Hallo on this Halloween

A lot of people in this city take their Halloweens seriously.
Today in Starbucks, I saw a man dressed as a Ghostbuster, and it wasn't even noon.
On the subway on the way home from work, I sat next to a stuffed banana. A black ninja was down the aisle, and the "Where's Waldo" guy was leaning against the door. A woman with a crazy short skirt and black fishnet stockings was across the way, but I couldn't tell if that was a costume or just an everyday wardrobe choice.
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Steve, Purple Princess, and Buzz are out making the candy-gathering rounds tonight, while I hover by the door waiting for the doorbell and the trailing chorus of "Trick or Treeeeeat!"

It's not a bad job, the Candy Hander-outer. I enjoy all the costumes and Thank You's and the general jovial atmosphere.

But I fear I am discriminatory in my implementation of candy hand-outing.
Yes, I am. Please don't call the ACLU.

When I open the door to behold a little child, perhaps 10 years old or younger, I happily ask them what their costume is, comment on the cute/scary/creative nature of their costume, and hand over the goods. On occasion, there are the really little ones, the ones who are still learning the Trick or Treating ropes, who will stand brazenly with their bags gaping open even after I've deposited the candy. When this happens, I'll smile and throw in another piece for good measure. Happy to do it. Really.

In contrast, when I open the door to a motley crowd of teenagers with half-hearted costumes, I am the Not So Nice Begrudging Candy Hander-Outer. This is especially true when, before I even open the door, I can hear from their "Trick or Treat" that voices have changed and facial hair is forthcoming. Humph! I think. Bah humbug! (which is absolutely appropriate for my attitude and should not be reserved for Christmastime only ).

Tonight, as I was dropping some licorice into a kid's bag, he stopped me and said, "Not that kind! Can I have something else?"
"What!?" I exclaimed, and paused mid-drop.
"Yeah, um...(pause that was a nanosecond too long)... I'm allergic. Can I have something else?"
Right.
I'm a nurse; I can respect a person's food-allergy, but that didn't sit well.

I Know What Chloe Wants for Christmas

How 'bout two front teeth?

Our 'hood

Battery Park City was featured in the New York Times this weekend.
You can read about it here.

I'm a Model, You Know What I Mean

Scott DeVore rocks his camera.

But there is only so much a person can do when working with raw material such as this:

It's Been Too Long

Since my last bulleted list.

And it's also been over a year since the move from Michigan to Manhattan.

Hence

How I've Changed Since Moving to Manhattan
(Shallow Edition)

• My purse is bigger. I now have a serious amount of junk that accompanies me everywhere. Antibacterial wipes. A paperback. My ipod. A small collection of toys, including but not limited to: silly putty, legos, a matchbox car, and crayons. (For the kids, not me. Really.)
• I own a more expansive selection of outerwear and accessories. Rain boots, hats, down coats of three different weights. Absolutely necessary when a person spends as much time as I do walking from subway stop to subway stop.
• I cook less with cream of mushroom soup and more with olive oil. Though a can of C of M still comes in handy in a pinch. And, to be truthful, I cook less in general.
  
• I now can simultaneously watch the sidewalk for hazardous materials (read: dog poop, vomit, and Wet Patches of Unknown Origin) and also look ahead to avoid colliding with other pedestrians . It's a skill that can only be learned from experience. Ask Michelle.
• I eat more Indian food. Also Vietnamese food. Also gelato. And pastries, and cheesecake, Brooklyn-style pizza, gyros... (sigh. It's all so tasty.)
• I'm more assertive. It's a good, self-protective skill to have here, really, or you might not ever get your turn in line or your opportunity to board the bus. Not to be confused with Aggressive or Absolutely Annoying.
  
• My sense of smell has become less discriminating. Also a self-protective adaptation. I'm looking forward to the less humid weather of fall, when the smells of the city aren't trapped so close to ground level.
• I've developed a sort of guidance system via hand-holding with my kids. They know now that if we're walking down the street holding hands, and I move my hand to the right or the left, that they need to follow. It's somewhat like a horse with a bit, I imagine. But it works well.

I know I've changed in more ways than that, and the ways affect my character, my faith, my attitude. But that's another post for another day.

Pigtails, Four Days and Counting

On Tuesday, Chloe asked to have her hair done "different."

