City Wendy

Discoveries

For the last five months, we've had huge moving blankets taking up precious space under our bed, bags of confetti and empty champagne bottles leftover from our New Year's party sitting in our closet, and a host of other odd props filling the remaining nooks and crannies of our apartment. Last night we finally got to use all of it when we filmed the grand finale of Drew's latest short film. I won't give it all away, but I'll say the short finale includes boxers, tango dancers, a ballerina, a gymnast, a woman giving birth, hula hoop dancers (including yours truly!), an accordian player, and Drew's head finally exploding in a burst of confetti. I knew I was in for a long night, and I wasn't wrong -- we didn't get out of the borrowed, dusty basement on the Lower East Side until nearly 2 am and poor Drew was there until almost 4, but he later told me, tired as he was after almost 24 hours in there, after everyone left and he was alone with the director sweeping up the confetti, he mostly just felt incredibly happy.

Being there last night and seeing this one scene that Drew's been planning for so long finally come to life was such a great reminder of how powerful and inspiring the creative process is. I get so consumed sometimes in just sheer survival -- the daily tasks that have to be crossed off my to-do list and what I need to take care of right now to be ready for a, b, and c down the road, that it's easy to let my dreams and creative aspirations slip on down to the bottom of the list. One of the things I like best about Drew — and what is, admittedly, as his girlfriend, not always the most convenient thing to accept — is how he's as much a do-er as he is a talk-er. He doesn't let the demands of a full-time job and the obligations he has to his family and me and friends and whatnot stand in the way of taking classes and writing stuff and making films and art and stuff. I mean, I'm fucking glad all that crap isn't taking up space in the apartment anymore, and I'm glad last night's 6 hour shoot is behind us now, but I totally dig Drew's desire and ambition to do the things he loves and I hope if we stick together long enough, some of that drive might rub off on me.

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In totally unrelated news, I'm continuing in my effort to get out of the house and take long walks every day, and since we know how much I hate walking south through midtown, and since my trek north through the Upper West Side is getting tired, I decided to walk west today through an area of town that, while relatively uncrowded, I usually skip over because it's sort of ugly and doesn't seem to have much going on. Imagine my delight when I made not one, not two, but three great discoveries! The first was a cute little Italian diner on an empty block that featured one of the best looking menus and pastry displays I've seen in a long time. If I hadn't just eaten lunch, I may have stopped for a bit of something, but as it was, I made a mental note to go back in the next week or so and give it a try.

My second discovery was a tiny little college bookstore that, if I'd have blinked I'd have missed. In the corner, I found a magazine selection next to an empty over-sized chair and a help-yourself coffee pot. Eureka!! One of the simple pleasures I miss most about my neighborhood in Chicago was the quiet Borders within walking distance of my apartment and where on a weekday, I could always find a seat to curl up in with a pile of magazines. Until today, I thought my only option for magazine free-loading at a bookstore were the traps in midtown that are always littered with an obscene amount of tourists, so finding this little nook just a few blocks from my apartment was sweet surprise, indeed.

Finally, on my way back home, I passed a gated community garden in Hell's Kitchen that was filled with beautiful flowers, plants, green lawns, some pagodas and benches. Exactly what I've been wishing for! Central Park is just a few blocks away and it's great and all, but sometimes it's just too much — sometimes I crave the intimacy of a small neighborhood park where I can sit and escape into a good book or my own thoughts and don't get have to feel like I'm constantly part of this huge people-watching circle. I told Drew about the garden when he got home this evening and he said that there's a waiting list for a key — that scoring one is based on some sort of lottery or something, which make me love the garden even more, because hello! Who doesn't just adore exclusivity?! I found the garden's website online and discovered that the keys are given out only two hours in the entire month, and it just so happens that one of those hours is just a few days away. I don't know how this lottery thing works exactly, but you better believe I'm going to be the first person in line with my ID, proof of address, and whatever else it takes to get one of those coveted keys. I feel like one of those parents who will do anything to get her kid into private pre-school, only all I want is the chance to read my Vanity Fair on a bench near some roses and begonias. Oh New York, I do heart you.

