Small Town Parade, Big Time Benefit

Party Favors. Or is it Potty Favors? Either way, thanks Roto Rooter.

The View From Here

Credit Where Credit is Due

Lake Michigan has some fabulous beaches.

Angela and me. One of us is a member of the country club pool across the road; one of us... is not. Which is which?

This Sign is for Your Own Good

Because if you put anything other than water in them, these courteous cups turn mean.

You're So Vain, You Probably Think This Blog is About You

(Props to Carly Simon for some more clever songwriting)

But it's not about you.
It's about me. I'm the one who is so vain.
And I've never realized to what extent until these past few weeks. In preparation for LASIK surgery, I'm required to wear my glasses rather than my contacts for two weeks prior. Mind you, my glasses are... outdated? Past their prime? (If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all). I bought them before Chloe was born, which means they're at least nine years old. Nine years, I said. And while they're not thick because I paid the extra 35 dollars to have them squished and polished, they are really the world's thickest coke bottles in thinly veiled disguise. So my eyes... and the area around my eyes... becomes all distorted when you look at them thru my glasses. But I can see more than just the blurry smash of color when I wear them, so that's good.

Anyblind, I've noticed how incredibly self conscious I am wearing my glasses. It feels like I'm not worthy to make eye contact with other pedestrians on the sidewalk. Like people look at me then look quickly away. As if my glasses offend them.

Like someone is calling What Not To Wear right. this. second.

I want to screen print a t-shirt that proclaims "I'm having eye surgery. That's why."And people would read it and nod and sigh, now understanding why a person would make such an horrific fashion faux pas.

What? Cmon. How vain is that? I suppose we all have our things... I know some women who won't leave the apartment with wearing mascara (oh, wait, that's me too), or who won't wear off- brand jeans, or who hide at home when they have a cold sore on their lip. For me, it's been these stupid ugly glasses. I like to make myself feel guilty with my own version of "Eat your dinner! There are starving children in China!" I remind myself that there are people in the world who need glasses and would be thrilled to have my specs. But then I just feel guilty AND vain. So what good is that?

So, Do You Pee Here Often? (aka Urine for a Great Surprise)

At a nebulous point in the past few years I've learned to become a little more oblivious to the people around me in this city. Well, I take that back -- there are times when I deliberately tune in to the humanity that swirls deliciously around me, and I'm still enthralled and entertained by it all. But it's not my default anymore. The default is to move through without as much notice, so as to not be overloaded with the details of it all.

Anyway. On to my story.

So today I'm standing on the corner and partially blocking the front of a pay phone booth - not a real Superman-style telephone booth, or a quaint red London-style booth, but a gritty New York half-booth that is more just a three-sided shell that begins waist high and is covered with stickers and graffiti. Many times they don't even have a receiver because someone has decided a yellow pay phone receiver is Just the Thing They Need and cut it off. But this one did have a receiver, so when a man walked up and said, "May I please make a call?" with such correct grammar and polite-ivity, I quickly stepped to the side of the booth to make room for him and allow him some three sided, waist up, pay phone privacy. And I went on to not noticing him anymore.

Until.

Well, do you remember when I first moved here, and I warned you that mysteriousness drips on your head quite a bit? And when it happens you squint your eyes and cross your fingers and hope that it's a gift from the nearby air conditioner and not the nearby pigeon? Remember that? Well, I've kinda become immune to the drips as well, so when a little bit of something wet dusted my Old Navy flip flop shod left foot, I sadly didn't immediately tune in. No, no. I waited until a little something more graced my baby toe until I looked and realized that while my polite friend may have been holding the receiver with his right hand, he was holding something else with his left hand. And was peeing. Directly on the sidewalk. 6 inches away from my foot.

(Go ahead, shudder as you imagine how far liquid can ricochet off a hard surface. It was reality for me, my friends.)

I don't think him polite any longer.

In honor of this occasion, enjoy the world premiere of this original work of poetry, written by an extremely talented but anonymous author:

There once was an inebriated man
Faked a call and instead used the can.
The sidewalk his aim
But my foot's not the same.
Broadway peeing they really should ban.

