquake feels like?!?"
Intern: "[Shrug]Sure, maybe a small one."
Me: "Oh, never mind, the sun's out. It can't be an earthquake."
Entire office: "[jeers, derision, guffaws]"
Me: "Ok ok ok well I forgot earthquakes aren't weather!"
Editor: "It wasn't an earthquake. You're crazy."
Twitter: "Earthquake! Earthquake! Earthquake joke, earthquake panic, joke panic joke panic joke joke joke"
Me: "TOLD YA SO"

We looked out the windows and everyone was running out of their buildings towards the Starbucks. I looked on Facebook and everyone was asking if anyone felt an earthquake and if it was ok to leave work early. I checked CNN, which reported no damage or injuries, in callous disregard of the jammed cell networks and the havoc that wreaked on my attempts to boast to everyone back home about feeling and surviving THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE.

An Offer You Can't Refuse

2011-08-20T23:47:00.003-04:00

Hey everyone!

Come visit me in New York asap! I know the greatest place!

No, it's not the subway exit at 59th and 5th that's marked THE PLAZA and you walk out to see Eloise cocking her hip at you. It's not the Strand kiosks alongside the park (although I did pick up Paul Auster's New York Trilogy for a song today) or the cinnamon nut cart or any of the dozens of Starbucks that, I'm pretty sure, recognize me and feel hurt when I sail past their windows without coming in.

It's not the funnest prettiest store on Fifth Avenue where everything is almost affordable, but not quite, even with my new paychecks, but I want it so badly because the bags are striped like chocolate and everything is just so fun and elegant (it's somewhere in between the great feuding hungry lovely and ambitious It girls of Breakfast at Tiffany's and Valley of the Dolls, Sassy but classy, ruthless but elegant. Brown and white stripes and a ponytail).

It's not even my own apartment, where I make amazing brunches, if I do say so myself (does anyone love cheesy potatoes? Or savory, overstuffed scrambled eggs? And by the way, the mimosas are better when you're in your pjs with your hair screwed up high and pillow creases on your face).

Those are all my favorite places, and I went to them all today, on my way to a very special birthday dinner for a very special person who's been conquering New York with me since my very first day here. She met me at the train, literally and figuratively, and carried one of my suitcases to the studio we would share. Later she got her dream job and her own apartment, and lasted six months by herself before we were roommates again. Then summer came, and I moved to Astoria, and she traveled lots for work, and for the first time, she wasn't there at 2 am to experiment with interview outfits while watching truly execrable reality TV. Feels odd that she's not three feet away during this wild summer of moving and succeeding, that she wasn't the person to come home and shriek to at each piece of breathless good news.

So we packed it into one night, tonight, for her birthday, at this amazing place I found. I'll take you there too, if you come visit me. They don't have it where you're from and you'll love it, trust me.

Vacationish

2011-08-09T11:00:00.005-04:00

Last week was full of lasts - goodbyes, good lucks and celebrations.

Oh, and these.

Tuesday I said see ya to my internship, as well as can't thank you enough and received a hearty blend of encouragement and practical advice for this exciting, intimidating next step.

Wednesday I received a slew of orientation emails from my new gig, including the thrilling site of myself on the company roster, my email address and oh-so-official signature, my phone number and extension! It's real! How scary.

Thursday one of my dearest college friends came to town. I made this dinner for the first of three times so far since seeing it on The Today Show (yes part of me is a soccer mom. I love wearing aprons and I sometimes wash dishes before the person eating off them is even finished). It was delightful to have her around for this weird in-between-and-on-the-way part of my life.We raised our glasses for the sixth or seventh of the countless cheers that have been made in the last two weeks.

And Friday was the blessed, joyous, long-fantasized, impatiently heralded last day at the bookstore. My last last day there, I hope to God. That night we dressed up glam and went to our new favorite place and cheersed all the more with a collection of friends and friends-of-friends heralding from Ireland, Prague and Malaysia. It was perfect.

I've had the last four days off - what's the term? Staycation? More exploring the city with Talitha, more reading, writing and thinking, more cooking, more friends, more laughing, more bubbly and a lovely expedition to Target for a first-day dress.

First day: tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Employee of the Week

2011-07-30T10:53:00.000-04:00

My roommate works in the Community Relations department at the bookstore where we both are indentured. As employees are grudgingly admitted to be members of the community as well as underpaid slaves, putting together the Employee of the Week recognition also falls under her responsibilities. After the managers choose the candidate, she collects fun facts and colleague quotes about the designee, takes their picture, and designs a bulletin board in the break room for us to gaze at all week long to avoid gazing at the contents of the other bulletin boards: annoying information about meeting company goals and providing excellent customer service.

This past Sunday, my roommate stapled up my picture under the E.o.t.W. banner while I was in the office next door giving two week's notice. The amount of satisfaction we both derived from this concurrence is akin to that of President Obama when Seal Team 6 was giving its final report, if not greater. I marched out of the office with an ecstatic expression on my face and she marched in to ask our boss to sign my E.o.t.W. card. I think his delight was slightly less than ours.

Yes, it's true! Revise that verb in the opening sentence! To complete the thought from my last post, I have been offered an editorial assistant position at a Manhattan publishing company and I'm sure it will surprise none of you to read that I accepted with alacrity.

Of course I am looking forward to a decent human work schedule and subsistence pay, but the most thrilling part is the job itself - the next step (and a very large step, really more of a jump or even a leap) in realizing the goals I came to this city for. I will be doing what I love - editing - in a rewarding environment. I'm excited to build on the intensive apprenticeship that Ye Olde Internship provided. I'm eager for a meritocracy.

And, of course, I'm in shock. This is happening a lot more quickly and smoothly than my most determined optimism expected. I think I'm ready - I guess I've paid my share of blood sweat and tears. I've earned it? Here comes my best.

Hot Child

2011-07-27T11:25:00.009-04:00

I am a cold-blooded creature, more so than most born, raised and committed Northerners. More sensitive to cold than the average bear, I carry sweaters and scarves all summer long to defend me from air conditioning. Perhaps because I spend my life freezing, I lack the coping skills for excessively hot weather. The sensation of sweat on my skin is unprecedented and creepy.

Last week for three or four consecutive days, temperatures in New York City passed 100 degrees - I didn't even know thermometers had triple digits. I usually feel relief when I leave an air conditioned building; last week, walking out of work was like being socked in the face. By Lord Voldemort. If he had spent the weekend doing pushups with an army of homeless people riding on his back. It was too hot for clothes, too hot for any part of your body to be touching any other part, too hot to speak or breathe or do anything but lie spread-eagled in front of a fan and pray for an Ice Age to destroy life on the planet.

Yet on Friday, midmorning's machine gun sun found me tottering down the street in a sharp corporate outfit that looked great and allowed for zero air circulation. On the hottest day in the history of time, I was traveling across sidewalks that spat heat in my (carefully made-up) face and waiting on kiln-like subway platforms to get to a job interview. A second interview, to be exact.

The first interview was an accident. A low-key follow-up to a winey conversation at a BEA indie press mixer - I arrived at a Park Ave. publishing company expecting coffee, advice, maybe a few further contacts to annoy. I reeled away realizing I had been ambushed by a job interview with no chance to shop for new clothes, anxiety-eat or flay myself with neurotic self-doubt.

I fixed that before the second interview. Bought a Hire-Me skirt and Paymewell shoes, ironed until a fuse blew (seriously, imagine the crisis of confidence when you're ironing on the kitchen table five minutes after you should have left, and the house is suddenly plunged in darkness. My roommate's cry of despair: "AAaAaaaghhh! The air conditioning!!") and rushed to the train.

Or tried to rush, until I realized that moving any faster than continental drift would have me show up at a critical interview looking like that guy who touched the Ark of the Covenant in the first Indiana Jones movie. Then I received a surprise MTA good luck charm at the station: no Manhattan-bound trains at this stop. Goody! This is only the most important day of my New York life! Doesn't matter if I'm late and sweaty!

Miraculously, all trains involved in the detour arrived quickly and with zealous air conditioning. I sauntered into the "interview" all bright and shiny like I change fuses every day of my life, like it's no big deal that I used my last sick day at an insufferable job to be there, like two years of wild dreamy risks aren't riding on how whether I can impress this CEO, this managing editor, this production editor.

I walked into the office, shook hands and heard, "So the position we're offering you is..."

Impossible to Ignore

2011-07-22T15:38:00.003-04:00

I've always viewed magazine subscriptions as an ultimate hallmark of adulthood. I'm not sure why. Something about luxury side-by-side with commitment.

Over the past couple years, I've caught myself buying Vogue with profligate regularity. Now that I have a settled address, and have put down roots in the form of buying new bathroom towels and plastic mixing bowls for the kitchen, I have signed up for a subscription (and managed to pay the invoice promptly, something that cannot be said of my phone bill. Ever.)

My favorite parts are not the fashion spreads (which mystify me as often as they inspire) or the society features, but a few essay columns tucked towards the front: up front, which is a focused and usually beautifully written slice of the world which deserves a closer look, and nostalgia, in which authors of varying fame share a memory of their life at a pivotal point.

The latest issue arrived last night when I was sorely in need of sophisticated distraction, and I read a summery nostalgia piece by Sallie Tisdale which was mostly charming, except for one string of sentences. When I read this, I sat up despite the ungodly heat and frowned menacingly at the magazine:

"Growing up requires from us our dreams. Dreams have to disappear; they tend to get in the way of life. We learn - sometimes only the hard way - what our gifts really are."

Excuse moi??

No.

If your dreams are getting in the way of your life, you're living the wrong life.

True, you might flirt with temporary ideas of what you want to be (do. write. paint. see. make) that turn out to be a chimera. But these things aren't foolish and they don't "get in the way of life." Pursuing dreams, be they illusions or vocations, is life. And investigating one dream after another, letting the wrong ones evolve into the true ones, sifting the whims from the compulsions, that is the hard way that leads to learning. That's the scary process of wrestling your dreams to earth and forcing your life to accept them.

The other way is to do the first thing that falls in front of you and ignore the songs from somewhere else. Trade your dreams for security, acceptance, tradition. And that isn't growing up. That isn't growing at all.

What's that Cranberries song in You've Got Mail? (Yes, I will take any opportunity to unashamedly reference that movie.) Listen to it right now. It's got much the better idea...I want more, impossible to ignore, They’ll come true, impossible not to do

With all due respect, Ms. Tisdale: I'm a grown-up (look! Vogue subscription! Mixing bowls!) and I haven't relinquished my dreams. Quite the opposite.

A Maudlin Post You Won't Like

2011-07-12T01:19:00.012-04:00

I know I promised more funny posts.

I just have to say this (It is MY blog, after all). I have to write it so I can step beyond it.

I didn't have an easy childhood. And I haven't always (usually) felt loved.

But I was always taken care of. I was always fed, clothed, taught, always carefully watched.

I was never alone until I fought for the chance to prove I was old enough to be alone. I never worried about who would take me to the little girls' room, who would give me dinner, who would help me zip my coat. And my mother stood in the gap for me in ways I never suspected.

Yesterday I spent more time than I should have with two small ones whose mother didn't know enough to keep them close. I found them crying in the department and they latched onto me with more trust than any toddler should give a stranger. They were dirty, hurt, untaught, uncared for. I won't say unloved, but their bright eyes were frantic and their grubby hands knotted into mine too quickly.

I read to them, colored with them, cuddled them for the hour it took us to find their mother. We stuck Barbie stickers all over our legs, then Spiderman stickers all over our arms. The brother was taking care of his tiny sister, even though he was only five and didn't know how to write, or draw, or color. She smelled like the old men on the train begging for money, and had scrapes all over her body. He couldn't say his S's and didn't know how to hold a crayon.

When the police came, my little ones seemed to expect it. He asked me, "Why are the cops here?" without looking up from the stickers. He answered their questions prosaically - where do you live? do you go to school? where's your mom? does she hurt you? where's your dad? what's his name? does he hurt you? who brought you here? when did you see her last? is she coming back? - just another Sunday.

When the mother returned, we had to let her take them.

Several of my dearest friends are mothers now. I can hardly believe that they've produced small humans. It's surreal to think about them carrying around a miniature set of themselves. Answering squalls in the night, buying organic bananas, potty-training.

I know there are days when they probably cry out for a Friends dvd and a bottle of wine, the Friday nights we used to live for. I know they miss their old waistlines, their uninterrupted thoughts, their deep dips into novels, long strolls through the grocery stores.

Despite this, I also know nothing - nothing - will ever be more compelling to these women - these girlfriends of mine who are mothers - than the beautiful children they've made. I know, as their little ones grew within them, were born in violence, screamed and fed and grew and crawled and reached and walked, these are more than any poem. They will never turn their backs on their babies in a bookstore, these girls who've poured over 20-page English papers with me and debated the significance of Peonelope's fidelity or Dante's latent adoration of Francesca.

When the police walked away with my dirty babies, I excused myself to the stockroom. Of all the things I've sobbed over in this job, this is the first honorable one. I cried because these little ones didn't have a mother like Amy, Beth, Laurel, Lisa, Marcy, Nicole, Rosa, Whitney.

(And you I've forgotten in the moment.)

I'm in awe of your love.

Zzzzzzzz

2011-07-06T11:13:00.000-04:00

I think I've been carrying an unsuspected sleep debt stretching back to November 1, 2009.

I've been a hardcore morning person for the past couple years. And especially since moving to NYC (and working a loathed job), I've hated missing out on a single second of life to something as useless as sleep. If someone's moving around in the room, I wake up so I can talk to them! I want to be dressed, eating, exploring! Let's read! Let's laugh about something! I'm like the three-year-old you try to put down for a nap when Fun Aunt Fiona is visiting. My roommates teased me about how many lives I lived before they even stirred, and it's true: sleeping past 8:30, even on a day off, was a rarity.

Yet now that I have a bedroom by myself, I've been sleeping like a crazy person. 10 pm bedtimes. Twelve-hour nights. I even slept till noon one day - noon! My roommate Andrew, who after just one month of cohabitation has picked up on my early-bird habits, confessed he was wasn't sure if I was still alive until I staggered out disheveled and horrified.

Could it be that during these months of studio sharing (much of which was also bedsharing), I never got a complete and restful night of sleep? Sharing a bed with a violent journalist, negotiating lights-out times, listening to someone else breathing all night long, rousing the second someone else was awake and available to talk to, smelling croissants from the bakery below at 2 am...does it make sense that this would add up to less than perfect dreamland? And in the second apartment, falling asleep in the TV's flicker, a bed too soft and springy, late-night conversations about George Clooney, Ryan Reynolds and other deeply serious professional matters...maybe that wasn't allowing enough shut-eye to support a 60-hour work week.

I never felt like I was sleeping badly. I hope I didn't look chronically exhausted. I love having a room of my own with an otherwise unoccupied and incredibly comfortable full-size bed. My back hasn't done that awful thing where it gets all tight and twingy and unbearable since I moved.

But I'm missing out on life! Wake up, wake up!

Fabric Softener

2011-07-05T06:06:00.000-04:00

I did laundry at the laundromat this weekend for the second time ever. Yes, it's true; despite living in dorms and apartments for the last 8 years, I've never actually had to leave the building to do laundry. As it turns out, laundromats are kind of great! The one near my new apartment is bright and clean and full of purple. And full of overweening little children.

I was sorting (on the grape folding table!) the clothes that were dry from the clothes that needed an extra tumble. A little boy around nine or so cruised by, closely followed by a small girl. He stopped short suddenly. "Hey. Is that an iPad??!"
I admitted that it was (I had been skimming manuscripts while the clothes washed). He eyed it in silence before continuing on to the pop machine.
A few minutes later he rushed up and announced, "I'm in love with the iPad!" I agreed with him that it's pretty nifty and went to dump the damp clothes in the dryer.

When I returned, they were running laps around the table with the little sister yelping at the boy "Fatty! Fatty! Fatty!" They stopped next to me and she pointed, for clarity. "He's a fatty!"
He was not a fatty. A little on the chunky side, cuddlier than Oliver Twist, but definitely slimmer than Manny on Modern Family
"No," I said. "He's muscular."
She stared at me. "What's...muskalar?"
"It means strong and buff, like a baseball player."
Her suspicious gaze swiveled to the boy, who was now watermelon red. "Did you know that word?"
He nodded and changed the subject. "Why do you have an iPod and an iPad?"
I felt shamed in a way I didn't understand. Is he judging my technological redundancy as wanton consumerism or as painful illiteracy? "Well, the iPod is for music."
"You can listen to music on the iPad."
"I know, I just don't have any on there."
"Then what do you use it for?" with thinly veiled scorn.
The little girl popped up. "She uses it for reading," with completely unveiled scorn.
"Yes," I verified, "I use it for reading and writing and email, you know."
"Do you watch movies on it?"
"No."
"Did you know you can?"
"Yes, I just don't have any on there, I use it for other things." My tone was frankly defensive. I was feeling seriously inadequate in the eyes of a strange eight-year-old boy with chocolate ice cream smudged on his neck. I played my trump card.
"Want to see the coolest thing on here?"
They both hopped eagerly onto chairs around the folding table as I opened the Air Hockey app.
"Whooooooaaaaaa."

I beat the future Genius Bar employee in a game, then they played while I folded my clothes. I felt that my honor had been reinstated. Then the boy left with a man I hope was his father and the little girl continued chattering away on to me.
"Do you know where Connecticut is?"
"Yes." (I lied.)
"I'm going there today. It's my dad's birthday. I live in a basement."
"Are you going to see fireworks?"
She looked up at me in irritated confusion.
"What?"
"Fireworks. For the Fourth of July!"
"No." Back to the iPad - she had switched to a game involving manipulating penguins into ice holes.
I complimented her when she passed a challenging level.
"I'm smart because I go to a good school," she explained matter-of-factly.
"In Connecticut?"
Another look of disgust. "No."

