City Wendy

I Should Have Asked for a Finder's Fee

There's a fabled vintage store here in Manhattan, near the garment district, packed with incredible finds, but usually closed to the public. It sells mostly to celeb stylists and costume designers for the movies. A lot of the "Sex and the City" wardrobe comes from there. Anyhow, earlier this month the owners had a big blow-out sale for the store's tenth birthday and decided to open its doors to us common folk for two weeks, three hours a day.

I made a mental note of the sale when I first heard of it on Twitter, but then promptly forgot all about it until I got a helpful reminder Tweet on the last day I could go. I checked the time — I had two hours to get down to the store and do whatever looking around/bargain shopping I felt like doing before they closed. I grabbed a jacket and threw on some shoes. Just as I was headed out, Drew walked in the door and asked where I was going.

"There's this really cool vintage shop that I've heard a lot about and they're hardly ever open to the public, but they are this week and they're having a big half-off sale on everything and today is the last day!" I said excitedly.

"Oh, that sounds fun," Drew humored me.

"You should come!" I said.

"You want me to come with you?" he asked.

"Yeah, come!" I said. "It'll be fun."

"But it's a vintage shop ... with probably lots of girl clothes and stuff. What am I gonna find there?" he asked.

Ladies and gentleman, I'll let this picture answer that question:

Canada or Costa Rica?

Readers, I need your advice. Because of a certain morning show that employs him, Drew will be working the Olympics again like he did last year in Beijing. This time he'll be headed to Vancouver for about five weeks for the 2010 winter games. Last time, I joined Drew in China for the final few days of the Olympics and then he and I took off for a couple weeks of travel around the country. It was fun, it was exhausting, it was expensive, but I'd do it all over again, because how often do you get an opportunity to travel around China (especially when your boyfriend's' ticket there and back is fully paid for)?

So, when Drew got invited to work the Winter Olympics, my initial thought was that I'd tag along like I did before and he and I could travel a little like we did last time. But then I thought about it some more. You guys, it's gonna be COLD in Western Canada that time of year, and I hate cold vacations. And it's not like Vancouver is so far away — like China is — that we won't feasibly visit on our own some time. I've heard summer is a wonderful time to go. Wouldn't I be better off visiting when the weather's a bit more welcoming?

Last year in late February, Drew and I went to Costa Rica, which was not only an economical vacation, it was good for our souls, too. Nothing beats lying around on a beach at the end of February, brushing sand out of your cleavage and ordering your fifth Mojito of the day (sure, I could have done without the near-death parasailing experience, but still). I asked Drew last week if he might be ready for a vacation like that after putting in his 5 weeks in Vancouver. He works hard during the Olympics — up to 18 hours a day, six or seven days a week — and is ready to relax afterward. He said Costa Rica would be nice, but so might hanging out in some ski lodge in Canada drinking hot toddies for a few days in a row.

So, internet, what would you do? Costa Rica or Canada? (The price would probably end up being about the same.) If I went to Canada, I might get to see a couple Olympic events, though that's no guarantee. And, not to sound all snotty about it because it truly is an experience, but I've already been to two Olympics, so it's not like it would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity I'm passing up. Still, I'd probably fly out to Vancouver maybe a week before the games end (I can telecommute for work from there) so I'd get a longer change of scenery than if I just went to Costa Rica with Drew for a few days when he's done working. Plus, I wouldn't have to wait as long to see him! We're newlyweds, after all, and five weeks is a long time to be apart! On the flip side: five whole weeks without shaving my legs!

Okay, I guess what I'm also asking is: what should we do and where should we go if we decide on a short vacation in Western Canada in late February? Travelers, Canadians: what say you? We don't ski, we don't want to ski, but we like the idea of a cozy ski lodge. I also like pretty scenery and yummy food. Is it a waste to vacation there during winter if you aren't a skiier? Will we get bored just sittin' around a fireplace, reading books and drinking hot whiskey for five days? Will we wish we were on a beach? What should we doooo? (And sorry for such an obnoxiously bourgeois post. Wah, I can't decide where to vacation! Life's so hard.).

