I'm Lame.

Lame, because I'm guilty of blogneglect. Sorry about that.

And also lame because of these beauties:










My new, sassy red with polka dot lining ballet flats.

They felt just a bit tight when I bought them, but nothing a few trial wears wouldn't fix. As I considered my calendar for Wednesday, I didn't see much walking. It appeared to be a good day to break in the Sassy Reds.

Then.

I ran late at work, and rather than take the subway to pick up the kids from day camp, I decided to trot the 10 or so blocks. It doesn't make sense that it's quicker to walk, but it is.

The kids and I had some time to burn before the birthday party we were attending, so we walked a few blocks to the candy store to beat all candy stores: Dylan's Candy Bar.

After Dylans, we walked down the steps to the subway, only to discover that because it was 80 trillion degrees with a bazillion percent humidity, all 8 million people in the city were running their air conditioners. This caused a brown-out, which in turn caused the 4,5,6 trains to stop running for an hour. We walked back up the steps.

We trundled to the bus stop located two blocks uptown, where a mini-mob had gathered because of the lack of the subways. The heat and the humidity and all the unproductive stair climbing had not made the mini-mob any happier. They were starting to act uncomfortably similar to a full-grown mob. The kids and I decided to try our luck at the next stop, three blocks north.

A mob awaited us there, as well.

We walked back down a block, and I stepped off the curb and attempted to hail a cab. I stood with my arm (intermittently) up in the air for 20 minutes. Not a single car stopped. They were all apparently busy with the multitudes of other stranded, sweaty folks lining the streets.

At this point, we were 30 blocks away from the birthday party site. I looked at Chloe and Jonathan and told them that we were going to have to walk--if they still wanted to go. Yes, they still wanted to go, so we set off.

10 blocks later, the verdict changed.

Chloe didn't want to go.
Jonathan did.

They both started to cry.

We were already 30 minutes late for the party.

My feet had either grown 2 sizes, or the shoes had shrunk 2 sizes (probably both), and I had some serious blisters that were asking for some attention.

It was starting to rain.

The time had come for an executive decision, and I am not one to shirk my duties.

Two crying kids in tow, I limped five blocks to the crosstown bus and hopped on.

2 hours (and no birthday parties) after leaving the kids' camp, we walked in our front door.

Check Out that View

We've got a few solid prospects for potential apartments. One of them, Le Rivage, is a block away from the future Freedom Tower. I'll keep you posted.

Add "Church Planters" to the List of People Moving to Lower Manhattan

From www.lowermanhattan.info/news/downtown/downtown_45966:

Wealthy Couples Show Increased Appetite for Downtown Addresses

Young, affluent couples are buying up property in and around the Financial District at a faster rate than any other demographic, according to a study commissioned by the Alliance for Downtown New York. The study found that 42 percent of Financial District households are now young couples with no children. Additionally, since 2004, 40 percent of newcomers to the Financial District have come from outside of the city.

Newcomers are not only young and kid-free, they're also coming in toting an unusual amount of cash. The average income of the new Financial District local is a whopping $256,130, according to the study, making Financial District residents the wealthiest in all of Manhattan. Reporting on the findings of the study, the New York Observer noted that the typical Financial District household now makes about three times that of Manhattan overall.

The increased median income among Financial District residents reflects another growing trend: Workers in Lower Manhattan are opting to buy homes within walking distance of the office. With an influx of Wall Street brokers turned Wall Street residents, 16 percent of Financial District households now bring in more than $400,000 annually.

Happy Blogoversary to Me

One year,
193 posts,
23,868 site visits later--

Happy Blogoversary to me!

For nostalgia's sake, my first post: Here We Go Now

It, Again.

Gina tagged me a few days ago, and things have been so busy that I've not had a chance to do my part and tell you a few things about me...

1. I saw a commercial for an iPhone the other day and was overwhelmed with a longing to own that beautiful piece of Apple innovation. My word, I thought, I haven't wanted to own something this badly since... (Here I paused to seriously consider the matter, because it has been a Long Time.) Yep. I haven't wanted to own something this badly since the Cabbage Patch Kid season of 1983.
   
2. I was a waitress for a time during my extensive job hopping career. Part of my job included, erm, line dancing. I still have a bit of foot shuffling Pavlovian response when I hear the song, "God Blessed Texas."
   
3. Jonathan just interrupted me to ask if he could have "two slices of paper" for his stickers.
4. We're hesitantly happy that we've finally named this yet unborn faith community that we are working on: City Fellowship Church. It's a bit like naming a baby...you choose a name before the baby is born, but you don't really know if the name will fit until you see your newborn's face. Sometimes it's perfect, sometimes you take one look and you know that no way is this kid a Harry; he's a Peter for sure. So we wait to see how God builds this church and if City Fellowship is fitting.

Now you know and my It obligations are complete.
I must away. We're off to our fourth dinner engagement of the week.
Not that I'm complaining.