Ah, yes. See how cultured I've become since moving here?

Enough. I'm not being facetious when I say I do love this city.

Brevity is the Soul of Wit, that is, if it's done well, and really is brief, and wit-ful, and not just short, because that doesn't necessarily mean...

Now that school is out and my hours at work are slightly less insane, I've found the energy to walk the promenade again. Good grief, I love that walk. I'm usually out in the evenings as the sun sets over the Hudson, sailboats breezing into the marina, the sky streaked with pink, the warm air wrapped around me. And also, there are the mosquitoes, which are obsessed with me and follow me around like they're lovesick crushes even though I've tried to break up with them a million times. Their kisses, I can do without.

My music of choice on my walks this week has been Ani DiFranco's Canon 1, and I'm rediscovering her songwriting genius. I think that although I love her mad guitar skillz, the tone of her voice, and the emotive aspect of her songs, it's her one-line zinger lyrics that cause me to keep going back to her music. She's funny and clever, tilting phrase and word 'til they have double or triple meaning. It takes a special kind of smart to write like that. Love it.

Thinking Blog Thoughts

I've noticed that blogging, while absolutely enjoyable for me, takes a little work. I'm not referring to the time it takes to write and post; I'm talking about the work of noticing things, recording them somewhere in my slippery brain, and chewing on them a bit more until they may or may not develop into something bloggable. In the city, there is plenty to notice, and that part is easy. For me, it's the holding on that is tough... not letting the brilliant quirky interactions and unusual people slip away and be forgotten, lost in the middle of my grocery list or latest work crisis.

This week, a friend and fellow blogger and I were talking about how helpful it would be to have a camera at the ready... something discreet and superspeed... something James Bond would have, so the pictures could help us recall all the thousands of wonderful things we see over the course of the week. (Our conversation wandered from there...we talked about how Matthew has glasses, so it would be much easier for him to hide the camera in the stem. I'd have to hide mine in some atrocious huge clip on earrings or the like, which would be a dead giveaway that something was amiss, because, sans hidden camera, I'd never be caught dead wearing huge clip on earrings... Next conversation topic for Matthew and me - world peace).

All that being said, I'm getting back into the groove of thinking blog thoughts, and it's a good thing.

Edumacation

Working at a school is a treat for me. I enjoy the environment-- the kids, the learning, the fun. But above those things, I really love the teachers.

And I love the last day of school, even if I do have to go back to work just like normal the next week.

Moxie

Today I followed a couple out the front door of the building. We stepped out to see that it had begun to rain just slightly, small drops breaking the surface of the puddles that lingered from yesterday's rain. The woman took one look and exclaimed, "Oh, it's raining!" The tone she used implied much more-- "Oh, it's raining, now I'm not sure I even want to go. Oh, it's raining, maybe we should turn around and grab an umbrella. Oh, it's raining, my hair is going to be a disaster!"
The guy... well, he heard his wife's implications, glanced up from his blackberry toward the sky, simply said, "No it's not," and kept on walking.

I couldn't help laughing out loud.

How it Rolls on the Way Home from School

Jonathan crashed into a blind man on the sidewalk today.

The man was making his way slowly, clearing a path through the crowd in front of him with his red tipped walking stick. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea, the way those people moved aside for him.

But Jonathan would not be parted, could not be roused from his meandering reverie by that red tipped magic wand that worked on everyone else. Jonathan crashed into him good and hard, coming at him from the side.

And when I asked Jonathan why he didn't notice that the man was blind, why he didn't watch out (!), he answered,

"I didn't know he was blind, Mom. I only thought he was old."

There's Hope, Then?

Don't tell me that watching America's Next Top Model is a waste of my time. I've learned a lot from that show. For instance, I've learned the definition of "Fierce" (Silly me. I used to think it meant something along the lines of ferocious. Or mean. Or aggressive with bared teeth and growling. Now I know it's clearly Tyra Banks' vague notion of an indefinable quality that hints at beauty combined with assertiveness. Or something approximate to that.)