Good Sense

Yesterday was 73 degrees and sunny here in New York City — one of those gorgeous, picture perfect kind of days. Late in the afternoon, I threw on my sneakers and jogging clothes, grabbed my iPod and headed north to Central Park. The plan was to run a few miles, but by the time I got inside the park, all I wanted to do was find a spot in Sheep Meadow where I could spread out and soak up as much of the sun and unseasonable temps as possible. With the forecast showing cloudy skies and a 20 degree drop in temperature over the next 24 hours, I knew it was probably the last genuinely warm day we'd have for a really long time.

The light in the park was the kind of golden hue Indian Summer is generous with. The sky was a cloudless bright blue, and the trees were in various stages of turning. Even the grass seemed greener than usual. I plopped down right inside the shade of a tree and sat: just me, the ground, my music, the skyline. I watched a bride and groom have their photos taken, the father of the bride directing the couple which way to look, the wind blowing his comb-over straight up in the air.

I listened to my current favorite song — Two Weeks by Grizzly Bear — on repeat a few times. I grabbed handfuls of grass, letting the blades fall through my fingers, watching the sun's reflection on the skyscrapers like a giant prism. After about 30 minutes I walked home. Outside the park, traffic roared, crowds gathered, and I was quickly swept back into the current, pulled back into unflinching beat of the city.

It was cold and overcast when I woke up this morning, making me even more grateful for a day like yesterday and the good sense I had to get out and enjoy it while I could.

Kiva Rocks My World

Now that the year is beginning to wind down — my god, hasn't it gone fast?! — I'm starting to re-visit the resolutions I made way back in January to see how I'm doing and what I can still cram in during the remaining weeks of the year. One of my better resolutions for 2009 was to make 12 microloans — one per month — to deserving entrepreneurs in need through Kiva, the "world's first person-to-person micro-lending website." Do you know about Kiva? It's a really wonderful operation and each time I've loaned money (full disclosure: I'm behind on my once-a-month goal), I've felt so good afterward.

Basically, the way Kiva works is you go to their site, choose a low income entrepreneur in an impoverished area you want to make a microloan to, and over the course of the loan (6-12 months), you receive email updates and small repayments. There are all sorts of entrepreneurs out there who need help making their business, or business idea, a success. I like loaning to women, but of course, there are plenty of men in need, too. One woman I loaned to needed, I think, $600 to stock used items in her resale shop in Guatemala. She's a single mom of 5 children and the shop was the family's only source on income. It's an amazing feeling to know that in one very tiny way I got to help her feed and clothe her children.

I know times are tough, but if you happen to be one of the lucky ones with a job, a roof over your head, and a little extra discretionary money at the end of each pay period, I urge you to consider loaning to someone in need through Kiva. It's not a handout — it truly is a hand-up. In small repayments, you'll get back the amount of your loan (which you can then redistrubute to someone else in need if you choose) and you'll have the satisfaction of knowing you did something to make the world a little better. That beats a nice bottle of wine any day, doesn't it?

I'm So Mature

As I mentioned earlier, Drew and I went to a wedding Sunday night and while we were there, I took a photo I wanted to show you guys. This one of me isn't it. When I uploaded the photos from Sunday night's wedding, I realized I hadn't uploaded photos from that camera for over three months, so there were a whole bunch of pics from our wedding after-party, including this gem of me getting ready to down whatever was left in that champagne bottle I'm clutching.

People always say that your wedding will be a blur, but I found that to not really be the case for me. The wedding — and the lunch reception — are crystal clear in my memory; it's the after-party that remains a sort of hazy water-color memory in my mind. I have only the vaguest recollection of the moment this photo was shot — taken, you have to remember, at the end of a very long day and what had been a very stressful few weeks leading up to it. I don't remember what — if anything — was going through my mind in that moment or what I said in the seconds afterward, but I'm pretty sure by the look on my face it might have been something like: "Oh, hey, what's up guys? You don't mind if I finish this champagne, do you? Oh stop! I have not had enough to drink yet! Not until I finish this bottle, I haven't!"

 

Glug-glug-glug.