My clothes were folded so I collected the iPad and left humbly, vowing to watch more movies and locate Connecticut.

Best Uneventful Day Off EVER

2011-06-22T15:33:00.007-04:00

I forgot to turn off my alarm, which woke me up at 7:30 on my one free day off. I swore at it, of course, but the truth is I would probably have woken up by myself around that time, anyway, as somewhere around 2009 I lost my ability to sleep in. So I made coffee (with cinnamon!), took it out on the balcony and read the first several chapters of a fantastic book.

Then I applied to a few jobs, wrote some notes and made breakfast for the roommates - scrambled eggs with tomatoes, mushrooms and mozzarella. I even toasted enough toast for all three of us - aren't I the best? They pretended they weren't enthralled while I caught up on the latest episode of The Bachelorette.

Then I cleaned. Confession: I really kind of totally love cleaning. Especially during a week of frustrating misery, boy do I love cleaning! I scrubbed down the kitchen, from tiling to recycling cans, while the roommates looked at amazing things on the internet, like Animals Being Jerks (I had to lean on the Swiffer to hold me upright while I sobbed with laughter) and some inevitably disappointing marketing ploy.

After going to town figuratively on the bathroom, I went to town literally to grocery shop. Folks, buying produce in Queens is a legendary pleasure. It's so cheap, and so beautiful, and so good. Should I buy a couple small slightly sour tomatoes for $2.99 in Manhattan? Or four big shiny rich ones for $1.99 in Queens? Should I buy a plastic envelope of shrunken brown cilantro for $4.99? Or a vibrant aromatic handful for $.99? I could go on about this all day. If there were such thing as produce erotica, I could write it.

When I came home, Andrew led the efforts to create this masterpiece: African Pineapple Peanut Stew. It's bizarre and delicious, so delicious, so very delicious that I'm tyopnh ont handed ehile i shobel it into my face. And I'm reading more cool things on the internet, like this and that.

And now you're caught up on my day, boys and girls. My to-do list has a couple items left, like venture out boldly to a laundromat, read some manuscripts, maybe apply to a few more jobs or watch some more execrable television. We'll see. I'm pretty pleased to be well-fed and not at work.

The Edge of Glory

2011-06-18T11:31:00.003-04:00

I prepared for my first NYC 5K as well as possible with 40 hours' notice - basically, enthusiastic carb loading (which, to be honest, I often do whether or not I have a run planned) and guzzling water.

Little did I know, anytime I go anywhere on the subway was actually training for this run. It was pretty much as if the train at rush hour was transported to the middle of Central Park and set to running. You're too close to strangers, you get their sweat on you, you see them throw up...and the slow walkers, oh dear Lord the slow walkers, sashaying across the entire stretch of pavement as if they're the only people on earth. I nearly made a shiv out of my earbud and took care of the problem once and for all.

The run was a lot more fun than a crowded subway, however. It kicked my ass, of course - no kind of stubborn helps you run 3.5 miles after 7 months of never running at all. And I was running on my own (well, just me and Lady Gaga) because somehow I didn't manage to meet up with any of the other people from my store once the crowd of 15,000 took to the pavement. But the sunfall was beautiful, and I loved remembering that I love running.

I was not one of the people who threw up, though I came pretty close at one point. I choked it back when a woman on the sidelines yelled, "The finish line is just around the last curve!" Can't be caught puking, or walking, by the screaming hordes waiting for me to storm (stagger) across triumphantly (with intense relief). Then I continued in a mob to the (poorly organized) water and banana stations and wandered around in the twilight looking hopelessly for the rest of my team (never say "I'm disoriented" to a race organizer). I did a fair amount of tentative, red-faced, sweaty networking and limped for three days.

But I'm going to start running more, and keep at it. I mean it this time.

Never Listen to Your Boss

2011-06-18T11:05:00.002-04:00

I ran a 5K on two days' training.

When I moved here, I had been a runner for about 6 months, including a handful of 5Ks and a brutal 10K. I had every intent of staying dedicated in the big city - it's New York, everyone here is attractive so I have to stay in shape, Central Park belongs to runners, etc. Turns out, it's a lot harder to make running a priority when your best friend isn't pounding on your door before dawn four mornings a week. And when you lose 8 pounds despite eating pizza twice a day, because you walk everywhere.

So my running became very sporadic and, over the last few months of Ye Olde Paying Job + Ye Olde Internship + thousands of events + move, has been non-existent. Thus, when my boss at Y.O.P.J. asked me to run the J.P. Morgan Corporate Challenge. He asked me on Friday, the day before my move, in the heat of frenzied preparations for a VIP visit:

Y.O.P.J.B. "Are you surrre you don't want to run the Corporate Challenge?"
Me: "Huh?"
Y.O.P.J.B. "There's extra bibs, a bunch of people from Home Office changed their minds."
Me: "When is it?"
Y.O.P.J.B. "Thursday."
Me: "The Thursday that's six days from now?"
Y.O.P.J.B. "Yep"
Me: "[Convulsive, uncontrollable gurgling laughter]. Absolutely not. Don't ever speak to me again."

He raised the subject again on Tuesday. Post-move, post-visit, post long lazy Sunday with absolutely nothing to do, I was much saner and lighter without six months of stress strapped to my back. He raised the subject and goaded me insufferably. I don't need to train! He hasn't run recently either! (The man runs a seven minute mile. The man runs marathons. His idea of not running recently is probably, "Not since lunch.") If soft Home Office people at desks all day can run it, so can I! What a great chance to meet important corporate people (red, breathless and sweaty? Sounds like the perfect networking scenario). It's ok if I just walk it.

My fighting blood was up. Hell no I don't walk runs. Hell yes I can outrun desk jockeys. Who cares if I haven't worn my running shoes since Christmas - I'm leaner and lighter than ever! I carry a stack of twelve hardcovers without breaking a sweat! Who needs to train - training is for wussies like Wilma Rudolph and Michael Phelps. 5K in two days, you bet your sweet ass I'll run it, look out J.P. Morgan!

Did I survive? Are my legs still attached to my body? Did I have to be revived at the finish line by hunky paramedics? Did I do Y.O.P.J.B. proud? Keep reading...

Meow

2011-06-15T09:20:00.000-04:00

I left one thing out when introducing you to my new apartment. This apartment currently includes a cat.

Her name is Penny and she is soft and pretty. I love her as a person but dislike her as a source of dander to which I am allergic. Consequently, I spray her in the face with a little spritz bottle whenever she tries to come in my room. I'm sure this is confusing as well as annoying to her, as my room used to belong to her owner and my temporary futon used to be her TV-watching/napping station.

Despite this, Penny has done her best to make friends with me, which I consider admirable on her part. When I was unpacking on Saturday, before I resorted to the spray bottle, she ran in as often as possible and investigated everything, saying What the hell is going on here, what is all this crap, will I be allowed to read these books and is it ok if we share earrings? You have some cute ones.

P.S. So far, no sneezing, no itchy eyes, lungs staying open. Maybe me and Penny are M.F.E.O.! But I'm keeping the spritzer handy, just in case.

A Room of One's Own

2011-06-14T09:14:00.000-04:00

I have my own room. My own room. After 18 months sharing tiny Manhattan studios, I have a room that belongs to me! With a closet all to myself (embarrassing how empty it is. I desperately need clothes)! I have big plans for this room. I've painted it an amazing shade of green and Bookshelves will be built, art will be hung and I'm yearning for a chandelier. But until then, it's thrilling to have a bedroom door and a bed that will only be used for sleeping. It will no longer be a bed/desk/couch/kitchen table/nail salon. Ok, so I'll probably still sit there and paint my nails sometimes, or flop down and read, but I will have chosen to do so. I live somewhere with numerous seating options!

I love the rest of the apartment, too. There's a big kitchen with a full fridge, counter space, a microwave, a toaster, a rice cooker, approximately 37 wooden spoons, every imaginable size of pot and pan, two knife blocks and a couple dozen wine glasses. From this moment forth, I will be free from the single girl's wedding shower envy. There's also a dining room nook with a table and chairs for coloring, working on manuscripts, even, this may sound crazy but humor me here, serving and consuming meals! And a living room with an unbelievably comfy red couch, stacks of board games and the complete series of Will & Grace DVDs.

Can you tell my electric wine opener, spice collection and complete Friends DVDs fit right in here? The studio days were fun - I lucked into the best possible assortment of girls to be that upclose and personal with, and if we did the dorm thing in college, we can do the studio thing in Manhattan, right? But the time has come for personal space, and I'm really excited that good friends and favorite things were part of the bargain.

And a balcony. Yep, wow. A balcony. On which to play the board games, drink from the wine glasses, eat the rice...with friends! A balcony from which to be serenaded and wooed - maybe this will be the summer that a heartsick young man throws pebbles at my window. A balcony on a tree-lined street, and when I lean on the railing and look to the left I can see Manhattan.

Moving Day

2011-06-13T09:10:00.000-04:00

...was wildly smooth, thanks primarily to my collection of good friends.

Good (early rising) friends. Good (spatially gifted) friends. Good (muscley) friends.That's the secret.

Two of my best guy friends were given the privilege of helping me move. We collected a darling little red pick-up truck from Zipcar at 8:05 am. Sixteen minutes and 16 phone calls later, we were up in Spanish Harlem picking up a dresser from my other best guy, who was barely conscious and very, very, very hung-over. You're welcome for the wake-up call, sonny!

Next, we moved all of my boxes and bags out of my (old) apartment, not turning on a light or making a sound because I didn't want to wake the Tiny Texan, who had been writing all night. I must confess to a weird little moment of sad when I saw it all piled up there, waiting for the elevator. My entire New York City life has been lived in this building!

Everything fit in for just one elevator trip, and we unloaded speedily into the lobby, so the neighbors weren't stranded on their respective floors. That's how awesome and considerate I am...or, that's how little stuff I have. Whichever makes me look like a nobler soul is the truth.

While the guys started hauling boxes to the street, I took one final elevator ride down to our horrifying rat-infested cellar, then back up to my (old) apartment to check for any loose ends. When I got back to the building lobby, it was empty; the guys had the truck entirely loaded and were fending off the parking cops. We're talking seven minutes, max. I still suspect they used witchcraft, or Mary Poppins snaps. I knew they were great guys; I did not know they had fearsome mad packing skills. I'm glad I had the personal growth to relinquish control of this step! I'm sure it would've taken them twice as long if I had been standing by the truck bossing them around and obsessing. (Relinquishing control of carrying insanely heavy boxes of books: NOT A PROBLEM)

They loaded me into the tiny spot they had left for me in the truck's back seat and headed to the bagel shop for a bathroom break and bottles of water (counterproductive, I know) while I spilled coffee on myself and prayed that the cop wouldn't come back. Then it was down to 59th Street and across the Queensboro Bridge. I kept sneaking glances into the back of the truck, hoping not to see my pillows blowing into the East River or books bouncing merrily down the road behind us. Not a thing budged (like I said...witchcraft).

When we arrived at my new address, we unloaded the cute little truck lickety split, finishing about seven minutes before it started raining, with nearly an hour of Zipcar to spare. I was 92% unpacked by lunchtime and spent the afternoon on a safari through The Container Store (gleeeee!) and Bed Bath & Beyond (even more gleeeeeee!). The evening was for wine, cheese and board games and today - the first day in months with no events, no responsibilities, no agenda - has been devoted to watching TV in my pajamas, alphabetizing my DVDs in my new living room, organizing my stationery and pinning up pictures of my friends on my very own bedroom door.

Now that's how a move is done, folks. I love moving, as I have freely admitted here and in the real world, to universal outcry and distrust. Thanks to good friends (and carefully planning and organizing in the insanely busily and unbelievably stressful six weeks prior), this was my best moving experience yet!

If you have a move coming up, I highly recommend you go out and get yourself a set of muscley friends with alarm clocks and Tetris-honed packing skills. You won't be sorry.

What Would Rambo Do?

2011-06-12T11:35:00.004-04:00

Yesterday I moved to a new apartment in a new building in a new neighborhood in a new borough. Whoa.

I'm excited about the new place for a lot of reasons (a LOT), but leaving the old one was bittersweet. I've lived in that building since my first day in New York City! My roommate is my closest girlfriend in this city, and the only person I know who shares my weakness for Sister Wives. And my old neighborhood, I know it really well. I was blocks from the Met and Central Park, but more importantly, only 37 footsteps from a 24-hour pizza store and right above a bagel store that sells muffins and croissants 2-for-1 after 8 pm. And four Starbucks in a five-minute walk, doubles if you are open to a six-minute walk.

So I am grateful to the neighborhood for making it easy for me to say goodbye with a string of less-than-satisfactory experiences over my last few days. Wednesday night: paltry salad with bad lettuce and stale croissant from the bagel store. Thursday morning: insufferable lines at all of the Starbuckses (Starbucksi?) Thursday afternoon: soggy pizza slice with barely cheese.

Then there was my neighbor's guest, roughly 60 years old, dressed like Ron Jeremy, who offered to take my picture as we rode the elevator together. I was covered in paint with no make-up and sweaty, frizzy hair. I declined. He was offended. "I've taken over 4,000 pictures of New York people, it's kind of my hobby!" I told him he should be in a museum.

The ultimate goodbye and good riddance was Friday afternoon. I was scurrying around after work, running errands and getting ready to go paint my new room. As I headed into my old building, a guy materialized from the cellar hatch of the drugstore next door.

"Do you know if your super is around today? I need to talk to him about a problem."
"I'm not sure...his number is there on the door, you can call him."
"Ok, well, I really need to see him right now, there's kind of a big problem."
"Sometimes maintenance people are doing stuff in the cellar, you can go down there and see if you find anyone."

I let him into the building with me and he followed me to the elevator and rode it up to the sixth floor with me.

"Yeah, thanks, I just really need to find him. There's a pretty big problem..."
I was dying of curiosity at this point and tried to look appropriately inviting of confidences.

"Yeah so we share a cellar space with you, right? Yeah, there's a problem. A rat problem."
"WHAT."
"Yeah, I found one, a really big f***er, just running around everywhere down there."
"Ohhhhh my god. I have to do laundry tonight."
"Yeah, don't worry, I caught it. I had to go all Rambo and shit, I got him. You should see the tail on this n**ga."
"Oh, ok good, so it's not still loose down there."
"Yeah, well, I need to talk to the super and find out what he wants to do. I don't know how to kill this n**ga."
"It's still alive??"
"Yeah, I've got him in a box. Do I give him poison or something?"

Goodbye, Upper East Side. It's not you, it's me, but thanks for making it feel like it was you, right there at the end.

(More to come about the new digs...wooden spoons, Taboo and a bedroom door.)

Ground Control to Major Tom

2011-06-04T13:46:00.004-04:00

I dipped into my archives this morning. I read through some of my old blog posts from the summer before I moved to NYC. It was odd and exciting to hear my thoughts, revisit my mindset, when the New York dream was becoming a concrete, actionable idea, taking shape through an uncertain, insecure haze. Sometimes I can't exactly remember how I actually did this. How I carried the inspiration to seize my own life through an entire year, how I wrote in January that I was ready for my life to start coming true, and in November found myself in New York City. I don't remember the little practical actions all year long of scraping together money, planning, packing. I remember anxiety and uncertainty and overwhelming conviction. And I'm still here! About to move again to an apartment where I will probably be more settled than I have in my 18 months here. Still here, employed to (usually) pay the bills. Still here and making measurable progress towards a career. My Summer '09 self would be so excited! New York and I are M.F.E.O.*

But the other thing that I noticed from this blog in the summer of '09: I blogged a lot. Like, nearly every day. And I was funny! When did this blog become a home to masturbatory poetics on the beauties of New York, of books, of friends? Those are all awesome things, of course. But I used to write funny little posts about my blunders, social and physical, domestic and gourmet. I certainly haven't stopped making inexplicable mistakes and embarrassing myself on an international scale; I guess I just stopped writing about it. I want to be funny again, to write more casually and more frequently, more interactively. Let's see what I can do about that, okay? Hold me to it.

*Made For Each Other. And if you had to read this footnote, you haven't watched Sleepless in Seattle enough times.

New Yorker in Training

2011-05-31T11:02:00.005-04:00

My two younger, frighteningly beautiful, high-schoolish sisters were in town this weekend. They were here "on business," accompanying the family they nanny for, so we only had a brief evening to see each other. We fought through the Memorial Day/Fleet Week madness of Times Square to Restaurant Row (the tourists never find it - shhhhhh, don't tell them it's on W. 46th Street!) to a little yummy Thai restaurant (Thai food, I love you! I love you!). We talked fast with our mouths full of spring rolls and green curry.

My littlest sister has already fallen in love with this city. I could tell she was experiencing the blues I felt on my visits: an exhilaration bordering on misery, because you know you belong but you don't get to stay (yet).

On our way back across 46th, she suddenly stopped and squealed, "oohhhhh look! So cute! Are they hamsters?" A handful of half-grown rats were scuttling across the steps of St. Luke's Lutheran Church, inches from our footsteps.

"Those are rats," I said, "Baby rats."

"Awwww! I want one!"

That, ladies and gentleman, is a future New Yorker, ready to come home.

BookExpo America

2011-05-27T21:32:00.004-04:00

BEA 2011 was rewarding, exhausting, an extravaganza. I can hardly believe I got to be a part of it.