Three New Yorks

Drew and I were riding the subway out to Brooklyn Monday afternoon for friends' Memorial Day BBQ when we saw the following quote on a sign above the door:

“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born here, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size and its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. […] Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness; natives give it solidity and continuity; but the settlers give it passion." E.B. White, Here is New York

Drew represents the first New York, having been born in raised in Manhattan. I, of course, am the person who came from somewhere else to New York in quest of something (high rent, sticky summers, and crowded restaurants), which leaves the New York of the commuter — that locust of a person who devours the city and spits it out with nary a concern of his or her impact at all. Who is this person, exactly? Well, after yesterday, I'm convinced it's a certain movie star who's known as much for being Goldie's daughter as being long-haired Ryder's bubbly, blonde mother.

I had the displeasure of interacting with that locust yesterday when she came in to the coffee shop with her son and a small entourage of woman who looked just like her but with a little less glitz and make-up. She was the most obnoxious person I've interacted with at work, ordering nearly $20 worth of stuff with her group and then acting surprised that she actually had to pay for it, not tipping a cent, dancing around the shop like a child, talking really loudly, complaining that the hot chocolate I made for Ryder was too hot until one of the women in her group held the cup for a second and said that it was so not hot it was almost cold, and then leaving her garbage all over the table when she left, lifting Ryder onto her shoulders on her way out and bragging loudly enough for the whole block to hear how strong she is.

God, no wonder Owen Wilson wanted to kill himself.

Summer Days, Filled with Rage

I hadn't realized — or, more accurately, hadn't bother to think about — what summer in New York would be like until this past week when, like it or not, both the weather and the avenues started showing serious signs of the season, indeed. In an effort to shed some of the 10-15 pounds I've gained since I moved here and adopted a steady diet of high-carbs and butt-loads of sugar — not to mention a work-out routine that's resembled something more like bed rest for 4 months straight, I've decided to get out for a long walk every day. Missing the foresight that would have told me going through midtown the week before Memorial Day was a terrible idea, I headed south right through the most charmless part of Manhattan towards TJMaxx where I needed to return some shoes.

Good god, between how fucking hot I was, how congested the streets were with sunburned tourists pushing strollers and carrying countless shopping bags, and considering that the birth control I've been on since October has made me so completely bonkers, it's amazing I didn't tear off someone's nut-sack and shove it down his throat. Which is exactly what I wanted to do yesterday in the middle of the afternoon when I cut short hanging out with an old friend to meet up with some dude from Craigslist at the gym to sign paperwork to transfer my membership to him and he STOOD ME UP not even one hour after I called to confirm our meet-up. Oh my God, I was livid. I don't think it's possible any woman has ever been so angry about being stood up by some doofus she's got no interest in dating. I waited in the lobby of that stupid gym for over 30 minutes just twiddling my thumbs and trying to tune out the sounds of VH1 music videos blasting from the screens above the line of empty treadmills. Second, by second, I could feel the cool chill of my resolve growing warmer and warmer until, finally, back at home, in a fit of boiling rage, unable to grab hold of the offender's balls  — or anyone's ball's except my boyfriend's who really didn't deserve my wrath — I grabbed hold of a pair of scissors instead and furiously started cutting at my birth control pills until all that remained of them was a pile of hormone-filled powder. And then I brushed them into a paper towel and threw them away, sending a clear message to all pills that may cross my path in the future that I am not one to be fucked with.

That I've felt on edge and mildly angry for the last few months and have gained enough weight to burst through the seams of everything I own could very well have some explanation other than the unnaturally high levels of estrogen coursing through my body, but just by chance that the pills were to blame, I've gotten rid of them for good and have switched to a low-dose pill that I hope will add a bit more balance — if not sweet serenity — to my life again. In addition, I've decided to go north on all my walks from now on.