I've also learned from ANTM that photogenicity... photogenickness... well, being photogenic, is not actually an inherited trait, per se. I used to believe that being photogenic was something a person was born with, like eye color or height. But (glory be!) Tyra tells me that being photogenic is a learned thing, an acquired talent, something a person can become by spending long hours in front of a mirror and becoming familiar with facial muscles, practicing smiles and perfecting the exact amount of toothiness.

Or whatever. I'm just glad there's hope for me.

It Happens Every Time

I'm such a sucker for it, you know? The people at Fox were thinking of me when they named the show.

So You Think You Can Dance?

And the slightly sad but totally honest answer, my friends, is

Yes.
I think I can.

Dangnabbit. I really think I can. Or, at least, I like to dream that I can. Every time SYTYCD begins its season (which it did this week), I watch, and I feel unsettled. My muscles tense and are ready, the wallflowers at the junior high dance yearning to be asked to step into the beat. I dissect the choreography, wondering at the meaning behind it. And my heart-- well, my heart bounces between appreciation and longing, with just a smidgen of jealousy.

The physical control... the demanding technique combined with the artistic expression... the combination captures me. I'm absolutely enthralled and I find myself wondering, "What if? What if I had trained? What if I hadn't quit those miserable ballet/tap lessons at the age of 13?
What if I hadn't written off those swing dance lessons in college in favor of... I don't know what. Probably doing absolutely nothing. What if I could remember all those line dances I performed when I worked at that restaurant the year following high school graduation?"

What if?

You're thinking it's not too late, right? I know that. Dance lessons are on my list, tucked safely between earning my MBA and becoming fluent in Spanish. But every season, this silly little show causes it to move up a notch, and just for a while, I Think I Can Dance.

Thanks, but No.

Blimpie? Stick to subs, ok?

Of Beaches and Broadway; Great Tunes and Grandparents

A photo montage for you today. It's been a busy last few weeks.


































Chloe was birdylicious (Beyonce, are you groaning? Apologies.) as a Bird Girl in the school's production of Seussical The Musical. Weird, but this 8 year old suddenly looks like she's going on 18.









































My mom sashayed into town to catch Chloe's show. While she was here, we took Jonathan to his first taste of Broadway-- The Little Mermaid.





































And then came Steve's parents for Grandparent's Day. Chloe and I introduced Marilyn to Alice's Tea Cup. Almond tea, crepes, and a little girl time.





































































Here's genius: bringing the beach to the city. If not for the view of the Brooklyn Bridge, I might have believed for the moment that I was in the tropics and not two blocks away from Wall Street. I love it, tho, and plan to spend much time here.


















(Looks like she can read and follow directions)





















Found time for two fantastic concerts this week, too. The first was Leslie Mendelson at Rockwood Music Hall. Wow.... If you value my musical recommendations at all, click through on this one or catch one of her live shows. She's one I enjoy live even more than on the album.
The second show was The Ivy's at Fat Baby on the Lower East Side. Rocking fun. And their album makes for great listening.

Pig Latin Doesn't Count

My offices are in a hotel. This hotel is in midtown Manhattan. And because of this, each day I share the elevator with tourists from all over the world. These tourists are chatty in the elevator for the most part, and I love to tuck myself in the corner of the elevator and let the beauty of their words wash over me. I don't have a clue what they're saying, but the way the words flow, the clicks and the breaths, the pauses and the tones, and the music of it all makes me smile. It also makes me jealous. I want to know that language. I want to understand. I want to join in their story, because there's bound to be one. I want to be bilingual.

Being bilingual or multilingual hints at a life lived in adventure, right?
How did you come to learn two languages?
What risk did you take?
What move did you make in your life? Was it for love? Opportunity? Desperation?
Tell me then... about how your family moved when you were 12 and you didn't know a word of the language... about how you met a man on vacation and fell madly in love and never moved back... about your parents who moved to America, and how they spoke their native tongue at home to remind you of where you came from... tell me your story, because it's there.