I spent one day as an official intern, talking about our books with every blogger, bookseller, agent or editor who wandered by, pitching the fall titles, hosting our authors, feigning aplomb. I traded cards with the movers and shakers of the industry I've been chasing for nearly a decade and received quite a bit of (sorely needed) encouragement.

I spent the second day as a wide-eyed book lover. How thrilling to chat with some of my writerly idols! And to discover they are kind and humble, as lovely as their work! Some of them even asked me about my work at my internship, as if I were - gaaaassssp - a peer!

The other greatest thrill of BEA is galley grabbing, and of course, I did my share. Nearly every publisher hands out totebags, which I accepted only after careful screening for style and functionality. I was also selective in my choice of free books (believe it or not): of course I greedily snatched galleys from authors I already know and love (oh the thrill of holding a book months before its release date!); I also helped myself to books with beautiful covers and jacket copy that convinced me I would read the book this summer. I was selective...yet still ended up with almost more books than I could carry. This is the double-edged sword of being an exhibitor - yes, you can stash your books at your booth all day long, instead of tottering up and down the aisles like Sisyphus...but you lose perspective on how much tonnage you're accumulating, and you may be faced with more riches than get home at the end of the day.

Before you get too jealous, let me explain that it wasn't all fun and games. The air conditioning was too strong! The food was overpriced! My legs got tired! My back hurt! Don't you feel sorry for me?

Okay, that was a weak attempt. Between the handshakes and champagne, the autographed hardcovers and hot advance copies, the totebags and the conversations...worth every aching muscle, and more.

I am blessed.

Genetics

2011-05-21T17:22:00.002-04:00

This is my grandmother. In Manhattan, circa 1953 - look, there's the Chrysler Building.

With that plaid dress and strappy bag, doesn't she look like she just went shopping at the Urban Outfitters across the street from Bloomingdales? Maybe her sandals are from Payless and her other hand is holding a Starbucks frappucino. I bet she paused for this photo on her way downtown to browse at the Strand before spending at Housing Works Bookstore Cafe. Then she'll have dinner at the city's best Thai place, Bodhi Tree, followed by a bottle of Trader Joe's wine in Central Park, staring at the skyline over the Great Lawn before being walked home by a sweet boy, passing the Temple of Dendur and talking about hope.

I think she's loving a beautiful Manhattan Saturday in late May.

I think she's got a great summer ahead of her.

I think we would've been friends.

Finally, Good Reasons Why I haven't Posted

2011-05-19T21:31:00.006-04:00

In the last four hours I...
Read a fairly mediocre recently released YA book;
Used Facebook to a) get my bookstore shifts covered so I can be a BEA slave b) network with someone who had my internship before I did c) stalk current friends and former acquaintances; Read a slightly better kids' galley
Lay on my back with my legs on the wall to ease my poor tortured bookgirl back;
Researched lit magazines'short-story submission policies;
Watched America make the right choice re: Idol;
Discussed books with two colleagues via text
Ate ramen noodles and a brownie
...all while proudly, gratefully wearing pajamas.

This may sound lazy, hermetic, unladylike, unNewYorky...

but consider that in the last four weeks I have...
Read three complete manuscripts and four partials for ye olde internship
Completed a 4-week session of Bookseller School per request of of ye olde paying job
Celebrated two birthday dinners, birthday breakfast, birthday drinks, a birthday party and a Broadway show
Attended (and adored) six PEN World Voices events, plus afterparties and schmoozing, thanks to Y.O.I.
Assisted and attended four book release fetes at Y.O.I., plus afterparties and schmoozing
Worked several insane author events at Y.O.P.J. (including Her Majesty Dame Julie Andrews!)

Of course, to fit all this in, I got to quit either my usual routine 0f 40 hours at the Y.O.P.J.and 10ish at Y.O.I., or traditional adult practices such as laundry, grocery shopping, replying to emails and returning phone calls. Guess which fell off the map.

And coming up in the next two weeks, I have two mornings at Y.O.I., three days at BEA (!!!!!!!!!!), one big night out at the IndiePress BEA Kickoff party, three days at Y.O.P.J., and, oh yeah, two moves. Y.O.I. is moving to a new office in a new neighborhood...and this girl is moving to a new building, all the way into a new borough! Which means bed-shopping, paint-choosing, box-stealing, clothes-sorting, book-packing...

Now, most of this (say, 83-87%) of this has been an honor and a delight. But it has been a whirlwind that left this quiet bookgirl with messy hair, blistered feet and a craving for empty time.

So I think I've earned a quiet, solitary, noodle-filled pj night. Don't you?

Free

2011-04-26T10:15:00.003-04:00

On the opening night of the Pen World Voices festival, Salman Rushdie, the event's founder, carried an empty chair on stage with him for his introductory remarks. The chair, he said, represented the many writers around the world whose voices were censored and oppressed. These writers who share with every writer in history the personal compulsion to spill out words, but who keep their pens moving also because of the injustices in their communities that cry out for attention, mercy, truth. These writers are the ones who continue to write despite danger of sanction, persecution, imprisonment, death - they write because they have to, and because they HAVE to - if they don't, no one else will. If they don't, wrong wins.

I sat in the audience and felt very ashamed of myself. I slack about writing - avoid sitting down to let my ideas scatter out - because I don't like how my sentences turn out, because I feel "not good enough". I'm writing about small elements that popped into mind during my very safe and rather blessed life. I owe it to the community of writers to take seriously the extravagant opportunity I enjoy to write in freedom.

I am chastened. I will be diligent. Stay tuned.

Free speech is life itself. -salman rushdie

all this beauty

2011-04-25T15:57:00.003-04:00

Last night when I left work, the air was balmy and the sky still held enough streaks of Easter Sunday sunshine. I decided to walk home instead of taking the train.

A few steps down the road, a few fat drops fell on me. Six blocks later, the sky was the color of paintbrush water, spilling on me, and I had no umbrella. I groused along. Now my phone has to be in my pocket, so it doesn't get wet! I just blowdried my hair this morning, and now it's ruined! My shoes will have to sit in the hall all night, drying, and I hate the feel of them squelching beneath my toes!

As I turned down my block, I passed a restaurant that still had its French windows flung open to the sunshine that had vanished. The diners peered out curiously. On the sidewalk in front of me, two little girls were parading back and forth, giggling contagiously, arching their backs, tossing their hair and flipping their little arms and legs out, the way you see the most beautiful women in the world posing on the red carpets of the West Coast. Another little girl hopped off the canopied patio of the restaurant next door, where she was sitting with her daddy, and began imitating them. She edged one step closer with every flourish.

None of them noticed the rain.

The Difference Between Me and Holly Golightly.

2011-04-22T20:37:00.007-04:00

My habit of picking up breakfast in my pajamas saved my life.

The day after my birthday was my regularly scheduled day off. This was fortuitous, as I was nearly paralyzed from exhaustion. My nonbirthday life occurs at a reasonably hectic place; throw in oceans of surprises and love, plus an extra 365 steps towards old age, and you can understand why I remained in bed to a slothful hour.

Then I lay in bed reading for another hour.

Then I realized, in a panic, that FedEx was supposed to deliver a birthday surprise (them having failed royally on the preceding day) and I leapt up and rushed downstairs with the little terrifying Post-It for your autograph which they leave on the door to say, "We're coming back with your package and may or may not ring the buzzer or otherwise alert you to our presence, so unless you have stronger ESP than the average American, or just don't really give a flip about whatever it is we're bringing you, sign your internal organs away and post the evidence prominently on the front door of your building on a highly populated New York City avenue."

I rushed downstairs with the terrifying Post-It, but without a washed face, tamed hair or presentable apparel. Or keys. Why would I need keys if I'm just sticking something to the front door?

Oh yeah, because to get to the front door, you must go through the lobby door, which locks behind you. Which I remembered when I slammed the Post-It on the window and tried to re-enter the building.

Damn.

Stuck in the airlock, in PJs, braless, in pink plaid bloomers with mascara on my face and wild post-birthday hair. I rang the buzzer of the one apartment where I know someone, but my old roommates weren't home. And it was late morning on a weekday - how long before a productive citizen returns with keys? What time does the mail come?

Then I remembered that the bagel shop has a strange little door that lets into our lobby, right next to the elevator. Salvation, as long as I can swallow my pride, present myself in this deshabille, and hope they believe me that I live in the building and am not a robber in the guise of a crack addict.

Luckily, they believed me - or more likely, they recognized me. Usually I at least wash my face, pin back my hair and put on a sweatshirt and leggings before running downstairs on my day off. Perhaps if I had been locked out in a little black dress, French twist and pearls, they would've eyed me suspiciously and called for back-up. I realized this once I was safely back in my apartment, breakfasting on shame.

Moral of the story: Let your local bagel shop see you as you really are. Then you'll know if they really love you. (The same principle applies when you're choosing a spouse or a therapist, only with slightly higher stakes than with walnut cream cheese goodness.)

Oceans

2011-04-22T19:57:00.000-04:00

Memories are so damn important and now you have an ocean of them...

scribbled in a birthday card I opened over pancakes and omelets

If you're interested in the surprises, the week began with an incredible dinner in Dumbo, under the Brooklyn Bridge with misty views of the Manhattan skyline as well as clear views of Haley Joel Osment. Oh yeah, and a little petal bowl made out of potato chips, containing mashed potatoes. I loved that.

Then there was a birthday banner and stolen flowers in a bar at the stroke of midnight; midmorning champagne and cupcakes at the internship; a snocone machine identical to the one my grandmother had two decades ago; and - heart-stoppingly - tickets to The Lion King.

Oh yeah. And I can't leave out calamari and frozen cosmos at New York's finest drag queen restaurant (that's not a euphemism).

If you're worried about social media, there were 5 Twitter mentions, 15 text messages and
83 Facebook Wall postings (most of them witty beyond the token "Happy Birthday!" from someone you haven't spoken to in years and don't quite remember why they're your Facebook friend).

If you're a traditionalist, there were 4 phone calls; two beautiful and beautifully inscribed birthday cards; and a box from home with lots of my favorite things, like tote bags and post-its, Colin Firth movies and princess movies, new shoes and a souvenir from my favorite store.

If you want to know about the cupcakes, well, I ate them at every conceivable opportunity (four? five?), including a special pilgrimage to a bakery in the West Village specializing in a harmony of cupcake and wine.

If you want to know what the best part was, I might say: painting pottery on a rainy birthday afternoon, because I've been wanting to do that just forever, and it was soothing and exciting all at once. But then I would try to count up all the hugs and laughs and every moment I felt shy and overwhelmed by the flood of love that I still haven't learned to accept. Then I would have to shrug and say All of it. All of it was the best birthday ever.

Free Books and Other Highlights

2011-04-13T14:12:00.002-04:00

Not the streaky kind in your hair, or the out-of-date ones in the pediatrician's office. I mean of the last month or so.

As previously mentioned, my brother visited. I'm still having flashbacks to all the eating and laughing.

I'm working on my second full-length book editing project since starting my internship at the end of January. Yeah. It's just as awesome as it sounds. I'm really good at this stuff, you guys. And I really love it. Now to convince someone to pay me to do it...or to convince Verizon, Trader Joe's and the landlord to accept free books and excellent grammar as legal tender.

This month I'm also attending the second session of an advanced training session through my semi-paying full-time job. The benefits of this course are free coffee, free books, and the opportunity to hear from bigwigs in the corporate offices about how they make multi-billion dollar book purchasing decisions. This makes my frequent fiscally irresponsible actions at The Strand or Housing Works Books seem less consequential.

Spring keeps flirting with us, mostly in the form of rain but occasionally in the form of light-coat-or-maybe-even-just-a-sweater temperatures. Soon it will be warm enough and light long enough to read in the park (and drink wine in the park and - maybe this summer - see Shakespeare in the Park, play baseball in the park, flirt in the park, go boating in the park, watch movies in the park...)

What's new with you?

Tourists vs. Visitors (I like visitors.)

2011-04-13T14:00:00.007-04:00

My brother visited for his birthday. This trip was very different from his last one. When he came to town for the Christmas that arrived two months after I moved to the city. I was very new still, so we did all the tourist things, like the Today show and ESB and the Alice statue. On his last trip, I still got lost coming out of the subway, most of the time, and wasn't sure where to look for the closest Starbucks from any given point on the island of Manhattan.

Now it is kind of spring and I'm a New Yorker. Now I know my way around pretty goshdarn well. Now I have favorite restaurants! And favorite parks that aren't Central Park! And we went to two Broadway shows, because now I know about the thrifty magic of rush tickets - an exceptionally delightful production of The Importance of Being Earnest, and an entertainingly awful musical which shall remain nameless to protect the innocent (but it rhymes with Baby It's You). And we went to the Met this time, now that I know you can name your own donation for entrance, according to the large or smallness of your budget.

Some things stayed the same. We still took lots of pictures, like a tourist, and wandered through the couture shops on Fifth Avenue, like a tourist, and overpaid for an indescribably delicious restaurant in Barney's New York. We geeked out over breakfast at the cafe from You've Got Mail, and screamed in delight at the M&M and Disney stores in Times Square. But instead of the Olive Garden, we got hummus on Ninth Avenue and sat at the tables in Times Square to eat it. That's what separates the tourist from the visitor - the best stuff is always two blocks away from the photographable destination. Head down the side streets, it's not that scary!

The most important difference between this trip and his last: this time I have friends! Friends that met him at the train station while I was at my internship and friends who hosted him on their couch for the week. Friends who grumbled at tourists with us. Friends!

Delayed

2011-03-28T23:47:00.001-04:00

I was hurrying off the 6 train to make a quick stop at home for lunch and comfortable shoes in between my internship and my shift at the bookstore. A old lady in a long navy coat and grey woolen hat stopped me. Her voice was very soft, so I had to ask her to repeat her question.

"Do you know where the elevator is?"

She was wearing a grey woolen Nepal hat, a long navy coat, and carrying a cane with a lively iris pattern. She was tiny, very tiny, and bent, with a lined face and very bright eyes. I was sorry to tell her there was no elevator at this station.

She looked thoughtfully down the platform towards the stairs. "Alright. I guess I'll take the stairs."

I am my mother's daughter. The daughter of a mother who would pull over to pick up someone walking in the rain, fill her house with another woman's children and make dinner for that family despite the chaos. Of course I offered to help my old frail new friend with the steps.

She accepted with a dignity that suggested she didn't expect the offer but was too smart to turn it down in pride. "That's so very kind of you. I think I can manage the steps. just fine, if you wouldn't mind carrying my bag." She handed over a very light canvas tote bag and we proceeded towards the exit.

Verrrrry slowly. Oh my lord. I tried not to think of the time or the three flights that were between me and freedom. We reached the first set of stairs and inched up, with me hovering at her elbow in case we slipped. After a pause for a rest at the top, we crawled through the emergency exit and she stopped again to stare at the two exits.

"I'm going to 77th and Madison," she said, "for an old friend's wake." I had to bend very close to hear her, as another train roared through the station behind us. "Which exit do you suggest? I'm in all the way from Great Shell and I'm afraid the subway is more confusing than it used to be."

We moved like ice towards the north exit. I lingered at her side again as a flood rushed off the train up and around us. Once or twice I heard muttered grumbles from someone who didn't get past us quickly enough. This crowd had no idea that I was as much a stranger to her as themselves. I ignored my own impatience.

Finally at street level, she stopped right at the very edge of the steps and looked down at my shoes. "Such pretty stockings, my dear!" I was wearing my grey argyle tights and told her I was ready for spring, that I wore them with hope that today would be one of the last chances before tights season ended.

She smiled and patted my arm, and I wasn't sure if she was dismissing me. I pointed her towards Madison and then she added that the church was on 81st. I imagined her creeping four blocks north and two long blocks west by herself and asked if she would like to take a cab. I literally didn't have time to walk with her myself before work, so I planned to pay for it myself if she demurred. My mother's influence wouldn't let me walk away - and the world won't end if I miss my morning bagel once or twice.

"Well, that's a good idea, but it's just so hard to catch them." She added that she had wanted to take one from Grand Central but had no success. She was sparkly despite her weakness. Her face hadn't lost its smile throughout our long short walk, and her smile hadn't lost its youth.

I hurried a few steps to the corner and a cab stopped almost as soon as I waved. My friend was still creeping the few yards from the subway entrance and I heard myself say to the driver, "Just a minute, please, I'm waiting for my grandmother."

I put her totebag in the cab and, once she arrived, her cane. She hesitated. "Now just a minute, dear, I want to tell you something." I waited for something predictable about my politeness, her grandchildren's lack thereof (or maybe a lack of grandchildren), the absence of manners in modern society at large.

"You should wear unusual stockings more often, because you have very pretty legs."

2011-03-27T11:51:00.002-04:00

hand-scribbled on wall - an oversized page - in the final gallery of the Kalman exhibit:

"As if the fullness of the soul did not sometimes overflow in the emptiest metaphors, since no one can ever give the exact measure of his needs, nor of his conceptions, nor of his sorrows; and since human speech is like a cracked tin kettle, on which we hammer out tunes to make the bears dance when we long to move the stars."

– Flaubert, Madame Bovary

(Somewhere between South Street Seaport and Wall Street)

Various Illuminations (of a Crazy World)

2011-03-26T23:15:00.005-04:00

Who changes the bulbs in the lights that line the Brooklyn Bridge? Who washes the floors of subway cars, and how often (not very, would be my guess)?

These are the kinds of weird questions I inflict on my companion when we spend Saturdays wandering around the city without spending money.

Today's adventure included the Maira Kalman exhibit at The Jewish Museum (coincidentally, B&N CEO Len Riggio is a good friend of the artist and substantial donor to the exhibit). The exhibit was delightful - soft lovable colors capturing the whimsy in odd moments, words embraced as art as well as meaning. My favorite things, matching my first Jewish Museum experience, last summer's Curious George exhibition.