Male Doctors Make Me Nervous

Today was a day I'd been dreading for the last ten days: I had to go in for my annual pelvic exam. As if stripping down to nothing but a shoddy paper gown, spreading my legs for a stranger, and having a piece of metal shoved up my cervix isn't bad enough, I had to see a male doctor. Now I've got nothing against male doctors, really — I'm sure there are plenty of very nice and professional ones, but I personally think when it comes to parts of the body that they don't have, they simply can't compete with their female counterparts. (Side note: I once saw THE Dr. McSteamy in an airport and, good god that man is hot.) And so I've always gone to female gynecologists, but today I had no choice in the matter — I went to a clinic for the under- and uninsured and they only had a male gynecologist, so it was either see him or skip my annual exam, which I'd be okay with if i didn't need it to get a prescription for birth control pills and let's face it — if there's anything worse than spreading your legs for a stranger, it's having a fucking baby, so birth control pills are sort of up there on my list of priorities. Actually, my list of priorities these days sort of looks like this:

1. Birth control pills
2. Cat litter
3. Beer
4. Hepatitis vaccine

...which I realize does nothing to dispel my reputation as one Klassy Broad.

Anyhow: the male doctor. He turned out to be fine. In fact, he was very kind and gracious and even figured out a way to get a full-range blood test covered under this whole cancer-screening program I'm part of. Side note: If you're a Klassy Broad living in New York and are under or uninsured, did you know you could qualify for this special cancer-screening program that will pay for all sorts of pelvic, HPV, breast, and colon-rectal testing? I didn't either! Apparently, they'll even send you home with a kit that allows you to test your own poop right in the comfort of your own home! For free! For the record, I passed on that one. Because I'm Klassy like that. But when I realized that this clinic was willing to throw all this free testing my way and that my doctor was pretty cool even though he was male, I just unloaded all these concerns, like how I'm tired all the time and my tongue is pale and also how I need a Hepatitis shot before I go to China this summer. And before I knew what was happening, there were about 500 tubes of my blood all lined up and a nurse was assuring me they'd know what was wrong with me in just a few days.

Another side note: I really, really hate needles. I mean I HATE THEM. I hate having my blood drawn and getting shots and having things shoved into orifices and I will avoid all of that mess at almost all costs, even if it means feeling sick forever, because  you know what's worse than feeling sick forever? Having your skin pricked for 2 seconds! But my fear of needles is trumped by my love of getting things for free, so when my doctor figured out a way to give me all these free blood tests, I had no choice but to suck it up and let the nurse prick me. It sucked, of course, but worse than the pain and discomfort of the needle prick, was the nurse's effort to small-talk me. The doctor did this as well when he had his finger up my cervix, and I just don't understand it. I mean, I hate small talk at cocktail parties and in elevators, and I definitely hate small talk in the doctor's office. I know they were just trying to keep my mind off what was happening, but seriously, asking me what my favorite neighborhood restaurant is does not make me forget that you have your finger up my vagina. It just doesn't.

Anyway, I'll have rest results back in just a few days, at which time I'll know for sure whether I'm normal or not.

City Wendy in the Windy City

Being back at Lake Michigan for the first time since I left Chicago reminded me of all the reasons I stayed there for 7 years despite the terrible traffic, the hassle to get anywhere, and enough look-alike white yuppies in Northface fleece to drown a small town.

Chicago is pleasant — it's one of the most pleasant places I've ever been in my life and that's counting the week I once spent in the South of France with an old boyfriend and his entire Iranian family who pretty much only spoke Farsi around me for the whole trip. I mean, terraced vineyards and plum trees are beautiful, but sharing them with a dysfunctional guy and his family who clearly don't want you around sort of ruin the pleasantry of it all. But Chicago, Chicago is pleasant through and though — at least from May to November, it is. And so for five days I lapped up all that pleasantry — inhaled it and held it as deep in my lungs as I could. I sat at the lake and I looked at far as my eyes could see, like if I looked long enough and hard enough, I could somehow transport some of all that pleasantness back home to New York.

This visit back to Chicago was what I'd been waiting for — the weather was actually really gorgeous the first two days I was there and my friends were happy and relaxed now that their horrible winter is behind them. We had BBQs and bike rides and hula hoop karaoke, and Neil even drove to the outskirts of the city and picked wildflowers and mushrooms that we rolled in batter and fried like chicken and ate for dinner  with salmon burgers and Nikki's homemade potato salad and, well, if that isn't the most pleasant thing you've ever heard of, I don't know what is. And then I came home.