 

"Oh, you guys! Check out how cute my toes look! No, seriously! Look! I got this great pedicure for the wedding and now the nail polish is, like, swirling all around my feet and stuff. So pretty!! Look at all the swirly colors. Um, guys? Don't let go of me, okay? No, really, don't. Also, I think my Spanx is cutting off the flow of oxygen to my brain. Let's dance!"

Anyhow, this is the photo I originally wanted to show you from the wedding I went to Sunday night, the one where I did not chug a bottle of champagne, my mom will be relieved to know:

This was my friend Rachel's entree and I thought it looked all kinds of awesome (seriously, what do you see in this photo? I thought it was one thing, but someone else thought it looked like something else, which, after it was pointed out to me, made equal sense). No one else really got quite as much of a kick out of it as I did because I guess they're just not as tuned in to their 11-year-old selves or whatever. Either that or their drinks wasn't nearly as strong as mine. Oh, well. At least I didn't need help standing at the end of the night this time. I'd call that a real improvement, wouldn't you?

Eczema Mystery Solved

It may have been a cold and gloomy weekend here in NYC, but it proved to be a fairly productive and eventful one anyway. On Friday night I watched "Whip It" with my friend Martha (go see it!), on Saturday night I helped my friend Katherine with a photography assignment (it involved bubbles), and last night I went to a wedding with Drew (what a relief to just be an attendee this time!). Best of all, though, everyone will be thrilled to learn that over the weekend I solved the mystery of my sudden eczema. At least, I'm pretty sure I did.

Back in July, about a week before the wedding, I was informed by my pharmacist that I had to switch to  a generic brand of birth control — Tri-Lo Sprintec — approved by the FDA earlier this year, if I wanted to continue getting a discount through my insurance provider. I've had all kinds of unpleasant side effects from the Pill and had finally found one — Orthro Tri-Cyclen Lo — that didn't mess me up too much, so I was hesitant to make the switch. But the pharmacist assured me the formulas were identical, and the difference in price between the two (about 60 bucks a month) was big enough that I decided to give the generic brand a try.

Three months later I'm several pounds heavier (despite frequent work-outs), my boobs are absolutely enormous (and tender and sore), and I'm so bloated all the time I can't squeeze into half my wardrobe anymore. Fortunately, my mental state, which is usually the first thing to go haywire when I switch pills, has remained relatively unaffected. But still, the physical changes were bad enough that I did some research over the weekend to see if other women were reporting similar side effects. I read through a bunch of message boards and the overall reaction is that Tri-Lo Sprintec is basically like poison. Not only have tons and tons of women experienced the same weight gain and absurd boob growth that I have, it seems a great number of them are going mental, as well: intense mood swings, constant crying, insomnia, the whole nine yards. And, get this: quite a few women reported getting rashes and breaking out in hives around their second month on Tri-Lo Sprintec. Just like me.

It never even occurred to me that my hives were a result of the Pill — probably because this was one side-effect I'd never experienced before. But other than getting hitched, it's pretty much the only change I've made in the last few months. I don't think I'm allergic to my marriage — although that could make for an interesting blog — but I'd bet my first-born (which, you know, hopefully won't come until we're ready!) that I'm allergic to this new generic birth control pill. Obviously, I'm going off it ASAP, and I fully expect the hives to be gone by the end of month — I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I'm just appalled at some of the stuff I read in these message boards about the way women have been treated by their doctors and pharmacists. When they complain about the side effects they're experiencing, they're called "crazy" since the generic is "exactly the same" as the name brand and "no one else" is reporting similar side effects. Well, you know how we women are — always so confused about everything! But actually, it's the doctors and pharmacists who are confused. The generic and the name brand are, in fact, not "exactly the same," those big fat liars. For one thing, the estrogen is 40% higher in the generic brand. 40 percent! That's huge!

Personally, I'm sick over the whole birth control issue in general. Why are there so many hoops we have to jump through to get a prescription? Even if I'm not due for an annual exam, I still have to go in every six months for an expensive "check-in" with my doctor just to have my prescription renewed. In addition, if a doctor does not specifically write "do not substitute" on the prescription, a pharmacist will try to give a patient whatever he or she feels like getting off the shelves that month. And if we want to change brands because, oh I don't know, the one we're on makes us cry 28 days of the month or turns our entire bodies into one great big fucking rash, we have to call our stupid doctors like we're children asking our parents for permission to get another damn prescription for something different — something that maybe won't make us so insane this time.