Then it was a long mysterious subway ride that drove me crazy when the destination was a surprise: the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a very cold day, but bright and beautiful, and despite my terror of bridges, I remained calm - maybe it was the skyline, or, smaller, the cluster of bike locks latched on to the great famous pillars, etched with dates, loves, promises.

Then a ramble through the beautiful architecture of Brooklyn Heights brownstones; dinner at the Pier 17 food court watching the sun set over the bridges; the weird emptiness of Wall Street on Saturday night.

Grand total spent: $8.40 (pizza, two scoops of ice cream). Plus a fair amount of shoe leather (or whatever Payless uses on the bottoms of their cute cheap boots).

WINNING.

Duh, Winning.

2011-03-21T11:13:00.010-04:00

This week, reading manuscripts at my internship, I came across slightly unfamiliar words.

outface | cynosure | labile | lacunae

Context had given me a pretty fair guess at their meanings, but I wanted to be sure.
I turned to a heavy, well-thumbed dictionary that smelled strongly of must and paper cuts, and looked them up.

Just kidding. I googled them. And each time, thought of Charlie Sheen.

outface
to overcome or subdue with a look or stare
to defy or resist
cynosure
any person or thing that is a center of attention or interest
labile
liable to change; unstable
lacunae
a space where something has been omitted or has come out

Now, I think we can all agree that Charlie Sheen is a blazing definition of unstable. He has gone pretty seriously over the edge. Like, so far over the edge, he's pretty much rounded the earth and is about to come up behind the edge and jab it in the spine with an imaginary lightsabre. And he definitely possesses a space where something has been omitted: self-restraint, shall we say, or more simply, sanity?

But I've got a sick admiration for him. Not even Dr. Drew could deny that Charlie has mastered the art of outfacing. To confront a problem unfazed and handle it confidently and directly, sailing forth into the future without worrying if others will judge me. I wish I had such bravado! And in my little hermit's heart, I do want to hold attention when I'm ready to speak. For my words to be as bright as constellations, remembered and repeated all over town, all over the internet (although I'm ok with not being the cynosure of Us Weekly).

Don't worry. I've already tried living with two twenty-something hotties, and while it was fun, it got a little crowded. I'll stick with my regular human blood and be glad for it.

But now it's off to work, where I'm dealing with fools and trolls and just delivering the goods at every frickin' turn.

please come flying

2011-03-20T00:03:00.003-04:00

Yesterday's 70 degrees were exciting and deceitful. This afternoon was bright with sun and wind and got steadily chillier as I wandered in and out of little bookstores and little pizza stores downtown.

Union Square was crowded with the most inexplicable fundraisers for Japan: plump punky students jumping rope; middle aged women wearing kimonos and laughing in little gossipy clusters; a fashionably dressed young professional holding an enormous bunch of red and white ballons; a lone ponytailed guy wearing a red Elvis suit and leaning against the wall chanting Save Japan Save Japan Save Japan. I hated myself for thinking, Isn't it too late? The earth has already cracked, the wave crashed, the most you can ask for is help. Salvation is an alternate reality, the thing is now to make the best of this one.

I'm sure it's far colder in Japan, with no electricity, no food, no hot water. Much harsher than my walk through the Upper West Side looking for a bar unchoked with couples where I could sit in the corner quietly with wine and a book. I ended up at my third Starbucks of the day and wished for Spring.

This weather game is probably not the most interesting thing for you to read about, but the need for warm breezes, for sunshine I can count on from one day to the next, is fairly absorbing. And this prattle is keeping me from writing what is really on my mind, things too personal to share here, but thoughts and conversations that did more than the winds in Chelsea or the crowds in Soho to make the afternoon a cold one.

Spring, please come, please come!

The Crowning Moment

2011-03-18T16:00:00.001-04:00

This morning at work, I answered some routine questions for a customer about dictionaries for third-graders and bedtime stories featuring dinosaurs. I later overheard her on the phone as she browsed, describing the progression of her labor.

Her labor that she was currently experiencing. Involving the expulsion of a baby very obviously still inside her.

She explained at length in a voice slightly louder than normal conversational tone, that she didn't want to be admitted to the maternity ward yet because she wasn't ready to "stay in bed and listen to them nurses." Apparently, being dilated between 3 and 4 centimeters is the perfect time to wander around the bookstore. And naturally, you wouldn't want to advance your labor in God's fresh air on an ideally temperate Spring day. Why would you treat your ever-more-rapidly contracting uterus to Central Park when you could be two floors underground marching across a carpet stained with ground-water mold in the glow of lurid florescent bulbs.

I suppose it was only a matter of time. It's not infrequent to find customers trying to make babies in front of the vampire books. Might as well go ahead and birth them here, too; increases my chances of being offered a reality show on TLC!

Clovers

2011-03-17T23:40:00.002-04:00

St. Patrick's Day was wild on both sides of all the streets in the usually quiet and slightly pretentious neighborhood where I live and work. On my stroll home, I passed legions of police officers proudly sweating beer through their dress uniforms, red-faced and loud. Lots of hugging, flirting, weaving. A little bit of puking. A little bit more public urination. In the midst of all this, families coming home from the parade. Babies in strollers with green face paint.

I went home, more or less directly, and cleaned my apartment, which takes about 45 minutes. I went back out, passing a herd of officers violating open container regulations, and had my choice of all the tables in the Starbucks. I sat in the window and watched drunks falling into cabs heads over kilts and read through a manuscript that my boss at my internship is deciding whether or not to accept. He's waiting on my opinion of the novel. Do you understand how crazy that is? Do you know how much I love scribbling notes on strengths and weaknesses, comparisons, marketing points? Do you believe me yet that this is where I'm supposed to be?

Kiss Me, I'm Happy

2011-03-16T23:26:00.004-04:00

The weather is getting nicer, which makes it almost impossible to put my coat on before leaving the building. Of course it's not warm enough to go coatless, but I convince myself it is when the sun bursts in the window. After all these months of thick coats and hat hair and gloves messing up my texts, I'm ready to run down the street in just a sweater and a scarf (and yes, I'm one of those people who wears scarves all year round.)

Tomorrow's St. Patrick's Day, which I don't plan to celebrate. I'm too old for green beer, for one thing, and this will be a good spring without any Irish luck needed.

2011-03-02T11:50:00.005-05:00

I need to write stories.
I should be sleeping more, and eating fruits and vegetables.
I can hardly breathe at work.
None of my clothes fit, in a good way.
I love shopping, but it isn't free.
I miss my brothers; luckily, one of them is coming to visit at the end of the month.
Everyone is having babies in locations too far away for me to cuddle.
I'm terrible at returning phone calls.
I used to be equally bad at returning emails, but the cursed Blackbeary is helping.
I spend all my time with the same one or two friends because of social anxiety more than inertia.
The three above items are exacerbated by a muddled strength: I read too much.
I've carried home beautiful books from France and Italy and Ingland and Belgium and Iran and South Africa.
And Mr. Knightly has hosted the manuscripts of not-yet-published books that I get to improve, and that is why my internship is steadfastly glorious.
I need to write on this blog, for real, about funny things and interesting sights, so I won't forget to appreciate them.
Things like the restaurant I went to that offered free refills on all courses.
And the little girl at the Museum of Natural History who corrected my understanding of sea lion habitats.
Tight bright pink corduroys, Broadway musicals, crossword puzzles from old magazines you buy on the corner for a dollar.
Hats and gloves you buy on the corner for four dollars when you leave yours behind and the wind bites too close.

I'm ready for Spring.

Lady Gaga Had Time To Change 19 Times At The Grammys. I'm Lucky If My Boots Match Each Other.

2011-02-16T00:38:00.004-05:00

I have a lot of scintillating and profound blog posts waiting to get out of my head. I hope you're excited. You'll get to read them eventually, but I'm still adjusting to the new schedule for my life, which involves super long exhausting days on Monday and Tuesday, lots of intense reading on every other day, and oh yeah, occasionally eating meals or talking to friends or washing my hair.

Soon I hope to have figured out just how to manage my life like a productive adult. I'm waiting to hear from the me who took five upper-level classes and two seminars my junior year of college - or the me who worked a full-time job and two part-time jobs the summer after graduating. I need some tips from those girls so I can organize my time effectively, without having to sacrifice anything important like watching The Bachelor.

Until then, you can wave at me across Twitter or Facebook, light candles, send care packages the old fashioned way, and wait for the stories to come pouring out.

Go Fool Yourself

2011-02-09T21:41:00.004-05:00

You know what's cool about this picture?

I actually know the subject of one of those biographies.

No, I'm not talking about my bff Marilyn Monroe or my homeboy Nelson Mandela
My cool friend Rick went to law school in Chicago, wrote a hilarious book about it

then moved to Las Vegas and wrote another hilarious book.

Of course I feel great solidarity with people who lit out across the country and inexplicably make it amidst bright lights. It seems like Vegas has a little more nudity than New York; then again, it's also a lot warmer. But both cities are full of opportunities for overpriced cocktails, unexpected conversations and thousands of people desperately trying to be someone else.

I also have a lot in common with Rick in that we are both wittily unashamed of our nerdy tendencies. I may have more books than clothes or friends and I may spend Saturday nights doing crossword puzzles with glee; Rick spends his at a club for magicians, when he's not trying to talk prostitutes out of accepting clients or impersonating old men. And we both spend way too much time in bookstores.

So if you're curious about what Sin City is like for the people who actually live there, or if you're intrigued by the nature of deception - why we lie, when we lie, who we lie to, what makes us good at it and what it's doing to our society - or if you just really, really like magic tricks, you'll get a kick out of Rick's latest.

If you're wondering why a Chicago lawyer wants to give up the city to live in the desert, write for a magazine, go to hot clubs and live with a showgirl...oh wait, I just answered your question.

2011-02-03T22:52:00.003-05:00

This has been a more-than-you-can-chew kind of week, in the best of ways. I'm working 40 hours a week at the bookstore, plus my amazing internship for 10 hours a week, and then I picked up about 20 hours worth of freelance work for my old marketing firm. It's amazing I found time to brush my teeth and burn myself ironing, not to mention eat nearly a whole bag of Doritoes.

Somehow, I managed to fit quite a few of my favorite things into this overstretched week: I ate amazing vegetarian nachos at a new restaurant (asparagus! On nachos!). I saw two Oscar-nominated movies (The Fighter was good; The King's Speech was great) and then gorged myself on hummus. I attended HBO's taping of a Broadway comedy show thanks to my delightfully well-connected and weekly entertaining roommate. I've been reading my growing stack of free books and galleys and watching too many episodes of TLC programming like My Strange Addiction.

Things I haven't found time for include laundry, buying groceries, shopping for desperately needed clothes that actually fit, shopping for not-so-much-needed-just-wanted new boots, writing notes to assorted beloved friends, returning phone calls. There's always next week for all that.

"I hate wintery mixes!"

2011-01-26T09:33:00.006-05:00

We've had a lot of snow in New York City this winter. A lot, as in 36 inches and counting since Christmas. Not a lick of snow before Christmas, mind you, not a single flake gracing us with its presence on Christmas Day, but over three feet in the month following. It has also been bitterly cold, so a lot of this snow is still with us, sitting in junky grey piles at the sides of the road.

I am a Michigan girl. Cold, snow, slush, ice, leave me unfazed. And winter in the city is nicer to me than in the suburbs: Here in New York, a snowy day feels like a movie - maybe Serendipity - plus I would rather walk delicately over partially shoveled sidewalks, in wellies or even in heels, than chip ice off my windshield, dig my little silver car out of the drifts the parking lot plow left behind, sit shivering until the engine is warm enough to run the heat and creep over slightly salted, treacherous roads.

My roommate is a Texas girl. Last year she shrieked like a puppy when the first snow arrived in New York, and she's still pretty thrilled by it. To be honest, so am I. Our current apartment looks out on a brick wall; the flakes come down whitely against the red and it is captivating. I say captivating, because it's really hard to get dressed and leave the house when the apartment is so warm and cozy and the outside looks like a Christmas card, better admired than entered.

One thing about snow, however, is abhorrent to my roommate and annoying to me. Snow is made up of water. Certain kinds of snow make you very, very damp and absolutely ruin your hair. The big thick soft snowflakes land on a kiss and sneakily melt into tiny puddles on your shoulders and curls. Small fast-driven snow bites into your skin and eyeballs, leaving you red-faced and semi-soaked.

The worst of all is what meteorologists flippantly predict as "A Wintery Mix," which means the precipitation will be somewhere between ice, snow, and rain, maybe all at once. There is nothing to like about a Wintery Mix, as my roommate announced with a whine the other night. A Wintery Mix looks like snow coming down but will be dangerous ice on the ground and unpleasant water on your face, hair and coat.

A Wintery Mix is like that guy you met who is tall, funny and attractive but turns out to read nothing but bleak post-modern literature for the sake of pretentious conversation, listens to underground bands for the same purpose, plays too many video games, dresses like an Italian Robin Hood and gets you to spend too much money on his beer and wine.

A Wintery Mix won't ruin your life, but it's kind of annoying and probably slows you down from getting where you need to be.

2011-01-24T23:59:00.001-05:00

Sometimes life feels like one of those games at a Chuck E. Cheese where you frantically bop the heads of little animals that are popping up all around, unpredictably. Just when one problem gets thoroughly bashed back underground, another one erupts. Just when one patch of earth is cleared, planted and even starts to bloom, you realize another one is thoroughly infested.

It's happening.

2011-01-15T13:23:00.003-05:00

Yesterday morning I had an interview for an internship with an independent publisher that I adore. They make gorgeous editions of truly excellent books, including two of my best-loved reads of 2010. I covet pretty much every book that leaves their presses, everything about them from the firm dark text on heavy cream paper to the striking cover designs that are art in their own right as well as representing the heart of the writing within.

I left the interview with a complimentary stack of these books. I also left with a really good feeling about the interview - it wasn't a series of questions, it was a conversation about everything from Dorian Gray to Black Swan, from the nature of creativity to the sacrifices it requires to whether or not, if you are blessed with its genius, you even have a choice whether or not to make those sacrifices.

And they called yesterday afternoon and offered me the internship.
That's right. I GOT IT.

They're even changing its structure to accommodate my work schedule at the bookstore. That means they really want me.

I'll be doing everything, learning everything, paid in priceless experience and probably more free books. I'll be reading manuscripts, writing jacket copy, arranging media coverage, contacting reviewers. I'll do it all for six months and leave with an irresistible resume.

I celebrated with bookstore pals last night, the ones who are not just coworkers, but close friends. We had planned a little send-off for our girl who is going to study literature in London for six months, and found ourselves with two dreams to celebrate.

It still hasn't sunk in yet, that it's starting to come true.

Jurassic Park

2011-01-12T22:36:00.007-05:00

The women of the Children's Department have quite a reputation. We are infamous for melting in puddles of coo and cuddle when a cute baby is rolled into the store. We are also renowned for our ability to quell a hither-to-undisciplined child with a single firm phrase, sometimes even as little as a stern and ferocious stare. Occasionally, however, the situation escalates and I have to call on the legacy of Robespierre.

A group of mothers had packed up their babies, on their way out complaining that some small boys were playing too rambunctiously. I headed toward the wild sounds to find two four-year-old males leaping, whooping, pounding and running around the Hundred-Acre-Wood mural. I spoke to them calmly and reasonably.

Me: "Hey boys! You need to settle down and play an inside game, okay? This is not how we act in the bookstore."

Young hooligans: "We like playing! You can't tell us what to do!"

Me: "Actually, yes I can because this is my store. [Went straight for the power play; they've never heard of Len Riggio] This game is not allowed in the bookstore. You can play quietly or look at books."

I reinforced my words with a very schoolteachery glare and went back to the desk. A few minutes later I found the little scoundrels shrieking and running laps around the coloring books.

Me: "Stop running at once. This is not how to behave in a bookstore. If you don't listen to what I tell you, you'll have to sit down with your nanny. [A fate worse than death for aforementioned nanny, who would then have to stop texting and reading unpurchased magazines]"

The bolder of the two jabbed at me with the Power Ranger figure he was clutching: "Leave us alone! He's going to fight you."

Me: "Absolutely not." And I confiscated the Power Ranger.

I think this was my little enemy's first encounter with the idea that actions have consequences. It was certainly his first experience with an adult meting out retributive justice in response to his sass. He seemed to be buffeted on the emotional waves of grief, rage and confusion. I hope he went straight home and journaled about his feelings in a valuable moment of self-discovery.

I returned the Power Ranger before he left, but I wasn't done for the day. In the late afternoon, a herd of underparented preschoolers decided to raid our display of stuffed dinosaurs and stampede around the train tables, roaring and pummeling one another and trampling all smaller beings unfortunate enough to crawl across their path. After delivering several menacing look-and-lecture duets, and being steadfastly ignored by parents and offspring, I planted my 5-feet, 10-inches of righteousness directly in their path.

"You're done." I collected every one of the dinosaurs, impervious to the wails of "But whyyyyy? We need those!" The beseiged parents looked at me dully, probably frightened of the beatings they would receive upon returning home. The little boys were gathered around me in angry bereavement. "These dinosaurs don't like naughty little boys," I said. "Sit down and be quiet." Having shown I meant business, I was, of course, obeyed.

Spread the word, little boys. There's a new sheriff in town.

Drink Up Books

2011-01-10T12:20:00.006-05:00

My brother gave me this mug for Christmas.

I love it.

First of all, I have recently become obsessed with Kate Spade, an affection rapidly gaining on my fawning, piteous, foolish and slave-like devotion to Henri Bendel's gorgeous Fifth Avenue store.