I wish I could say that I was happy coming home to soggy New York, but the truth is I wanted to go back to Chicago. Just for a couple more days. Just for a bit more bike riding, one more BBQ with my friends, another walk through Winnemac Park. See, the great thing about leaving is that it always gets to be this great place I visit now. I hated so many things about Chicago and being back, I realized I'd hate it even more if I lived there now. My old neighborhood -- Andersonville -- is nothing more than a relocated Bucktown, the over-priced, pretentious home goods stores strangling Clark St., my old favorite haunts replaced by trendier joints with pretty blond families in the windows, even Lincoln Square with it's cute stores and cafes is Stroller Central, I'd hate it. And in a way, it took moving to New York for me to realize how much I kind of hated it to begin with. But visiting? I love visiting! Oh, the pleasanty, the parks and lake and tree-lined streets.

You know what I wish? I wish I were a gypsy and I could just travel, travel, travel and never get to a point where I hate a place. I wish I could wrap my arms around the whole wide world and call it home, never settling in one spot, never unpacking my bags, never staying long enough to get on anyone's nerves or for them to get on mine. I wish I didn't have an apartment to keep clean and a fridge to stock. I wish I could be on vacation all the time. Maybe if i get good enough at hula hooping I can run away and join the circus once and for all.

Blue Skies, Please

I'm heading to Chicago tomorrow for a five day visit. I just checked the forecast and it's supposed to rain the whole fucking time I'm there. Time to break out a sun dance.

Apparently 31 is the new 8

Things my mother said to me on the phone the other day that make me wonder if she thinks I'm still 8:

Her: It's Mother's Day today so it'll be too crowded to go out to brunch. You'll want to cook something at home. Do you have anything to cook at home?

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Me: Allison called the other day — she wanted to know how to boil an egg.
Her: You know how to boil an egg?

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Me: Drew and I have pretty much decided on our China itinerary.
Her: You know they don't speak English there.

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Her: Have you gotten your visa for China yet?
Me: No, I told you — I called the Chinese embassy and they said that regular travel visas are only good for three months, so I have to wait until my trip is closer.
Her: You probably just misunderstood them.

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Changing

I sold my bike a couple of weeks ago, which, if I'm being honest, was one of the more painful parts of this whole move to New York. I've written about my bike plenty, especially in this post in which I closed saying I'd accidently left my bike in my old apartment when I moved, leaning against the wall in the foyer. Well, what I didn't say in that post — what happened afterwards was a series of calls and so forth which led to my friend katy picking up my bike and storing it at her place until she had time to drive it out to the storage unit in the suburbs where I was keeping all of my belongings until I decided for sure where to live in New York.

I have to admit, seeing my bike unloaded from the truck in Manhattan and carried up to my apartment in March was a joyous sight. I had grand plans for that bike and me. We were to ride all over the city together, through all five boroughs on all the routes already mapped out by bikes and cyclists before us. We would explore new paths and see things we hadn't yet imagined. It was two or three weeks after my bike was delivered before it was actually nice enough outside to take it for a spin. I dressed special for our first NYC ride, selecting clothes that would allow for both movement and a high cuteness factor. I ate a light lunch so I wouldn't feel too full on the journey and I packed an apple and a bottle of water in my bag for later. And then I was off! I picked up my bike, opened the front door and started down the two flights of stairs, with thoughts of the warm breeze through my hair propelling me forward. And then my whole world basically came crashing down around in me in one moment as I realized my bike was just to big, my staircase too narrow, and my arms too weak to carry the bike down the stairs. I knew if I mustered all my strength and really stretched myself into awkward positions, I could possibly get it down once, but how would i get it back up? And what about the next time I wanted to ride? Sadly, there's no storage place in our building, no foyer like I used to have in my apartment in Chicago, no rack on the street or anything to lock it to, and even if there were, the chances of a bike surviving on the streets of midtown for more than a day or two without being swiped by some ne'er-do-well or a tourist wanting a souvenir of the city were slim-to-none. So I brought my bike back inside and cried a bit and then I leaned it against the bedroom wall for about 2 or 3 weeks and tried not to think about it. Finally, I couldn't stand the silent taunting anymore — the physical representation of something I think is one of life's biggest cruelties: no matter how much you gain in a transition, no matter how much a move — whether figurative or literal — propels you forward, there's always a sacrifice — there's always something you have to give up and miss and long for.