Really, I think this should be one of the big feminist issues of our generation. Forget the mommy wars and the debate over whether we should wear white at our weddings or change our names when we get married (who cares! Do what makes you feel good!) — how about we start fighting for equal birth control options. Where are the pills for men to take (besides the boner ones!)? Where are the implants and shots and hormones for guys? Men and women are equally responsible in creating pregnancy, so why haven't the drug companies made it possible for us to be equally responsible in preventing it? At the very least, if no one's going to bother researching ways to make a birth control pill for men, can someone at least create an afforable option for women that doesn't make our skin crawl or turn us into giant, weeping puff balls of emotion? And if I could get that without a written note from my doctor whose biggest concern is not how well my birth control is working out, but whether he's getting a fee from me every six months, that would be swell.

Root, Root, Root For The Home Team

I'm about to type something that four years ago I couldn't have fathomed giving a rat's ass about: this Friday night the Yankees head to game 1 of the second round of playoffs. The mere fact that I not only wrote that sentence but understand what it means, understand the implications, is indicative of a large shift in my life. Don't get me wrong — I haven't suddenly turned into some baseball fan, but I did marry one and I did write in my wedding vows that I'd always root for the Yankees. Now that Drew's team is four wins away from the World Series, I might be re-thinking those vows a little.

Do you guys have any idea how many hours and hours and hours of baseball is played in post-season? How many beers consumed by a single fan? How many home runs cheered and bad calls booed? My God, it's exhausting. Drew isn't a passive fan, either, oh no. He may look like a sweet, possibly even quiet guy, but he's a yeller when it comes to his Yankees. Sometimes I sneak to the one other room in the apartment when a game goes into extra innings, hoping for a little peace after four hours of anxious game-watching, and the walls literally shake from his foot-stomping and hollering and clapping at the TV screen.

It's not that I hate baseball; I actually find it the least offensive sport to watch (other than basketball which pleases me by how fast it goes). And I've done my duty as a supportive wife to learn the names of all the Yankees (well, most of them anyway). I even have a favorite player (Mark Teixeira) for his game and another I favor for his good looks (Robinson Cano) — because, let's be honest, cute players are what it's all about. So, it's not like I shun the sport or anything, but my God, why does a single game have to be SO LONG?! Wouldn't it still be just as exciting and fun and everything if it were, say, six innings instead of nine (or God forbid, 10 or 12 or 15!)? As it is, one single game is longer than an entire Hollywood awards show. I wonder how Drew would feel if I made him sit through the Oscars three or four times a week for six months. Or, roughly, 12 episodes of The Bachelor each week — or 14 episodes of The Real Housewives if you fast forward through the commercials.

I don't know, it just seems like there should be a fair trade in all this baseball business, you know? Like, I put up with Drew's Yankee passion and he puts up with my...with my...well, that's the thing! I don't think I have anything as time-consuming and emotionally draining as being a Yankees fan. If you guys can think of something, I'm all ears!

Cold Spring, NY

On Saturday I woke up with an overwhelming urge to go somewhere new, get a change of scenery, mix things up a bit — after all, it'd been three whole weeks since we'd gotten back from our honeymoon and I was starting to feel restless.

"Where do you want to go?" Drew asked.

"I don't care," I replied, "Anywhere! Let's just get on a train and go some place. I'm gonna take a shower and get ready."

Ten minutes later as I stepped out of the shower and started toweling off, Drew yelled from the bedroom: "I've got it all figured out! We can take the Metro North to Cold Spring. It's only about an hour and a half away."

"What's in Cold Spring?" I asked, plopping on the bed and peering over his shoulder at the page opened on his laptop.

"I don't know," he replied, "I Googled 'Metro North NYC day trips' and it came up. Oh, here, Time Out wrote something about it. They say it's an antiquing town. And you don't need a car to get around."

"Perfect," I said, "What time's the train?"

Two hours later we were walking along Main St. in Cold Spring, New York — a quaint, tiny town along the Hudson River, and at the foot of Storm King Mountain, packed with antique stores, coffee shops, and charming bistros.