I am pleased every morning when I drink my coffee out of this mug (adding a complimentary Splenda packet, of course) in part because the mug's handle is delightfully delicate and is attached at the perfect angle for my long fingers to hold it comfortably. I am mainly thrilled with this mug because of its adorable print.

I love that sassy girl with her arms piled high and more books behind her. As many as she could ever hope to read. She looks like me if my long hair were strawberry blonde and if I wore my glasses every day. I have been coveting that cute book girl for months whenever I walk into work. Kate Spade designed a collection of adorable and expensive covers for the Nook, you see, which are artfully displayed in the Nooktique (or Nookery, if you will).

Let's pass right over the irony of decorating an eReader with the image of someone gleefully hoarding up print books, and jump straight into the discussion of why I never treated myself to this cover. First of all, the cover itself costs $85, which is pretty steep even with my employee discount. Secondly, it would be silly to spend $60 on a Nook cover when I do not own a Nook.

No offense to my comrades in Palo Alto, but I am surviving without a Nook. I love holding a book in my hands - paper cuts, musty covers and all. I like feeling the different paper stock, the margins, the look of the text on the page, in the fonts and colors and designs that the publishers chose. While I understand the perks of being able to customize your font size and shape, I don't want every book I read to look the same. I want to remember where on the page fell the sentence that I had to read three times over, underline and copy down into my journal. I want to be able to flip back to a beautiful paragraph because I remember how far into the book it arrives. I like seeing the thickness move from my right hand to my left as I whip through a thrilling novel, too absorbed to eat or sleep.

I'm excited to see how digital books revolutionize reading for the little ones who don't have the love of paper books to lose - the generation that grew up with their thumbs dancing over little blinking devices. The new Nookcolor is pretty cool and reopens books for people with visual problems, or even hungry readers who are too frail to shoulder four or five books every time they leave home. And I am not entirely abstaining from eReading - this summer I enjoyed re-entering the world of Anne Shirley thanks to the entire works of L.M. Montgomery available for free on the iPad.

But if I had an extra $300 sitting around, I wouldn't buy a Nook and a Kate Spade Nook cover. I would buy 20 or so paper books and a cafe of coffee. And enjoy reading the old fashioned way, steam rising in front of me from my Book Girl mug.

I steal only what I can't afford

2011-01-08T21:50:00.003-05:00

While it's true that I am living in a very expensive city on a very dismal wage, and while the things I do for that wage regularly shrink my dignity and self-respect, I have managed to cling to my integrity: So far I have not danced on a table for money, nor have I pulled a Jean Valjean and broken a window for bread.

I do, however, help myself to Splenda packets from Starbucks.

This is not stealing. I usually put one packet of Splenda in my coffee. During my first week in New York, I was at the condiment bar in the Starbucks on my block, and the woman next to me emptied six packets into her grande coffee. I instantly realized that I was failing to capitalize on the full extent of artificial sweeteners to which I am constitutionally entitled. To purchase Splenda with my hard-earned money would be like trying to pay the rainforests for producing oxygen, or throwing pennies at the sun at dawn.

So every couple of weeks, on one of my hourly pilgrimages to the mecca of predictable caffeination, I toss a handful of little yellow envelopes into my purse. I keep them in the kitchenette with the coffee grounds and filters that I buy legitimately with conventional U.S. tender (i.e., cash or overdrafted debit card).

Some of you may be underestimating the positive impact this has on my budget. False. I am saving literally dozens of dollars. A package of 100 Splenda packets costs $5.99, plus exorbitant New York City taxes. So a year's supply would run about $18-24, depending on how frequently I made coffee at home, how many cups I drank, whether I offered any to guests.

Again, please don't underestimate the buying power of $24:

9 pieces of cheese pizza at Figaro's downstairs
6 bagels with walnut cream cheese at Pick-A-Bagel, right outside my door
4 pairs of worthless, instantly disintegrating gloves from H&M
8 issues of Vogue with the good ol' B&N employee discount
24 books from the dollar carts at Strand
9 rides on the Subway
8 bottles of Charles Shaw, aka Three-Buck-Chuck from Trader Joe's
24 pay-as-you-wish trips to The Met

That's what you're missing out on, folks! Let me encourage you, as we enter the New Year, to re-evaluate if you are making the wisest financial choices on your daily trips to Starbucks. If you are putting fewer than six packets into your drink, you're throwing your money away.

The Final Rose of Self-Respect

2011-01-06T22:55:00.005-05:00

My New Year's Resolution is going very well. I have sustained it with remarkably little griping for a full week. Please throw confetti! Or interviews! Yes, that one; please shower me with interviews.

This past week has also revealed several New Year's Resolutions that I should have made, but unfortunately did not.

I should have Resolved not to watch The Bachelor. I have already watched four complete seasons of this show, if you count its -Ette version (five if you count the show that shattered all previous attention-whoring Olympic records, this summer's Bachelor Pad, in which the most promiscuous and least sane contestants from the previous twenty seasons spent several weeks back-stabbing, fornicating and leaking mascara from every orifice). With each season comprised of ten 2-hour episodes, that makes 120 hours of my life flushed away.

Granted, I usually redeem 80% of that time in baking or in hardcore mocking of the desperate women who, despite being emotionally fragile to an incomprehensible extent, rush to cover their low self-esteem with a thick coat of lip gloss and display their poor reasoning skills to all of America. These women also seem to have permanently damaged the memory-storing portions of their brain with hairspray fumes: despite the twenty previous seasons all unfolding according to the exact same formula, all the women are shocked and devastated when a) other women behave in a mentally unstable fashion b) other women behave with egregious bad manners/morals to attract The Bachelor's attention c) The Bachelor kisses other women.

It's probably pretty clear to you at this point that this show is utterly worthless, if not downright cancerous. My life is in no way enriched or improved by viewing it, yet in past seasons I have been more committed to the weekly episodes than The debut episode of the latest run was rather bland and The Bachelor is not particularly engaging, yet by the end of the season I will probably be deeply emotionally invested in his life.

So I should have Resolved to eliminate The Bachelor from my life. That's two hours more a week for reading great books, belatedly returning emails, shoe shopping online and coloring. Oh wait...I can do all those things while watching The Bachelor! Bring on the drama! Bring on the tears, the fangs, the hot tubs! I'm ready to feel emotionally stable and intellectually blessed.

IT

2011-01-05T22:25:00.004-05:00

I would like to keep the I-hate-my-job-so-much-I-could-set-my-hair-on-fire posts to a minimum. But I must just make the following public service announcement.

If there is a mysterious puddle seeping up through the carpet in the corner of the Children's Department...if it is of curious color and unpleasant odor...if it has been sprinkled with absorbent powder and cordoned off by Children's Department staff...if plumbers are frequently visiting it to peer down in confusion and eye the wall quizzically...if it is steadily growing larger...

STAY AWAY FROM IT

Do not do any of the following:
Do not park your stroller on top of it
Do not pile your coats in it
Do not sit as close to it as humanly possible
Do not allow your infant to crawl through it.
Do not leave merchandise in it, even merchandise that you have already trashed with no intent to purchase.

Call upon whatever trace amounts of common sense God granted you, and stay the heck away from mysterious swamp like corners. My job is hard enough without having to pluck your child and your copy of Cosmopolitan: 1523 Sex Tips He'll LOVE For A Flat Stomach In No Time With Acaii Berries! out of typhoid-inducing sludge.

Thanks.

Rikki, Don't Lose That Number

2011-01-02T10:32:00.004-05:00

There's been a lot of media and Twitter attention to an alleged iPhone 4 alarm clock fail on New Year's Day, allowing millions of technologically hip Americans to enjoy communal swells of righteous indignation. Well, guess what, I'm cool, too! I may not have an iPhone, but I'm ahead of the curve: I experienced a phone-related alarm crisis just before the New Year.

As I alluded to in one of my 1.1.11 resolutions, my phone recently died. It threatened to pass away on the day before Christmas Eve, but a fearless healer at the Verizon store brought it back (don’t go towards the light, little phone! ). Then on the day before New Year’s Eve, it coded again and could not be revived.

I was devastated. I hated that little phone, but it had stored really poor quality pictures and typo-laden messages of encouragement that I wanted to hoard up like some crazed old lady stammering to herself in a cobwebby corner of the nursing home’s patio. Also that phone was the device by which I texted friends at home and in the city thousands of times a day.

Without my phone, I was forced to dwell silently on my thoughts with no opportunity for instantly spouting them off to a friend, love interest or Twitter follower. I was reduced to paying attention while in line at Starbucks, meaning that I knew what I wanted to order when I got to the counter and then communicated it clearly to the barista –embarrassing. And while on break in the lunch room I had to converse with my coworkers instead of texting with the fury of a congressional campaign manager. This subjected me to lengthy discussions of topics such as extracting sperm from corpses to inseminate widows; the inconsistent ounceage of single-serving chip bags from varying manufacturers; and hobo fights on YouTube.

Most cripplingly of all, my phone is my alarm clock. This week, the phone’s soul left its body on Wednesday night. I was scheduled to work at 7 am on Thursday and Friday. I’m usually an early riser, but I always set an alarm as insurance – and no one wakes up at 5:45 am naturally except Nazis and Kathie Lee.

I was forced to use telepathy on myself. Wednesday night I went to bed super early and lay there chanting silently to myself, 5:45. 5:45. Wake up at 5:45. Wake up at 5:45. 5:45 5:45. I repeated it over and over and over trying to overwhelm whatever mystical part of the frontal lobe or hippocampus controls the eyelids.

And it worked! Sort of. I woke up at 5:45…after waking up at 12:38, 2:06, 3:19 and 4:22 to spring from the bed in a panic and squint insanely at the microwave. Thursday night went a little more smoothly: I woke up at 1:10 and 3:57 before bolting upright in an oldest-child’s rule-abiding people-pleasing terror at 5:47.

What lesson can you take away from this? Two-fold: 1) remember that your mind is stronger than your body. You’ll come to believe what you tell yourself, so control what you obsess over to be sure you’ll like what happens to you. 2) Have a back-up alarm clock.

Fifty-Two Fifty-Two: The Remix

2011-01-02T10:14:00.005-05:00

So I did this cool thing in 2010, Fifty-Two Fifty-Two. While the quantity was not a stretch for me (I have no friends or pets and consequently read in lieu of a social life), I really enjoyed the discipline of articulating my thoughts about each book as I finished.

Not that you asked, but I think my top books of the year are as follows:

A History of Love by Nicole Krauss [excited to read her new one!]
The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbary [immediately re-read as soon as I finished]
Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote [also recommend Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M. for kicks]
A Novel Bookstore
A Visit From the Goon Squad [excited to meet her next week and fawn!]
Cleopatra [merits every ounce of hype]

Moving forward into 2011, I've decided to give 52-52 another go, but with narrower parameters. My version of the project will be to read 52 biographies in the next year. I don't think this is too herculean - I included 13 non-fiction books last year, if my count is right, and my last three in a row were biographies (of women, two of whom were notorious hussies...hmmm...). And I remember several other non-fiction titles that I read but didn't choose to add to the official list. So my taste for good old facts is expanding, and I think the challenge will be good for my mind, soul and future prospects on Jeopardy!

Any suggestions from y'all as to what biographies, autobiographies and memoirs I absolutely must ingest during 2011?

Here's my complete 52-52 2010 list for the interested or bored:

1. The Help
2. The Count of Monte Cristo
3. The Unnamed
4. When You Reach Me & The Lightning Thief
5. A History of Love
6. A Confederacy of Dunces
7. Country Driving
8. The Elegance of the Hedgehog
9. The Sea
10. Zoli
11. How I Became A Famous Novelist
12. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
13. Winston Churchill
14. The Girl Who Played With Fire
15. Before & After: Stories from New York
16. The Big Short
17. Players
18. The Final Solution
19. The Professor and the Madman
20. Enlightened Sexism
21. Sovereign Ladies
22. America & the Pill
23. The Good Soldiers
24. Emma
25. Last Call: The Rise & Fall of Prohibition
26. Publish This Book
27. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest
28. The Imperfectionists
29. Marry Him
30. Elliot Allagash
31. Room
32. A Happy Marriage
33. The Pregnant Widow
34. The Hunger Games series
35. The Lonely Polygamist
36. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake
37. Wintergirls
38. Breakfast at Tiffany's
39. Pilgrims
40. The Archivist
41. Sarah's Key
42. The Likeness
43. Super Sad True Love Story
44. A Novel Bookstore
45. A Visit From the Goon Squad
46. One Day
47. Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter
48. Anthropology of An American Girl
49. The Tiger's Wife
50. Cleopatra
51. American Rose: Gypsy Rose Lee
52. Mockingbird: Harper Lee

New Year’s Resolutions

2011-01-02T08:46:00.001-05:00

I’ve made a collection of small, easily attainable ones:

· Buy toilet paper before you’re completely out and have to use the nice, extra soft, expensive Kleenex you were saving for when you have a super bad cold.
· Stop being so addicted to texting that you break out in hives during the 16 hours between your old phone dying and the new one arriving.
· Spend grocery money on groceries instead of books.
· Spend grocery money on groceries instead of wine.
· Stop fantasizing about smacking customers, especially the classic double slap (open palm rapidly followed by back of hand on the follow-through). The things we dream of sometimes become our reality.
· Apply to at least one job a day, no excuses. Today’s stiff and awkward application blindly sent to a mediabistro posting is the training field for a shockingly persuasive cover letter when I meet the right gatekeeper at the right time. If muscle memory can win Olympic medals, a habit of tenacity will prevail against the lethargy of blue days. And people who haven’t tried don’t get to whine.

2010-12-30T19:17:00.004-05:00

Topics covered by crazy homeless chatterer next to me:

Bedbugs - How acquired (used tissues); How defeated (fire)
Tobey Maguire
Fear of the dark
Jewish people in Riverdale - Nice; Smell like Chicken
Recent NYC blizzard - Intended by Christ to arrive on Christmas Eve; Delayed by terrorists
Dating
College educations - a myth
People who get annoyed when you talk loudly & irrationally to yourself in Starbucks - unreasonable

Actions of crazy homeless chatterer:

Crazy chattering
Spraying Lysol Freshmatic
Laughing sporadically in an evil cackle
Sleeping

Costing not less than everything...,

2010-12-30T17:06:00.004-05:00

I am a Christmas Person. I love everything about Christmas. I love shopping for gifts, wrapping them, carrying them around town, handing them over shyly. I also love obsessing over menus and grocery shopping at eight different stores. I love putting up a Christmas tree and poking myself a thousand times while I wrap lights around it. I love Christmas dishes and Christmas towels and nativity scenes and incessant caroling. I LOVE IT ALL.

This year, Christmas happened on a much smaller scale than I would have liked. Budgetary issues, slightly of my own making and largely of someone else's cruelty, meant my gifts had to be more modest and my feast less lavish than I would ordinarily consider acceptable. I did not send any Christmas cards or holiday goody boxes. I did not bake a single cookie.

Even more atrocious:

I had no Christmas tree.

OH NO!! CHRISTMAS IS RUINED! THE GRINCH IS PRESIDENT!! THE TERRORISTS ARE WINNING! NO JINGLE BELLS!!!

Uh, guess what, folks. Christmas was still brilliant.

I hung up the lights and bows I saved from last year and the halls were decked. Some of my city friends marched over to my house bearing wine and treats and we were jolly. They were pleased with the hearty and frugal corn chowder I dished up from my mother's recipe. There was jumping up and down and screaming all round whenever a gift was opened, because we shopped with love and humor and found a way to play Santa on very small budgets. As far as I know, none of my afar friends have deleted me from facebook because of my absence from their mailbox.

Forget diamonds, THESE are a girl's best friends

I'm looking forward to a year with a bigger holiday budget. I want a tree taller than me and too fat for my arms to reach around it. I want to drop twenties in every red kettle I see, even cross the street to follow the sound of the bells. I want to bake for days from a pantry full of walnuts and chocolate chips. I'm looking forward to all this even if it's several Christmases away.

CHRISTMAS SOCKS!!

For now, I'm glad that the small things sometimes carry as much joy - or more - than the biggest, most sparkly. For now, it's ok to be desperately poor, not just because I'm sticking it out for the sake of some crazy Michigan girl's dreams. Because I'm discovering that I have a few of those dear and necessary friends who come alongside even when I refuse to ask for help. And I'm developing humility - to smile and say thank you when a friend treats me to a bagel just the way I like it, instead of panicking, pretending or curling back into my shell like a salty snail. And I'm learning there's as much dignity in accepting generosity with grateful pleasure as in starving with my nose in the air. That's what I'm taking from Christmas into the new year.

I think there must be something wrong with me, Linus...

2010-12-16T18:44:00.005-05:00

I haven't blogged much over the past several months (and that sound you hear would be the Obvious Unnecessary Statement Alarm going off). I think it's because my life has been crowded and confusing much of the time. Not exactly in a bad way, just in a slightly overwhelming way, and I think I haven't been drawn to the blog because my thoughts were one space that was utterly private. In tight quarters on a tight schedule and a tight budget, my mind has been the one spot left unrestrained; unshared sentences a safe indulgence.

Let's see if that changes in the new year.

Putting My Hand in the Mitten

2010-12-15T13:04:00.006-05:00

Last week I went back to Detroit for a few days for the purpose of beaming with pride at my brother's police academy graduation.

My assortment of brothers

While there, I discovered that my youngest three siblings have grown to shocking heights; that my favorite Thai food restaurant altered its soup for the worse; and that my old Children's Department is enviably calm and tidy on weekday mornings.