Being bilingual also hints at the potential for additional adventure and freedom to move about the world and have meaningful interactions with more people. It allows a more seamless merge into another culture.

So, is it Rosetta Stone time for me? Or am I just feeling a little bit of "the grass is always mas verde on the other side of the fence?"

Greenpace

Spring has sashayed into the city, trailing swaths of tulips and unfurling greengold leaves in its wake. Sassy thing, Spring. And I love it. The colors of spring, so incongruous against the gray concrete, laughingly call to New Yorkers to stop a moment, take it in, and be thankful. Winter causes New Yorkers to hold their breath and put up their dukes. Spring entices New Yorkers to saunter and smile slow smiles.

In fact, there is quite an inverse relationship between the temperature and the speed at which New Yorkers walk. Winter is destination only, get there before your eyes freeze open, chastise yourself for not taking the time to find your warm hat before you left the apartment. Spring is taking the extra 60 seconds to point out the crocuses that have pushed through the hard dirt around the tree in the sidewalk (which, let's be honest, have been peed on by hundreds of dogs since the last time they showed their yellow and purple faces. Makes it even more miraculous to see them). Spring is conversations with the front door propped open. Spring is breathing deeply the clean smell that comes after rain. Spring is greenpace.

What Happens When...

...your favorite singer/songwriter babysits your kiddos? Songs are written and videos are produced. And holiday songs, to boot.

Disney World

I felt agoraphobic for a little while... there was so much space, so much open air! And everything was a little too perfectly manicured, spot-on timed, and... smiley. Honestly, friends, is there something wrong with me that I longed for a little bit of trash? The smallest whiff of something unpleasant, to remind me of home?

Oh my. Disney does what it does very, very well.

Except for the food.

Stranger Relations

I don’t know what it’s like to be 7 and growing up in NYC. I grew up in rural suburbia-- ponds, red barn, woods behind the house, the works. My siblings and I spent much of our days outside, rambling aimlessly with great purpose, digging in the mud with sticks and discovering Great Things like snake skins, box turtles, and imaginary bad guy hideouts wherever we went. We waved to our neighbors as they barreled down the driveway in their conversion van, and we hoped that later we could make use of their trampoline. We rode bikes and built forts and iced skated. It was wonderful.

Chloe, on the other hand, waves goodbye to the doorman, steps outside the apartment, and immediately encounters concrete, international cuisine, taxi cabs, and more diverse humanity than I could have dreamed of at 7 years of age. It is wonderful.

Chloe faces different challenges than I did at her age, and one of those challenges includes the subtle rules of stranger relations. “Never talk to strangers” has never applied less, and it has never applied more. “Never talk to strangers,” because the man across the subway aisle is staring disconcertingly and just took a bite out of his beer can (yes, that actually happened). “Never talk to strangers,” because it’s 7:00 in the morning on the uptown R train, and the half-awake straphangers want a high pitched jabber in their ears like they want a hole in the head, and we need to respect their space.

But if we never talk to strangers, how do we enter into the lives of the myriad around us? How do we come to fully appreciate the beauty of the diversity? At some point, we absolutely need to talk to strangers, and cross those lines, and become acquaintances and friends… But how in the world do I help a 7 year old know the difference? After the beer can bite incident, Chloe was terrified to sit next to any male that resembled that man. I talked to her about respect of people’s worth, about the affront it causes when we move away from them, etc… and I felt strongly about it, so I’m sure I was… eh, hem… stern with her. The next day, an unstable person sat down next to her and started leaning in. I grabbed her hand and moved away to the far end of the subway car. No wonder she is confused.

I am thrilled, though, that Chloe and I are walking this journey together. That as I move away, I can talk about mental illness and what causes it and how it can be treated. I can talk about how God’s image is still in that person… how mental illness is the result of brokenness in this world, just like any illness, and how God looks upon that person with the same unconditional, undeserved love that he lavishes on us all.