This, coming from a child who used to spaz if I approached her with anything resembling a ribbon or barrette (remember that, Mom?).

After a few tries, we settled on pig tails. (Her hair has finally regrown enough since the drastic repairs following The Self-Induced Cut incident.)

That afternoon at parent teacher conferences, her teacher mentioned to me that one of the little boys in her class had told Chloe that her pigtails made her the most beautiful girl in the school. When I arrived home that evening, I asked Chloe if anyone had commented on her pigtails. She told me that one little boy thought she looked pretty and another one told her she "looked like she was in high school!"

It's not hard to guess how Little Miss wanted her styled the next day. And the next.

Those first graders sure know how to compliment their ladies, don't they?

You Tell Me

Good Morning, Blogsville. A few questions for you on this lovely fall day.
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After it rains here, or sometimes just because it's NYC, giant water cockroaches will scurry across the sidewalk. They're at least an inch long and quite bulky, so they can't move as fast as their little German cockroach cousins. I've seen many a person lift up their foot and squash the roach dead, taking out all their cockroach resentment on one (ugly, deserving, just plain gross) hapless bug. Steve once witnessed a little boy of about two, begging his nanny not to kill the nice little bug. The nanny barely paused before she lifted her boot-shod foot and brought it down again with a crunch. When people do that, I feel as if they're doing the city a favor, stopping one roach from reproducing into how many thousands more.
But.
My friend Anne Marie, a long time New Yorker and over all city-savvy kind of lady, once told me that if you happen to step on a pregnant roach, a roach with eggs, the eggs can get stuck to the bottom of your shoe. A few steps later, you enter your apartment with an egg laden shoe, ushering all kinds of mayhem into your very home. Blech. I shudder when I think about the possibility.
Can this be true? Anyone an entomologist by hobby or by trade?
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On a totally unrelated note,
Some acquaintances of mine recently attended a different church. This church, brand-spanking new and eager to welcome people into their community, does something that gives me pause.
They give a Starbucks gift card, valued at $5, to first time visitors. Attached to the card is a handwritten note of welcome from the pastor.
And I wonder...
What do you think about that? Would it make you want to come back to the church? And if so, would you come back hoping to see what Week #2's gift would be?

Next Time Around, God, Please Keep This in Mind

Jonathan's prayer at dinner last night:

Dear God. Thank you for everything. Thank you for the world. Thank you for the galaxy, and thank you for dinosaurs. But the one thing I don't like is the T-Rex. Amen.

In an Attempt to Influence the Poll

Michelle recently added a poll to her blog.

"Do you think you could live in New York City?"

Not only can I live here, I love living here.

I'm a bit in the minority, according to Michelle's very official and extensive poll.

If you can't stand the thought of living here, perhaps I could convince you to visit? Check out Tina's blog about the girls' time here (we had a great time) and watch this latest release from NYCVisit (I think it's well done), and then give me your answer. I'll start inflating the aerobeds.

Warm

You might call it a sleeping bag with a place for my feet to stick out.

I call it Theres-no-way-this-lower-manhattan-wind-is-going-to-bother-me.

It's made of down and reaches nigh unto my ankles.
A little poof does a body good.

Back to Blogsville

Come now, I haven't forgotten how to blog. Didn't I warn you that September's blogging would be sporadic at best? I've been busy, that's all. I'm not complaining (really, I'm not), but you should know that in addition to working full time and being Mom and Wife, I've been having church related meeting or dinners every night of the week. Which doesn't leave much time for sleep, much less blogging. (Plus The Office started, which I've been watching in the five minute spurts of free time that I have. Priorities, folks.)

I've got some substantial blogs brewing, though.

Like what I've recently learned about forgiveness.

And how City Fellowship Church had its first Fellowship Gathering at our apartment.

And then there is The Weekend that Seven West Michigan Women Took on New York City.

There's even the blog about how I lectured Chloe on the subtle pitfalls of being a know-it-all, and she answered me with, "I already knew that." (Well, that's really the whole story on that one. I'll call that good.)

You know, I've been living, and things have been happening. I just haven't blogged. I've missed it, really. Missed the writing and the processing and the sharing that goes along with blogging. I'm excited to rejoin Blogsville.

I'm back in the saddle again. Yee Haw.