Youngest sis and youngest bro

I also enjoyed collecting reports from my oldest and dearest friends that although they miss me desperately, this new life agrees with me. They tell me that I am well and happy. "You look so New York," I heard over and over, which gratifies my ego, of course, and comforts the parts of me that despair when my bank account is empty or when I'm missing baking cookies over long conversations with people who've known me since before I knew myself.

New York and Grand Rapids meet in Detroit

I would've loved a few more days in Michigan, but I was excited to come home to New York. Unfortunately, fate once again intervened by means of its favorite evil puppet, the Baltimore airport. Some of you may remember this displeasing boomerang incident on my very first trip to make NYC my home. This year I was again on a DTW-BWI-LGA excursion on a Saturday afternoon. All seemed promising at first, including an encounter with a celebrity during my three hours in Baltimore.

I've been good...

I even made it onto the plane to New York this time. Then the pilot came on the cabin intercom and announced that the plane was broken. This was startling to my seatmate, who had just taken that same plane on its previous flight from Jacksonville, Fla. The pilot apologized for the inconvenience and requested that everyone calmly and politely get off the plane and march down the terminal to a different gate.

Here comes the mystifying part. The cabin erupted in groans, curses and huge dramatic sighs of annoyance. Most of my fellow passengers seemed to be outraged that their safety was being so rigorously ensured. I was astonished to hear people raging about being late for happy hour plans or not making it to Fifth before Barney's closed. I was of the opinion that it's better to be late and alive than to crash on time, but I was in the minority. Everyone else apparently wanted to risk falling from the sky for the sake of not missing The Lion King.

Still interspersing Michigan pictures...Dinner with brothers & his girl.

We paraded off the plane and rushed in a disgruntled riot down to another gate, where I was elated to see a plane painted like Shamu the Whale waiting for us. My fellow passengers proudly disregarded the captain's request that we cooperate with the flight attendants in an orderly fashion, but I eventually made it back to my seat and back to New York. I smirked grandly to myself while listening to tourists ooooohhh over the skyline and misidentify the Chrysler Building as the Empire State Building as we swooped down towards LaGuardia. Home sweet home.

Sisters

I may be avoiding Baltimore layovers in the future, but I'll always be glad to travel between Michigan and New York. One is home now and henceforth, one is the home that raised me, taught me to wait patiently, and to respect things that go. And I'm blessed to have incredible friends in both places.

Some things are the same in any state: Starbucks with friends!
In this case, @ohrebecca.

If you fall for me, I'm not easy to please...

2010-10-27T12:40:00.003-04:00

A striving and thriving NYC friend of mine recently wrote something on her blog that turned out to be a) very true and b) exactly what I needed to hear at exactly the needed moment:

From what I can tell, from my fairly naive and inexperienced vantage point, it seems the line between success and failure is just showing up and doing whatever you’re given to do. And doing it well. And on time. And with a smile and a sense of wonder.

Amid regular thrills and minor disappointments over the past handful of months, I continue to obsess about how to balance choosing happiness in the now with tireless pursuit of lasting happiness in the still-to-come. How to walk the wire between contentment, and giving up. How to recognize if it's time to change a dream because the dream is singing that Taio Cruz song that's forever stuck in my head.* Or should I continue to cling to a dream's ankles, throwing a major tantrum like a child who refuses to leave the Thomas-the-Tank-Engine tables.

In worrying over this balance, I think I regularly get distracted by a false dichotomy of success and failure. If failure isn't a last stop, all off, and if success is not a final destination where I build a little house and meet the neighbors, then I don't have to worry so much about being on the wrong train. If, as my wise friend suggests, success and failure are states of being, the details of what I'm actually doing aren't as significant as the way in which I do it.

Yesterday I went wandering with another very good friend of recent vintage, and we had a long late talk about this overwhelming question of embracing right now without giving up on later. Along the way, we prowled through some of the original spots that always bring back the feeling of how badly I wanted to belong here when I was just a visitor, as well as favorite places that have become part of my regular pattern over the last year.

It was an important, renewing reminder. Maybe sometimes the tenacity of going after a dream is part of the dream itself.

*thanks to the bar below our apartment.

2010-10-13T21:35:00.002-04:00

Someone has been a shameful blog slacker. I am that someone. I promise to get back on track. Life has been very up-and-downy.

Horoscope

2010-09-19T19:32:00.003-04:00

...which has lived in my wallet since I ripped it out of the free subway paper during my lunch break on Friday:

Dont't hang back or be timid in any way when it comes to your ambitions. You can realize the success you crave, if you pursue your objectives with all the gusto you can manage.

Favorite elements: a significant comma followed by a significant two-letter word (If); the onomatopoeia of a five-letter word (gusto) which sounds like a grunt of tremendous effort and a sad sigh of peaceful defeat all in one.

Riverside Park

2010-09-14T22:23:00.001-04:00

A little field mouse emerged from a pile of leaves - already fallen, brown and cackling, though it is barely midway through September - and sat in a hunch, nibbling something held between its paws. It stared at me through one intent eye; I could not tell if it watched me, or merely saw and didn't bother to look away. But it wasn't frightened. It came out calmly and stayed a while. I wondered what it thought, why it wasn't afraid of me.

It lives in a city park, it sees strange people at all times. It peers through the iron railing that separates the pathway and benches from the wooded tangle, and beyond that, from the highway and beyond that, the river. Of course a mouse who lives between the city streets, on one side, with their garbage trucks and taxi cabs and bicycle delivery men on one side, and a roaring six lane highway on the other, is not afraid of a girl in jeans and a black scarf. Though of course the highway could be survived with a well-timed and perfectly lucky dash across the asphalt; it is the river beyond that is impossible for a mouse. A girl could swim it, climb out dripping and dirty and tired into another state, but a mouse-paw crawl could never make the trip, to say nothing of the sailboats.

But I wonder - has the mouse noticed my shoes? They are leopard, if Picasso had designed the leopard - loud splotches, misarranged, hardly the perfect speckles of the velvet animal. But surely the signal danger is written into the threads for every tiny creature. Run. This one may be sleek and beautiful, but this one is deadly, with the sharpest of teeth and claws and an inexorable ability to pounce like lightning. Or has this little mouse come from generations of living in this park for so long that the recognition of a predator's coat has vanished from their genes? You only know a danger when you're taught to recognize it. You create it by looking for it. It isn't born in your blood. Your best hope is to welcome all, trust none, keep one eye in each direction.

This is a terrible theory for such a beautiful day, with the park at my back, the city beyond that, the highway before me, the river beyond, and a mouse at my feet that is ugly in the house and lovely in the leaves.

An Installation Piece

2010-08-21T17:07:00.003-04:00

He spoke as I was watching a sixty-second film by Yoko Ono called Freedom in which she plays with the clasp on her bra but never actually removes it. "She was here, you know. A few weeks ago, a couple months back." He's the guard standing next to an installation piece by Andy Warhol, footprints sketched out in a light box, the steps of a tango. It's his job to make sure no one climbs on and dances. "She came in here, looked at her stuff. Nice lady. Mick Jagger, too, he was here, with his daughter."

Well over six feet and heavy, a glistening dark head with a hint of stubble. "Me, I'm 42, 43 in September. He's what, 73? 74? Still rocking out, plays at that place down in the Village." He mimed guitar work with his hands and deeded a tune, cracking a smile. "The great artists, they're all crazy. That's where it comes from. They come in here and they're just...nuts! Beautiful. I don't know...this guy." He waved his pick hand at his feet, "Andy, he was one. Just wanted attention. My brother tells me he knew him back in his Factory days. Those movies he made, the girls. All just attention."

It was a little hard to hear him, because his deep voice echoed in the white gallery, and in the next room, a video installation played the sound of a slamming door, over and over. "And Quentin Tarantino, he's another one. You seen his movies? Yeah. That stuff. It comes from something strange. Pulp Fiction, great movie. The first Kill Bill. Not Grindhouse. I don't know what that was. But Jackie Brown, yeah the music! Kool & the Gang.." He sang again. "I love it! That's good stuff. Some of this, I don't know." waving his hand again. "It all kinda seems the same to me. I been working here close to twenty years now, I've learned one thing to tell what's good and what's not." He was quiet for a second, staring across the room into the next gallery. " If lots of people are standing in front of something - if they stand a long time, not talking much, just looking at it, thinking about it, that's what means it's something real art. If they look and keep going, it's probably just the crazy."

I walked into the next gallery. I couldn't hear if he spoke to the next visitor to stop in front of the old television, but I listened just in case.

Mousecapades - Conclusion

2010-08-19T16:25:00.004-04:00

partone. parttwo. partthree. part four
part five

I entered the apartment with every intention of being calm and competent. I planned to take Jill's place as a fearless vanquisher of mice who have stepped above their station in life. Five seconds later, I was cowering next to Elisha on the bed, having rushed across the apartment shrieking, all courage deserting me. I was also suddenly wearing my rainboots. I believe in equal rights for equal women and I asserted my right to allow males to do all the rough and ugly stuff. Adam performed all actions that had any possible chance of viewing or otherwise interacting with the mouse while Elisha and I clutched each other.

Elisha whispered that the mouse was behind my little plastic set of drawers where my socks and camis live. Adam delivered a powerful kick with the intent of smashing the mouse against the wall and succeeded in smashing the front of the drawers with élan that would spark pride in the heart of Chuck Norris. For a horrible moment, we glimpsed a little coil and vomited in our mouths at the thought that it was a dead mouse tail; it turned out to be a hair tie.

Adam then fearlessly looked behind the now-busted doors and under the shoe armoire, seeming not to care whether this meant seeing the mouse or, worse, the mouse running past his foot or springing out onto his face. Then we decided the mouse was probably behind the non-Elisha-and-Sharon bed. In a trembling voice, I started working out a LAN for surviving the awfulness of moving the bed and exposing the mouse to the whole room. Adam gave us one look of withering, scornful disbelief and hauled the bed away from the wall without preamble. We screamed automatically but saw nothing but more hair ties and hair pins.

Jill rushed in, obviously disappointed that the mouse hunt had begun without her and trying to be gracious about sharing the glory with Adam. The two of them did more poking, peering and strategizing with Elisha and me offering supportive whimpers from the bed. Suddenly Jill whipped her head around toward the kitchen with a cry of triumph: "The mouse, the mouse, the mouse!!"

The mouse lay elegantly in its side the middle of a glue trap. Apparently, it was overcome with terror at the joint prospect of enormous undauntable Adam and enthusiastic Jill, and chosen the gentle glory of a self-directed death. Adam picked the glue trap up and trashed talked the twitching, fading mouse while Jill capered about in some Aboriginal victory dance. Elisha and I gagged in our mouths at the sight of the disgusting little mouse and its disgusting death tremors. Finally the corpse was cremated, the mouse soul likely doomed to wander, wailing, after committing the unforgivable sin.

I hope that mouse ghost spends his haunting warning his friends away from our apartment. He learned the hard way that no mercy can be found when you threaten the place where we lay our heads and shelve our books.

Mousecapades - Part Five

2010-08-01T09:05:00.009-04:00

partone. parttwo. partthree. part four

Our initial panic and terror rapidly gave way to outrage. One mouse in the house is a tragic error; two of them is an impertinence. The next three hours were spent moving furniture, picking up shoes and cowering behind Intrepid Jill as she expertly wielded the Mouse Pole. This second mouse proved to be wiser, if less valorous, than his doomed comrade. He showed himself no more. Finally, exhausted from our emotional and physical ordeal, we convinced ourselves that our tireless ferocity had routed the mouse, a Bloodless Revolution. We decided that it had vanished into a gap we had discovered between the kitchen and baseboard and chose to believe that it was too intimidated to come out ever again.

In the morning I.J. went to work and Elisha and I spent the whole day cleaning, organizing and mouse proofing. Discovering no mouse poops and quite a few crumbs, I drew the reassuring conclusion that the mice were newcomers to our abode. A more streamlined furniture arrangement reduced the number of hiding places and escape routes. I went to dinner with a friend, leaving timid E alone in the apartment, propagandizing her with my confidence that the mouse episode in our lives was over.

Towards the end of dinner, I received a phone call. Four of them, to be exact, in about as many minutes, the last of which I answered. In a quavering, desperate voice, Elisha informed me that the mouse had reappeared. "Come home right now. It's so horrible. You have to come right now."

Fortunately for us and unfortunately for the mouse, I was dining with my friend young Adam who I have adopted as a surrogate little brother in the city. This essentially means that I have thoroughly trained him to do unpleasant tasks that I do not wish to do myself, and to do them gladly, with gratitude towards me for allowing him the privilege. He is also below the legal drinking age, 6-foot-3 and from the Bronx. A mouse's worst nightmare. "On my way," I told Elisha, "and I'm bringing Adam. Everything will be fine."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Mousecapades - Part Four

2010-07-30T19:49:00.006-04:00

partone
parttwo
partthree

Chaos erupted, chiefly characterized by deafening screams.

Elisha trumpeted like an archangel at the Second Coming, bouncing violently on the bed, which lends a Blair-Witch feel to the incriminating video. I also hollered and leapt, sending the contents of the recycling bag rattling across the floor while craning my neck towards the hall to keep an eye on the dirty little bugger. Jill was an obstacle to this goal: although her screams were briefer and more testosteroney than ours, she was moving backward in angry tiptoe hops, which sent her bum barreling into my midsection with a Kanye tempo. This made it difficult to observe the mouse's actions.

I clung to my post, determined to lead the Light Brigade should Jill call for back-up. Roughly six seconds later, my pluck deserted me and I turned and ran through the recycling. In retrospect, I believe my leap to Join Elisha in the relative safety of the bed is a feat worthy of mention considering that I was clad in a skirt and ridiculous high heels. Unfortunately, Jill's conduct outshone my own.

Though her hindquarters may have responded to the mouse's exit with reckless abandon, Intrepid Jill's head kept...I don't want to say composure, because that's definitely not the right word...most of her oriented towards mouse destruction. In rhythm with her bizarre hops, Jill smashed our Swiffer Sweeper up and down on top of the glue trap which the specially-
abled mouse had rushed directly onto. This mouse had acted, as it turned out, with De Gaulle-like estimation of its own merits, showing admirable audacity but lamentable lack of reconnoissance.

After six or seven whacks, Jill retreated with honor and an unballetic sideways leap, one foot landing amidst the recycling, the other performing can-can kicks. Her manly screams changed mid-aria to unsportsmanlike triumph. "Bah-hahahahahahaha," she cackled. "yes. Yes. YES. Take that, mouse. Oh he is so dead. That is one dead sucker." She had landed with legs still akimbo and now leaned forward to pee, gloating, at the edge of the glue-trap/mouse/Swiffer sandwich, from the edge of which a tail poked revoltingly.

Elisha and I ended our Greek chorus to evaluate the state of affairs. "Is it dead? Oh my god, where is it. Is it dead is it dead??" Jill reacted with characteristic lack of modesty. "He's stuck. Oh yes hee hee hee, I did it! Dead! He's totally dead." We congratulated ourselves for handling the situation, pleased that we slew the mouse with no male intervention and wishing for throngs of citizenry to cheer us as we paraded to the incinerator, mouse corpse sandwich held aloft.

Returning to the newly restored tranquillity of our apartment, we enjoyed a dramatic sigh of relief. Mid-exhale, I spied something that sent me caterwauling into the hall again.

A little mouse ran along the wall and vanished under our radiator.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Mousecapades - Part Three

2010-07-29T00:14:00.002-04:00

partone
parttwo

The mouse was in the closet. Our closet. With our clothes. The downside of this is obvious. The upset, from a tactical perspective, is that the closet is located in a very bare, short and narrow hallway. If we could rustle him out of hiding, we would probably be able to drive him towards the door and out of our lives forever.

Easier said than done.

We were already down one man, because while Elisha had somehow reentered the apartment during all the screaming and running, she was now standing on top of the bed and refusing to move with Lutheran determination. I was willing to be brave, but my flesh was weak - specifically, my feet, which were very frightened of having a mouse run over them. In my state of hysteria-flecked-with-bravery, it made sense to put on my black stilettos. The logic being that in heels, my feet and the rest of me would be as far away from the mouse as possible during whatever unthinkable mouse-fighting tasks I was called upon to perform. This meant that I looked very chic and absolutely foolish as I brandished a doormat and squealed - but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Intrepid Jill was, of course, utterly calm. Her demeanor was that of Napoleon, if Napoleon had been a mother: simultaneously calm and comforting but issuing instructions with adamance that invited no argument. Fortunately, Elisha videotaped what follows from her cowardly perch atop the bed, so I can quote authoritatively.* After I girded myself for battle ("I need shoes on. If he** comes on my feet, I'm just going to die."), Jill barricaded part of the hall with a bag of recycling and stationed me in the gap: "Hold this rug. If he starts coming, I expect you to scoot him."

I accepted my orders with contradictory emotions: "OH MY GOD. Okay. I'll do it." After a pause, I noticed a remarkable inequity and squawked in preschool outrage, "Why do I have to and not Elisha?!"

Jill answered gently and with wilyness that both our mothers would be proud of, "Because Elisha's too scared. Don't you want to be in the Club of Courage?" I gave her the righteous sass that has distinguished me since birth: "No. I want to be in the Club of Not A Mouse On Me." Then I boldly picked up the door mat. After making final touches to our battements and a final war council (Jill: "All you have to do is not let him through that crack." Me "[incoherent gurgles of terror and resolve]"), we were ready.

Intrepid Jill began jabbing into the closet with an extremely large poking device she had fashioned by taping two rolls of wrapping paper together. She was standing as far away from the closet door as possible, legs splayed out for balance, bum vacillating, as she bent nearly in half and manuevered the Mouse Pole. I quivered behind her in my ridiculous shoes, peering fearfully and clutching my rug.