So I sold my bike and the day the girl and her boyfriend from Craigslist came to pick it up, I wanted to tell her how much I loved it, how it changed the trajectory of my last year in Chicago and that she should care for and love it as much as I did and maybe she'd reap the same happiness. That's all bullshit, really. The bike didn't change anything for me any more than any other bike might have, and there's no reason I can't just get a different sort of bike — a fold-up one, perhaps, and continue with my grand plan of taking on New York City two wheels at a time. It's not so much the bike that was hard to let go of, of course, but what I imagined to be the last connection to my old way of life: the apartment with its foyer and closet space and girly paint colors. The friends who all lived nearby and the beach and the bars in waking distance where basically everyone knew my name. It was a final letting go of what I used to have and accepting that this, this growing up and moving on and changing isn't always easy.

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Drew came home for lunch today, like he normally does. I'd just run to the health food store up the street and picked up a couple bags of groceries for the week —  cereal and soup and stuff to make sandwiches. Drew heated up the chicken noodle soup and turned on some music. I finished a bit of writing I was working on and joined him at the table. It was grey and rainy outside, so I turned on our kitchen table light and flipped through the mail he'd brought in. Over lunch, we talked about a photography exhibition of public and private spaces in NYC that we'd seen at the library yesterday (highly recommended), Drew's short film he's working on and how he couldn't find an actress for a small scene he's shooting tonight and so I'll step in, and how the low-cal ice cream sandwiches I'd just bought were the same ones I always buy except half the size.

"What's your favorite part about me living here now?" I was suddenly moved to ask.
"You know," he replied, "it sounds corny, but it's this. The small things. The normal, everyday stuff."

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...And then sometimes change is the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

Gym Membership for Sale

Yesterday was a long day as most Tuesdays are. I worked from home from about 7:30 to 12:30, and then worked at the coffee shop for 6 hours before heading off to hula hoop class until 9 PM. The weekly hoop classes have become one of the highlights of my week and thought I've just this morning ordered my own hula hoop to practice in Central Park between classes, I've been making pretty good improvement. Last night I even had what my teacher called a "breakthrough."

"Could you feel it?" he asked after class.

Oh hell yeah, I could feel it. Our teacher is always talking about getting out of our heads and letting our bodies take over, and last night for the first time in class, I really did completely get out of my head and I let the music wash over me and my body took full control, seamlessly passing the hoop from one hand to the other, swinging it over my head and down to the ground, passing it around my hips, twirling it around my wrists,and for at least ten whole minutes I wasn't worried at all about the direction my life is headed, how long it'll take to get out of debt, what subway I need to catch where to get there by when, how I'll find time to get to everything on my to-do list, whether Drew picked up toilet paper on the way home or should I and on and on and on. It was ten minutes of bliss and when the spell was broken, I felt more invigorated and alive than I had in awhile.

"It was inspiring!" my teacher said to me after class.

And so I've decided to get my own hoop, practice every day, start going to class as often as I can, and join the circus.

Not really. But I am going to practice a lot because it's one of the best forms of exercise I've found for myself. I'm also selling my gym membership because the stairmaster and treadmill just don't do it for me. So if anyone in NYC is interested in a taking my NYSC Gold membership for 80 bucks a month and no initiation fee (I'll even pay the $40 transfer), please let me know! I'd love to unload it as soon as possible, so if you or someone you know might be interested, shoot me an email. Membership is good through October and you can renew it then if you want.