My New Crush

I've got a new crush, and this time it's not food-related.

His name is Sufjan Stevens, and he's a born and raised Yooper (Friends from NYC and elsewhere, this means that he's from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan--the part that does not at all resemble a mitten. It resembles a...big hunk of land). And this crush is purely auditory.

I listened to his album, Illinoise, for a good portion of our trip this past week. His music is the kind that grows on me each time I listen and different layers of the song are revealed.

Check it out for yourself. This is the song, "The Worst Christmas Ever," from his album Songs for Christmas. Not a jolly tune, this one, but it's interesting.

Going on an Apartment Hunt...Want to come along?

We are returned from our brief yet delightful visit to the Southland, where my brother and sister-in-law have indeed created for themselves a Sweet Home in Alabama. And the drive, though it was 15+ hours long, was a feast for this city girl's eyes as it followed the Appalachians almost the entire way. The rolling hills, grazing sheep, ancient farmsteads...I do declare, I have a crush on Virginia, y'all.

But now that we're back, it's full steam ahead with our search for an apartment in Lower Manhattan. Vacancies rates hover at less than 1%, and the average cost for a one bedroom apartment is $2,800/month (we need two bedrooms, so we can tack on $1,500/month for that). We're doing our best to find a no-fee apartment--an apartment in which we don't have to pay a realtor's fee of 15% of the annual rent (you do the math; it's not my strong suit. I just know I don't want to pay it). And if I were The Type, I could be getting good and worked up about it all. However, I've not yet decided if I am The Type, so I vacillate between finding it a bit humorous and being slightly annoyed. Mostly it's annoyed.

Yesterday I found three apartments in a building that is managed by a no-fee company. Price range was good ($3,500-3,900/month--it's all relative), and the location was generally where we wanted to be. The listing said they showed the apartments daily between 5 and 6. Steve and I bundled up the kids and headed down. (Friends from MI and elsewhere: In case you're wondering, the area we're looking at is about a 30 to 60 minute subway ride from our current home on the Upper West Side, depending on whether or not the express trains are running).

We emerged from the subway and wended our way toward the address...

...over the garbage piles

...past the Pussycat Lounge and adjacent Adult Toy Store with its goods displayed front and center

...and finally, under the "Boxing Parlour" sign to enter the building.

Steve and I, with our amazing powers of deduction, concluded that this was probably not a family friendly neighborhood. However, we had taken the time to get there, so we decided to take a look at the apartments.

I'm not sure what caused me to ascertain that these apartments were not for us.

Was it the dingy walls and lack of lighting?

Was it the living room layout of approximately 5' x 5'?

Was it the loft/shanty town structure that most people had assembled in each apartment, so that at least 4 people could sleep in a 10' x 10' bedroom?

OR was it the fact that the super stepped in a pile of dog crap while showing us INSIDE one of the apartments?

Probably the last one.

We're going on an apartment hunt. Want to come along?

Skoool's Out for the Summer

And I'm taking a brief blog break as we travel to Alabammy to hang with my brother and sister-in-law for a few days.

I wonder if my blog will have a southern accent when I return?

Take care.

Turns Out She's No Help at All

And her choice of footwear is...

I Just Can't Trust You Anymore, Sarah Jessica Parker

Yep, she's got great hair.

Yep, I'd scoop up her wardrobe and run with it as fast and as far as I could (that's assuming I was a size 2 or 0, like SJP herself).

But, man,
do I feel betrayed by her choice in footwear.

I've been watching S and the C reruns on TBS lately, and this time around I'm (a tad) obsessed with Sarah Jessica Parker's choice in footwear.

Look, think I. Look at her lovely shoes.
4 inch heels, strappy little straps. Dainty and feminine and oh, so chic.
She flits around the city, happy little lark, footloose and fancy free.

Sadly, it's all a farce (Oh, were you thinking the show was a documentary?).

Inspired by SJP, I bravely donned my strappy heels this past week for a party occasion.
2 blocks in, and I knew I had been deceived...and we weren't even to the subway yet.
A few blocks more and I started thinking about that episode of Friends where Monica piggybacks on Chandler because her uber expensive boots hurt so much she can't walk.
By the end of the night, I was weighing the risk for stepping in spit or dog crud with bare feet vs. the pain relief I would feel if my shoes were removed.

I don't know how she did it, wearing such shoes with nary a complaint or a blister.
I can only assume SJP didn't actually walk more than 5 feet at any given time, changing into stylish bunny slippers between takes. Or perhaps she hitched a ride on the back of the nearest crew member.

My feet now bear the scars of taking shoe cues from Sarah Jessica Parker.
It's not pretty. Maybe next time I'll look toward Beatrice Arthur of Golden Girls fame for footwear inspiration.

Orthopedics, anyone?

You Know What I Love?

That I can see my daughter and give her sporadic hugs throughout my work day.
It's good that way.