Then the mouse ran out.

TO BE CONTINUED

*That will only be shown to a select few for reasons of national security.

**We know he was male because he arrived when not wanted, wouldn't leave when we tried to get rid of him, nosed around in stuff that was none of his business and was a general all-round plauge and annoyance.

Mousecapades - Part Two

2010-07-28T17:02:00.007-04:00

partone

As happy as I was to drink champagne and let other people handle my problems, I harbored concerns as to Jill's ability to deploy mouse weapons without poisoning or maiming herself. I hollered into the apartment periodically, "What's going on? Jill! Are you alive?" She consistently responded "Don't worry, I'm handling it! Don't worry."

In the meantime, Elisha told me the whole story of the mouse - when she had first seen something she dismissed as a trick of the air conditioner, when it had run from under the bed past Jill's knee, their theory that oh infinite horror it had come up from the basement in a basket of laundry on Sunday. "It's so awful," she said. "It just ran right through the apartment. A mouse. It was in our clothes. It was in our clothes. We don't know where it is. I'm never going back in."

Eventually, Jill padded out to the hallway with her hands full. "Maybe you should help me bait these traps. It's kind of tricky." For the next twenty minutes, the Divine Miss E. drank champagne and giggled juveniley at our comments, "It's harder when you put peanut butter on it" while I.J. and I bent intently over the $2 K-Mart mousetraps. I snapped them on my finger twice by accident, which only hurt a little - a relief to my finger, but a cause of concern, seeing as our goal was to destroy a mouse. "If this snaps at 3 am," I warned Jill, "and I wake up to hear little horrible injured mouse yells...that just better not happen." "Don't worry, I'll handle it," was her response.

As we crouched over our work in the hallway, neighbors passed through at various times and stared at us in understandable confusion - three girls, the hall, champagne, mousetraps. We explained. "She got a promotion. And we have a mouse. In our apartment. A MOUSE." One after another, the neighbors suggested, "Well, did you call Anthony," a silent "comma, you IDIOTS" tagging along audibly at the end of their sentence. This had been my first thought, as well, as I am always a fan of passing unpleasant tasks along to males of the 6'2" persuasion, but Intrepid Jill doggedly stuck to the party line: "Don't worry, I'll handle it.

Eventually the champagne was gone and the traps were full.* With I.J. leading the way, we marched bravely back into our apartment and began discussing where to place them. Jill was in the middle of a tour of the glue and poison traps she had already set out when the worst thing imaginable happened:

Elisha suddenly vaulted upward and ran through the air into the hall, shrieking like Edward Cullen when he sees a good writer come into view. "THEMOUSETHEMOUSETHEMOUSE." It had run out from under the fridge, down the hall where ohmigod we were standing and into the closet ohmigod we have clothes in there. I wisely followed Elisha's fine example by screaming and running into the hall. Jill rubbed her hands together and said** "Yes. You run, little mouse. You are General Custer and this is your last stand."

TO BE CONTINUED

*Tragically, I had just finished a crappy jar of store-brand peanut butter, meaning I had to open a jar of my beloved Skippy. I hate that I wasted that elixir on a nasty little mouse.

*I swear on Stuart Little, these were her exact words.

Mousecapades - Part One

2010-07-28T16:41:00.005-04:00

Last night on my way home from work I received the following text message from Intrepid Jill:

"We have a mouse. Don't freak out."

Of course the second sentence accomplished absolutely nothing, because I was far too busy freaking out to read it. I panicked systematically during my eleven-minute walk home. I am a person who can rise to occasions when I am thrust into them with no preparation, but give me ample time to obsess and panic in advance, and I will rapidly reduce myself to a quivering pile of girlyness.

I texted back,

"OMG whaaa?"

Jill: "Don't worry, I'll handle it. E is panicking too."

I arrived in our hallway, cautiously unlocked our door and poked my head in. No sign of roommates or mouse. I made some little sounds, hoping to frighten it into betraying its location, but it was stalwart. In my volatile emotional state* I found myself incapable of walking bravely into the apartment. I pictured the mouse rushing at me in a rabid fit of fury. I texted Jill again, hoping the glory of honesty outweighs the valor of courage.

"Where is it, mainly? I'm scared to go in."

Intrepid Jill texted me again.

"Don't worry. I'm scared of rats but not mice. I have gear and will be home in 20 minutes. I'll handle it."

A moment later,

"You can wait in the hall till I get there, if you want"

At this point I had been hovering on the threshold for a good fifteen minutes. Part of me thought to myself, gear? The rest of me thought, THANK GOD and sat down in the hall to wait, to the great chagrin of empowered women the world over.

Intrepid Jill and Miss E. arrived home laden with bags of Weapons of Mouse Destruction. I was disturbed to see that Jill's eyes were glowing. She handed me a bottle of champagne. "Congrats on your promotion. Sit out here and drink this. I'm going in to handle the mouse."

TO BE CONTINUED...

parttwo

*due to receiving a promotion that I'm not positive I want. More banal obsession on that later, or maybe just never except in the privacy of my mind at 3 am.

Hotter Than A Match Head

2010-07-24T21:07:00.003-04:00

It’s hot out – oh, is it ever hot out, and still a full week before we arrive in August! Definitely too hot for the case of cabin fever I developed from sitting in this lonely little apartment all day. I waded down the street to the Starbucks where they always know my name and where, unlike the 78th Street Starbucks, they never run out of passion tea lemonade.

I spent an hour upstairs making an impressive dent in my latest stack from the library, then hiked four long avenue blocks to the Park. On the way, I received the flirtations of a couple debonair doormen and noted a snazzy hotel bar where I would like to have a martini as soon as my bank account allows me more than a few crusts of bread and a weekly bottle of Three-Buck-Chuck...gosh, I sound like some kind of female postmodern Valjean. I only wish I spoke French.

I spent an hour in the park on a bench with the Alice in Wonderland statue behind me and the sailboat pond in front of me, eavesdropping on the vapid pharmacy students to my right and monitoring the life-threatening activities of a little blond boy. He had made a bow out of a a curved stick and a glittery piece of streamer, but had abandoned the project before inventing any arrows. When I arrived, he had a little paper boat of which Curious George would be proud. He was stretched full out on his belly next to the pound, attempting alternately to launch and then to retrieve it. Periodically he would scamper back to the four women chattering in Russian on the bench to my left, none of whom seemed aware of his existence.

My experience in the Children's Department has given me a rather cynical opinion of the attention parents pay to their children when out in public. Spending a large part of your professional life saving toddlers and preschoolers from death by escalator or abduction conditions you to be alert to any and all miniature people in your vicinity. Ironically, this means I am usually devoting more care to a child than its parent, legal guardian or richly-paid caretaker. I roam the streets like some kind of vigilante nanny, unable to stop myself from telling children not to run, yanking them out of the way of busses or taking away the bits of trash they have picked up off Starbucks' floor and are planning to swallow. In this instance, I fully expected the young naval enthusiasts to topple into the pond with his rear end upward like Ping's in the Yangtze. I also fully expected this calamity to escape the notice of his four chattering mothers. I was fully prepared to be the person who darted forward to fish him out.

Unfortunately, dark fell too low to sustain my pretense of reading. When I left the park and headed home to the second half of last night's bottle, he was still splayed out on the pavement splashing away with his little boat. I'm not sure if he fell in after i left or not, or whether anyone bothered to fish him out. But I am delighted to arrive back at the apartment just in time to watch Hitch - why is it always so much more fun to watch movies you own when they're aired on television than when you deliberately choose the DVD and set it rolling? Like running into your roommate around the corner from home, or seeing an old friend at the bar you both frequent. Anything you could have at any time is less appealing than the thing that comes to you unexpectedly. I hope the little boy felt that way about the smack of water in his face tonight, this hot summer in the city.

Reading Is FundaMENTAL

2010-07-23T20:56:00.005-04:00

It is a matter of public record that I work in the large children's department of a large bookstore. On a daily basis, parents rush to me with panicked eyes looking for books to prepare their children for significant events - new babies, moving day, first day of school, mommy's return from inpatient treatment for bipolar disorder, daddy going to jail as part of an international custody dispute - as well as fairly common parts of life - brushing teeth, sleeping in your own bed, going to the beach, wearing clothes instead of pajamas.

I am of course equipped to find these books for them. I suggest alternatives when they reject my recommendation because the characters are boys instead of girls, black instead of white, mice instead of bears. I murmur understandingly when they feel the need to share their life story in explanation for why they are buying Darth Vader Learns to Count or Princesses Can Poop in Grandma's Potty. I can even whip out impressive babble about cognitive development and anthropomorphic personification. But I am constantly amazed that so many books exist for such specialized issues.

I was never* read any of these stories in my own childhood. I was not given books featuring gentle chipmunk families or household objects with impossibly cheerful faces to convince me to eat my vegetables or wear my shoes on the right feet - I ate what was put on the table or went hungry, and if I couldn't tell my right shoe from my left, well, I walked funny. I was potty-trained with M&Ms as bribery, no need for a Sesame Street character to get involved, and I gave up my binky at a suitable age with the support of a sticker chart leading to a ruffled purple umbrella.

When I reached the age of reason around 4 or so, my parents dispensed with deceptive incentives. Instead, when change was imminent, they announced what was going to happen with a brief dossier of relevant facts and expected me to deal with it. My parents did, however, use literature to prepare me ideologically for generic stoic compliance with a fearsome series known as Uncle Arthur's Bedtime Stories. These stories were terrifying and highly memorable, often revolving around Bieber-esque ardor for a specific physical copy of Holy Writ; my adult memories of them are both vivid and confused.

For example, in one, a father woke up his three little children in the middle of the night and stuck them on top of a dresser with stern instructions to stay put, then vanished into a rainstorm. A flood rushed into the valley, demolishing their home and setting the dresser afloat. Because the children were obedient, they stayed on top of the dresser as it swirled out of the house and into the churning waters, and were eventually rescued and reunited with their mom and dad and the family Bible. To this day, I can see the oil-portrait illustration of the children clinging to the dresser amid the waves - but a father left his children amid a flood warning, running to safety himself but seizing the opportunity to teach them a valuable, life-threatening lesson about obeying. Horrific. Another story involved a little girl's hands getting burned in a raging house fire but somehow her Bible surviving, and there was one about a little boy who secretly got the puppy his mother said he couldn't have, and the puppy was run over by a visiting minister who had a heart-attack at the sight of the broken little furry body, and died.

The central lesson that these storybooks impressed upon me was to be brave, honest, generous and unquestioningly obedient at all times or else I might die. Their vivid and confused influence has stuck with me: I cringe at the thought of not pleasing authority; I am afraid to be alone in thunderstorms; and I eat way too many M&Ms when I want to reward myself...okay, maybe that last one was from another childhood influence.**

So since storybooks have such a clear and far-reaching effect on the behavior and attitudes of children, time to aim higher. I propose a series of books for children targeting the grown-ups they will (hopefully) become:

When Dinosaurs Do Their Taxes On Time
The Little Iron That Could
Berenstain Bears and the Pitcher of Margaritas
Polly Penguin Moves On From Her Last Relationship
Where The Disconnected Unpaid Cell Phones Are
It's Fun To Check Your Credit Score!

Let's look beyond childhood and start planting the seeds of functional adulthood. If your child is scared of the dark, give him something bigger to cry about - his future utility bill.

*with one lurid exception, the scars of which remain with me to this day

**But better to be ducking into the candy stash over and over on stressful days at work than to be found in the stock room with a binky stuck in my mouth.

It's called The City That Never Sleeps because everyone has a roommate

2010-07-17T16:24:00.011-04:00

A few weeks ago I went to Colorado for a wedding (not mine) and came home to a new roommate. The Tiny Texan got her own place upstairs and Intrepid Jill arranged the transplant of her best friend from the Wyoming prairie to our delightfully small studio. As Monica said, it's the end of an era. Now our home has more books piled all around, fewer bottles of pampering products in the bathroom and about the same amount of laughter. Somehow some of our electrical outlets vanished upstairs with the Tiny Texan, so occasionally I go to turn on a lamp and find that a cell-phone charger or curling iron must be unplugged first. And I come home to delicious cooking smells less frequently than usual - i.e., never, because The Divine Miss E. proves to be as incapable as I.J. of microwaving soup or, really, doing anything safely and properly in the kitchen.

So I am the mom of the house all by myself: I bake cookies on Monday nights when we watch The Bachelorette, I find lost shoes under the bed and missing keys under the newspaper. I think every girl is startled to hear her mother coming out of her mouth in her single twenties. I know I absorbed far more of my mother's compassionate and caretaking nature than I expected to and, inexplicably, the wild city brings it to the surface.

Family trip to Trader Joe's, following which I made pasta and garlic bread for the hungry children.

For example - last night I came home dorkishly early after meeting up with an old college friend. My studiomates were still out in the hot night, so I watched Dateline* while eating crackers and gouda, then went to sleep. I woke up in the wee hours to see Intrepid Jill standing on our apartment's sole chair, seemingly scrubbing the highest part of the wall above the refrigerator. The spectacle was inexplicable and mildly unnerving, especially as she offered no information, instead waving at me cheerfully as I squinted at her. I asked her outright: "Why are you washing the wall?," half expecting to hear that she had somehow gotten pancake syrup or strawberry smoothie all over the apartment in the middle of the night.**

"I'm not," she answered airly, "I'm just oiling the hinges of this cabinet." This did not answer as many questions as it raised, but after reviewing my lingering confusion, I decided it was not profound enough to keep me awake, and flopped back down into my pillows, waiting until morning to figure out the rest. As so often happens with Jill, her behavior had an explanation that was perfectly reasonable when outlined but hard to discover without her as guide. Over donuts in the morning, she explained that the creaking cabinet above the fridge had annoyed her when she put her clothes away, and, wondering if cooking oil would work as well as WD-40, decided it 'twere well it 'twere done quickly, here upon this bank and shoal of time.

Ironically, she was in part stirred to action by the concern that the noisy cabinet would wake me up. In her eagerness, she forgot that our sole chair, when rolled across our uneven wood floor, makes a sound akin to that of thunder. I suspect, however, that it wasn't the mere noise of the chair that woke me. I think that the mom in me heard the sound of the chair and inferred that it was audible in the middle of the night because Jill was moving it somewhere with a plan more distinguished by ardor than wisdom. The mom in me woke the rest of me up for the same reasons that my own mother got up in the night to wander around the house to make sure all her kids were breathing. This always confused me in my youth - what are the chances that she would arrive over our bedsides in the momentary window that we have stopped breathing but are not irreversibly dead? The logic of moms is not that of mathematicians; Similarly, the mom in me felt that I needed to be awake during whatever questionable scheme Intrepid Jill was in the middle of carrying out, whether or not my conscious presence could have an effect on the outcome. As Jill pointed out, "You weren't in time to stop me, but you would've been awake to call an ambulance."

Fortunately, no ambulance was necessary. The chair is now back at its proper place at our bedraggled card table, and all hinges in the studio are respectfully silent. In the city, we take care of our own, the own we've created for ourselves. We wake up for each other's potential disasters with deep concern, no matter how much we make fun of each other for it in the morning.

*A remarkably fascinating episode about how much of what we see is what we actually see, and how much is what we expect to see, demonstrated by switching out shopgirls mid-transaction or suitors mid-speed-date and testing whether the customers noticed.

**Not an outlandish belief, given that she once woke up in the morning with chocolate smeared across her arm, face, hair and pillow, or that she sat on my Thanksgiving plate of duck while wearing white pants.

Refueling

2010-07-15T11:49:00.004-04:00

Last night we spent half an hour at my favorite Starbucks, the one around the corner and up the street, where the benches are cushy, the outlets plentiful, and the baristas exceptionally friendly (with the exception of one who over the weekend marked my Frappucino cup for "Cherry," a nickname which my heartless roommates seized gleefully).

We were waiting for a spot to open up at our favorite wine bar where the studly bartenders top off our glasses without being asked and bring out complimentary deserts from the kitchen when closing time nears. We were sitting at a table near the window and watched cab after cab pull up to the curb. The drivers rushed into the Starbucks and came out minutes later with steaming cups. As they drove off, another cab immediately hopped into the spot.

Apparently 9 pm is coffee break time for the taxi drivers of New York. It was irrationally odd to see the cabbies leave their spots behind the wheel, surprising to see that they were a separate being from the yellow car. I had never really looked at them before, but of course they came in all colors and shapes. One was grotesquely fat. One had an outlandish mustache. Inexplicably, I felt slightly betrayed to see them out of the car, getting Starbucks, like any other person.

I don't take taxis that often. Once, coming home from my birthday dinner in the East Village, my roommates and I sang Lady Gaga racously in the back seat of the cab and I felt profoundly sorry for the driver. But until last night, I'd never seen more of one than the back of his head and the slope of his shoulders. As it turns out, they have legs, too, and they work just fine for more than pressing the gas pedal.

Learn Chinese - Please (qing) - Lucky Numbers 24, 5, 49, 38, 2, 20

2010-07-10T09:48:00.003-04:00

I wish we went to college from 22-26, rather than from 18-22. I didn't know what the hell I was doing at 18 and had even less of an idea what to do in college that would set me up to be happy and content for the rest of my life. I had a vague inkling at 22 but not enough of one to choose a more reasonable academic program for my aspirations or extracurriculars like this one. Certainly not a strong enough inkling to keep me from a postgraduate degree in wasted time, earning my Masters of Fine Arts in Self-Loathing with a concentration in Vodka and Unfortunate Influences.