Two down

Today marks the second anniversary of the day I Drew and I met and had our first date, and we decided to celebrate all weekend long. Unfortunately, the weather didn't cooperate on Friday and Saturday and so our plan to go check out the Cherry blossom festival in the Brooklyn Botanical Garden was thwarted. And though the weather was really great yesterday, we were suspicious enough of rain all day, that we still didn't make it out to Brooklyn, and opted, instead for an afternoon in Central Park, which wasn't a bad alternative, really.

The anniversary weekend was actually pretty tame considering we started it with a couple shots each of Absinthe. Drew surprised me with a bottle when he came home from work Friday evening and what can I say -- the man knows me. I mean, wine is fine, but Absinthe...absinthe is the thing dreams are made of, right? So, I took great pains to make sure we drank it exactly the right way, holding a sugar cube on a flat spoon over the perfumey liquid and dripping ice cold water over it until it dissolved into a cloudy billow inside the glass. The taste was pretty fowl and it was all I could do to keep from barfing it up all over myself, which you know, would have been so romantic! Anyhow, we waited a half hour or so for it to "kick in," but having no real idea what we were expecting, how we'd know it was "working," we decided just to head out to our favorite local family-style Italian joint. It was after our meal and a glass of wine each that we finally felt the effects of the Absinthe and on the walk home down ninth avenue, I felt downright giddy. So giddy, in fact, that passing the Chinese foot & back rub place that we've passed a million times, I pulled Drew inside and told him I was treating us to a foot rub. Because what spells romance like having some other woman rub your drunk boyfriend's dirty feet on the other side of a thin sheet?

Hey, have you ever gotten a Chinese foot rub after a couple shots of Absinthe? Highly recommended, five stars!! I sprung for the 40 minute affair, and afterwards, Drew and I felt so light, so carefree, that we promptly fell asleep on the couch a half an hour later after watching an old episode of This American Life on our newly acquired Showtime--which we got for less than 10 bucks what we were paying without it and what turned out to be highlight of the evening #2. These are the things that excite you after two years with the same person, I guess. We're not too far away from fighting over the remote and the TV dinner with the apple crisp. But is that such a bad thing, really?

Anyway, I wish I could say Saturday we managed to stay awake past 11, but the truth is, I had cramps so bad, I spent most of the day in bed and fell asleep at about 10:30. I did manage to squeeze in 2 margaritas in the afternoon, though, so all was not a bust. PLUS, and this is a big plus, my celebrity sighting of the weekend? John Krasinski, AKA Jim from The Office! I almost missed him, too, since he was walking down the street with a woman who looked familiar but I couldn't quite place, and by the time I realized she was Maya Rudolph, they'd both almost passed us when it dawned on me: OH MY GOD, It's Jim! "Oh my God, it's Jim!" I whispered at Drew as soon as they passed. Drew swerved around and said, "It is! I bet they're going to see Breathless at the Film Forum -- they're heading that way. Maybe we should go. I mean, we were gonna go anyway, so why not just go to the showing they're going to?" Oh my god, does this man know me or what -- absinthe and now this?! So we did what any normal, self-respecting, non-stalker type people would do, and we started following them. To our credit, we only made it a block before humility and shame took over and we decided we were being sort of pathetic, so we turned back around and headed to the nearest Mr. Softee for an ice cream cone. But I tell you what, that John Krasinski is a tall, glass of something, he is. Forget the absinthe, I'd like to have a bottle of him for my next anniversary.

Anyway, today is the actual big day -- two years since Drew and I met (and also my Mom's birthday, so Happy Birthday, Mom), and the sushi restaurant where we had our blind date is closed on Mondays, so we're heading to a sushi place in our neighborhood we've been wanting to try. I have a feeling we'll reminisce about those early days when we made romantic trips across the country to see each other while wondering why the hell we couldn't just nab someone in our own respective cities. Maybe we'll continue planning our China itinerary -- which we made good headway with yesterday -- and if history is any indication, we'll be drunk by 8 and asleep by 10. Well, I'll be asleep, anyway. Drew will be catching up on the Yankees stats and watching the Colbert Report. Hey, here's to two great years.