I wish society expected everyone to wait until halfway through their Roaring Twenties to get serious about the questions of what do you want to be? and why aren't you being it? The American Dream seems constructed on the assumption that you will burst from your mother's womb with a well-rounded resume and healthy list of contacts. Those who are doing what I want to do knew they wanted to do it a decade or so earlier than I did and were well on their way by the time I woke up bleary-eyed at twenty-four-and-a-half.

But wishing never got anyone to the moon. I think it was actually a combination of carefully honed science and disgusting little flat meal packets that did the galactic trick. And probably something of a single-minded focus on the task at hand and the goal ahead with only a limited amount of looking around to see what others were doing (one must always be aware of Russia, of course).

The other day, I got a fortune in my Chinese cookie that said this:

If the table moves, move with it.

I'm not sure what it means. Of course it's only a fortune cookie, and when those little paper slips mean anything, it's only by coincidence or because you're desperately grasping for some kind of sign, any sign, to shovel off some of the burden of making a decision. But maybe it's a message from Elpis to be persistent, to remain open to strange happenings and unconventional opportunities. A reminder that it's never too late to change, it's never too late, it's never too late.

[And I promise to return soon to the regularly scheduled programming of snark and embarrassing myself. In the past week, my feats of glory have included getting so much paint in my hair that it outlasted six washings, interrupting a couple while they were trying to add a customer to the Children's Department, and guarding a puddle of dog pee from a pack of crawling babies. Just think what the future may hold!]

Silver Parachutes

2010-07-09T20:59:00.005-04:00

I recently read Hunger Games and Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins. I was skeptical at first, as this is a series from the Teen Department, but the strong writing and fast-paced, substantive story drew me in; I gobbled up the first two books in one weekend and am eager for Mockingjay's arrival in August.

These dystopian books are set in a future America which has been divided into twelve Districts ruled by a merciless and materialist Capital. Every year, each District must send two Tributes to the Hunger Games, a Survivor-like death match that serves as entertainment for Capital residents and as a reminder to each District of its subservience to and reliance upon the Capital. During the Hunger Games, the twenty-four unfortunate Tributes are released into the Arena, a man-made wilderness environment. Their struggles to feed and shelter themselves and their brutal, desparateattacks on each other are televised for the enjoyment of the Capital and for the edification of the Districts. The Games often last for weeks, with the Gamekeepers manipulating the weather and orchestrating natural disasters to make for more interesting television. Beyond their own survival skills, the Tributes have only the generosity of potential sponsors to rely upon. If they have pleased the audience during the pre-Games period of preparation and posturing, they may be granted gifts from sponsors during the competition.

These gifts are delivered by silver parachutes that float down to the contestant at a moment of dire need. The silver parachute never brings a luxury or an easy solution. They deliver an item that must be cleverly used to sustain life. The heroine of the books, Katniss, is at first angry that her silver parachute doesn't come when she wants it to or that it doesn't send what she expects. But she learns over the course of the Games that she will receive a silver parachute when she's on the right track, thinking strategically, exercising discipline and instinct in wise harmony, making the best of every means at her disposal. She learns to be open-minded and creative about what the silver parachute drops at her feet. And she learns the absence of a parachute can actually be a gift, hinting that a solution is within her own grasp, without any outside aid, if she's smart enough to figure it out.

This idea of the silver parachute has stuck with me through the last couple weeks, which have been ones of exhaustion, frustration and discouragement. I've been watching for my silver parachute, wondering what its absence is trying to tell me, hoping I haven't already missed it gliding down in front of me, frightened that I'm looking for a glittery one when my sponsor chose a dull grey.

But today a silver parachute landed in front of me when least expected, arriving right in the middle of my very own Arena, the place that tries to strip me of my dignity, my humanity, and it was exactly the right shade for right now, keeping me in the Game for a bit longer. A gift that urges that urges me to be on my butt in coffee shops, typing away at cover letters and at *gasp at the confession* my long-postponed-and-fledgling-as-of-the-last-six-weeks-novel. No matter how much my mental energy lags or how hopeless the future feels, I don't really have another choice but to grapple with destiny for my survival.

Despite the heat, it'll be alright.

2010-07-06T21:58:00.006-04:00

The heat of the city is a very different beast from the humid, moody Michigan summers where I grew up, or even the proud Georgia summer vacations of my childhood.

In a week like this one, when the heat descends unexpectedly, making no excuses, everyone's footsteps slow to a crawl. The buildings bounce the sun back and forth amongst themselves with merciless glee and any breezes that sneak down to street level arrive apologetically prebaked and metallic. The stench of the garbage at the curb and the street men selling purses and hot dogs is almost visible. You could hunt down a friend by following the drops of sweat that roll down the neck, fall from the ends of ponytails.

Bottles of water gleam with condensation in the tiny struggling coolers of the newspaper stands; you can almost feel them cringe as greedy hands yank the door open a dozen times a minute. Passing the bank just as a customer leaves the ATM vestibule is a blessed kiss of air conditioning from the closing door. Dogs mince down the sidewalk like a ballerina moving over lava and the rumble of the subway below is almost painful against skin that sunburns in ten minutes.

The heat stays in the city all evening, even when the sun falls into the Hudson, and the broke little girls across the city sit praying over cover letters in old buildings with air conditioners too feeble to cool even the dollhouses they call apartments. The girls pin their hair as high as possible and sit bare-legged laughing at themselves for pretending their water is white wine.

I'm not sorry to spend this summer in the city, no matter how hot, dirty, gritty, pity. I am, however, wondering when the break will come.

Today's temperature set a record for the date: 103 degrees (Central Park)

And the piano, it sounds like a carnival

2010-06-12T11:28:00.007-04:00

We have a history with fires at this apartment. And I have a personal history with fire trucks – as in, a lifelong adoration thereof. So last night when we heard an alarm blare that was too close and too sustained to be a car alarm, Intrepid Jill and I rushed to the window and stuck our heads out.

It was close to 1 am, and we were already pajamaed and face-washed, with glasses on and wild bed-time hair. We leaned avidly into the odd crawl space outside our window, watching the torch-lights weave across the brick from the firemen on the roof and somewhere below in the weird alley. We could smell smoke, and heard the crackle of the radios as they talked to each other about a small fire in Le Pain Quotidien, which is around the corner from our entrance, yet in the mysteries of New York architecture, somehow just below us. Intrepid Jill called to them a few times. “Are you police? Fire-fighters? What’s going on? We’re curious! We’re nosy!”

After half an hour of this, we grew tired of jamming our non-American-Apparel sized frames into the window. I.J. knows of my love for fire trucks, and suggested that we go out front to gawk at them. Wisely, she encouraged me to bring a paper-towel full of the chocolate cookies I had baked tonight. I’m not sure why this occurred to us when getting dressed or fixing our hair did not; luckily, it was all for the best.

We burst out of the building onto the streets of New York to be greeted by no fire trucks, no heroes. Around the corner, we found two police officers, a landlord, a bread delivery man and a besuited Italian gabbing in front of Le Pain Quotidian. I.J. barged forward with some questions (“We’re curious! We’re nosy!”) and the Italian profusely introduced himself. “I am Dennis! I am of Bar Italia! Come in! Come in! A glass of wine, my compliments! We will discuss it, I will apologize, a glass of wine!” Bar Italia is the chic Italian restaurant just below us, next to the bagel shop and the drug store. We have never dined there, but I have frequently admired their chic green tableware, gracious patio and tall sultry waiters.

Dennis looks like Ewan MacGregor if he moved to New York and indulged himself in 50 lbs worth of gnocchi and martinis. Dennis is gregarious and hilarious and had us seated at the bar before we knew what had happened. We protested, “No no! We are in our pajamas!” but he would have none of it, whisking us in with a grand announcement to the handful of lingering diners, “These are my neighbors! They are beautiful!* They are awakened by this fire of my disgraceful neighbors and I must entertain them. Leonardo, your best pajama cocktail, right away!”

The unfolding two hours were an adventure of the imagination. Leonardo slid drinks in front of us quicker than we could drink them (and that’s saying something). The landlord reappeared and turned out to be a suave Tony, as slender as Dennis is fulsome and a face like a hawk – imagine George Clooney’s genes in a high-speed collision with Joan Rivers, and an exquisitely carved flash of teeth in the midst of it all. Dennis and Tony enjoy an intensely fond and acerbic relationship which revolves around pretending to refuse bottomless martinis and jokes about rent deductions and increases. The two of them mutually bitched about some early-30s upstairs spoilsport who has repeatedly complained about the music from Bar Italia, a problem which they theorize stems from the fact that “he needs to get laid – he needs a girlfriend!”

Also at the bar was a trio of astonishingly beautiful and friendly young people from Munich, one of whom is a neighbor upstairs and across the way. They were immensely entertained by the antics of Tony and Dennis and professed themselves to be charmed by our apparel. I only hope they do not take us as their prototype of the American Girl. Leonardo kept drinks flowing to all of us, doing magic tricks with sugar packets and juggling flaming vermouth bottles in between. He also consumed the entire stash of cookies I had brought for the absent fire-fighters, proposing to me half-way through. At one point the kitchen doors swung open and an inexplicably cheerful busboy marched out with plates of pizza for everyone, beaming intractably during his several trips back and forth.

Dennis deejayed the hits of U2, Billy Joel, John Denver and Lady Gaga while trading affectionate accusations with Tony.

“You woke me up in the night to come check on a fake fire! You are the crazy one, so lonely you have to drink with your landlord!” “Do not complain of this, amico mio, for I know you sleep alone every night of your life, I do not hesitate to drag you out to my bar full of beautiful ladies!”

They were united in their disdain for the management of Le Pain Quotidien:

“None of them answer their phones, not the owner, not the administrator, not even the one who rolls out the dough, they leave at 7:30 and they do not exist! Me, I arrive to work at 7:30 in the evening and my life is just beginning. I must be here all the time to be sure that Tony is not neglectful.” "
“What are you saying, these lies! I am the one here all day and all night as well! Look at me, I am asleep in my bed when my phone rings and it is this ugly one saying, ‘Tony, I miss you, I have no friends.’”

as well as for the FDNY:

“No delicacy with this fire department. You call them, they arrive, they rush in wrecking as they go, not even looking around them. They just break the locks, just smash it like it is an egg. My restaurant, it fills with smoke and they must make an elephant mess for a tiny kitchen fire next door! But better safety first, I always say, I only want to be too careful. I do not want Tony’s building to burn, I know it is the only girlfriend he has, and me the only friend.”
“You are a good one for saying this, Dennis with his white shirts and no hair on his head! Your restaurant, pah, your food is sold from a cart in Rome and here a waiter brings it on a tray with a wine glass and make you rich! Why did I let this crazy one into my building, my life is a disaster ever since!”
“Your life is nothing, but what have you done to mine! My hair thins because of you.”

A grizzled and hunched homeless man with rotting stumps between his lips appeared at the door and waved at us. Tony and Dennis took great glee in determining through sign language whether it was me or I.J. that he fancied, then teased me mercilessly about my new boyfriend before slipping outside to send him away with a folded twenty.

As last call loomed (4 am in New York and meaningless when you’re at the bar in your pajamas with the owner and his landlord), Dennis spoke swiftly in Italian to Leonardo, who then produced a gleaming bottle of red wine. Dennis informed us that this bottle had been a gift from Tony on the day the restaurant opened and was worth – are you sitting down - $3,000. Leonardo opened it, Tony poured it out in great flourish and Dennis served it to me and I.J. sitting there in our wild hair and our pajamas, and the gorgeous Munich trio. It was delicious, $3,000-wine, the kind of miracle that lingers on your tongue with a Jesus glow while also slipping softly down your throat with a perfect intoxication. We toasted over and over and over - to Tony, to Dennis, to each other, to the wine itself, to Munich, to Italy, to New York, to Leonardo, to pajamas, to fires.

If this is Italian hospitality, if this is New York living, I am quite fond of the combination.

*me: clad in a skinny purple tee, blue flats and black leggings with a hole in one knee and green paint spots on the other, my hair piled on the very top of my head and haphazardly escaping its clip, my eyes mascara smeared behind my glasses; I.J.: a camisole and baggy blue flannel pants with polar bears on them, tucked into Uggs+, hair still damp from the shower. Hard to imagine that we were very ravishing - is it possible that we are lovely when we don't even try? Can our natural state be ravishing?

+what we call “Pantelones!” after a waiter came out of this very bar to point at her while chuckling, "Oh ho ho! Pantelones, pantelones!" one evening in the spring when she wore the combo on an errand to get ice cream sandwiches.

Just Suck It Up

2010-06-05T13:33:00.008-04:00

When I was a little girl, we traveled to spend each Christmas with my father’s family in Athens, Georgia, and my grandmother would cook breafast every morning. I don’t know if the rest of the gathered family was grumpy about appearing at the table bright and early, but it was never a problem for itty-bitty me because I would scramble out of my little trundle bed as soon as I heard my grandmother in the kitchen. Because my family didn’t have a television until I was eight or nine, I didn’t want to waste a second sleeping if I could instead gape vacantly at the screen. I watched Sesame Street (in its glory days before Elmo took over with his annoyingly hipster lisp and third-person egocentrism), as well as holiday specials and my grandfather’s Laurel & Hardy video tapes. I also helped myself to the peanut dispenser he kept on top of the TV and to the little dish of black licorice next to his chair, and my grandmother would bring me out cups of dry Cheerios.

Perhaps because of this breakfast pre-gaming, I don’t remember what my grandmother served when we all placed our pajamaed rears around the big dining room table. I remember the feel of the air vents on the floor against my little feet and the brocade curtains, heavy with must, brushing my arm as I scampered down the long hall of French windows to get my favorite seat: next to my grandfather. I do remember what he ate for breakfast because I found it utterly revolting: Wheatena and prunes. I liked sitting next to him in order to be properly aghast at his meal and to recoil delightfully at his suggestions that he share it with me.

There was something else repulsive on the table as well. Every place setting included two little jam-jar glasses, one with milk and one with orange juice. I hated those little glasses, because I was required to finish both of them before I could leave the table. Being eager to return to my TV watching or my other favorite activities, jumping off the brick hearth onto the fringed-and-embroidered couch pillows from the wood-slatted Victorian couches, playing Miss Suzy with twigs and acorns or climbing the huge Magnolia tree in the front yard, I conducted Stieg-Larsson-level intrigues to dispose of my milk and orange juice.

Obviously, I couldn’t just drink them – the orange juice was always unacceptably pulpy and I suspect that the milk was whole. I would force myself to take as many minuscule sips as I could tolerate, dramatically holding my nose and gagging in hopes that any parent or aunt supervising my compliance would be moved to pity. Much time was spent mounting Supreme-Court-worthy arguments of my urgent need to relieve myself, pointing out that I couldn’t possibly be expected to drink anything if my bladder was at capacity. If granted permission, I took as huge a mouthful as I could hold and ran to the little hall bathroom, head averted, to spit it out in the toilet. Once, with disastrous results, I tried combining the glasses, foolishly believing they couldn't be more nauseating together than separately. A few times I tried secreting one jam-jar glass in each little pocket with the ingenious idea of flushing their contents away; this plot was grand in theory and humiliating in execution, as I spilled the contents in my pants while running (I deserve honor, however, for managing to stash them in the first place).

The central flaw in my ongoing rebellion is one that I never grasped no matter how often its consequences were repeated: I would dispose of some of the liquid through the aforementioned shuddering sips and resort to the more audacious escapades when my gag reflex reached its limit. Whenever I was caught trying to dispose of my milk and orange juice deceitfully (and I was caught almost every time, as no matter how self-assured or precocious the five-year-old is, she has no chance of against a team of highly educated and excruciatingly observant adult relatives), each glass would be refilled. Meaning I wasted my initial investment of pain and suffering, and I had to start over.

Now, at the ripe age of 26, I have learned the value of working not only hard, but wisely. I’m still sassy and rebellious but I hope I’ve learned to direct my stubbornness more effectively. The cleverest strategy if deployed in the wrong direction, is almost worse than lazyness. The more unpleasant approach might be the most effective. Sometimes freedom comes by gritting your teeth and complying, rather than brash ingenuity. At the same time, be sure you know what you want before you lift the cup that makes you gag.

And, at the ripe old age of 26, though I’m free to watch cartoons as long as I want and drink Kool-Aid for every meal, I start many days with cups lined up in front of my plate by my own choosing – pulp-free orange juice, skim milk and coffee with a dash of Splenda. It’s all about the strong bones.

Life Is What Happens

2010-05-30T01:20:00.005-04:00

Two years ago, I took this picture on a hot summer visit to New York City. I printed it up in sepia, framed it and set it on the desk in my Royal Oak apartment, next to my cell-phone charger and my stack of library books, as a tiny representation of my odd expected someday.

.
Today, I came around the corner for a Carrie Bradshaw movie date with the Tiny Texan and I saw this:

Crazy, right? These are some of my favorite New York moments - these when I realize that life has wandered around behind my back and brought me full circle, from dreamy tourist to big city girl. I took the picture...then I walked through the doors, bought a ticket and saw the movie with my roommate, because this is now one of our local cinemas. It just happens to be in Times Square, Manhattan, New York City.

And the day before and after my picture came to life was twelve hours of perfect New York minutes. I spent the afternoon touring the U.S.S. Iwo Jima in part to learn about warcraft but primarily because Fleet Week is an opportunity to ogle men in uniform under the guise of encouraging the troops. After the movie, the Tiny Texan and I found a rooftop terrace and ordered pomegranate martinis and the best Turkish food known to man. We talked about feminism and photo-bombing. I'm sunburned and my feet are incredibly dirty, but I'm awfully happy that I live in New York.