It was a perfect Fall afternoon, the trees along the Hudson just starting to change colors, and enough of a chill in the air that I could wear a scarf and cover up the unsightly eczema on my neck (you can still see it on the inside of my elbow, though, ugh.).

I can't tell you how relaxing it was to leave our apartment in midtown Manhattan and about an hour and a half later be in a town where we not only could see the sky (!), but pretty much every turn we took led us to relics of old-school Americana.

I don't drive anymore, but if gas stations still looked like this old abandoned one off Fair St., I might be tempted to for old time's sake.

We stopped inside about six or seven antique stores, all of which were packed with kitschy knick-knacks from the 50s to the 80s.

...And dolls! Lots of old-fashioned, creepy dolls.

I want to frame this photo and hang it above our bar. ...But mostly, I want an apartment with a bar.

Anyway, if you're a New Yorker looking for a quick day trip, I highly recommend Cold Spring. It's an hour and 20 minutes or so from Grand Central on Metro North (round trip ticket is about $22). Sit on the left side of the train for a great view of the fall foliage along the Hudson River. While you're there, I recommend the pumpkin pie ice cream at the Cold Spring Ice Cream Parlor, just steps from the train station.

Monkey Business

I don't know how or why or even when exactly it happened, but it seems some time in the last, oh, about six months, I became a person who has eczema. You know what eczema is, right? Patchy, dry, itchy red skin people get for no apparent reason? I first noticed it under my right eye several months ago and figured it was an allergic reaction to a new eye cream I was using. I stopped using it, but the flakiness didn't disappear. Somehow, by sheer luck, I managed to get it under control around my wedding and then for a few blessed weeks all was normal skin-wise.

But then on my honeymoon I broke out in these eczema hives under my right eye again and this time they didn't stop there. By the second week of our trip, I had a quarter-sized patch on the inside of my left elbow, dime-sized patches in my armpits, and a big ol' dollar-bill-sized, nasty, scaly patch right on my neck. Sexy. And these things itch! Bad! Do you have any idea how awful it is to have itchy armpits all day long? It's the worst! And I'm so absent-minded with my scratching, and already pretty un-socialized as it is what with working from home and all, that I'll catch myself on the rare times I do venture out of the house just scratching away like a monkey, like someone who was raised in a goddman barn.

This can't be attractive to my new husband, poor guy. He's probably wondering what happened to the sophisticated woman he married just 2 1/2 short months ago — the one who limited her embarrassing behavior to nervous breakdowns in airports and screaming at the neighborhors through open windows to shut the fuck up. She may have had her anger issues, sure, but she'd never dream of scratching her pits in public like an uncivilized ape.

I know what you're thinking — I should probably consult a doctor, and I have. Dr. Google has provided all kinds of information, like, I now know that eczema has no cure and while it's common in babies, it's pretty rare in grown adults. Apparently, stress can exacerbate it, as can particular types of fabric and changes in temperature, and sweating, too. Well, that's just great! Who ISN'T under stress, I ask you? In this economy, who isn't a little worked up about something? So I go to yoga to relieve some of my anxiety and guess what happens there? I sweat! And also I wear particular types of fabric! In fact, I always wear particular types of fabric: cotton, lycra, denim, silk, wool. I've even been known to wear cashmere on occasion. Oh, and I use soap, too. You know what soap does? Besides get you clean, I mean? It exacerbates eczema! So does bathing in hot water. And jewelry! And makeup! And hair products! It seems the only thing that doesn't have too much effect on this unpleasant skin disorder is wine. In case there was any doubt: I've been drinking it by the truckload.

Alphabet: A History (N)

N: A New Leaf

It's September 2001, and I've just turned 25. On the morning of the 11th, I watch from my computer at work as the twin towers collapse into a pile of dust and debris in downtown New York. During lunch, I stand on the street outside my office with my co-workers listening to the church bells ringing down the block against a city in shock, wondering how things will change now.

In November I quit my job and take a fulltime position at a flower shop downtown called A New Leaf. This is my third job in less than two years and the first one I've ever had that I genuinely enjoy. I like working with my hands, I like the people, I like the smells and colors of the flowers, and much to my surprise, I even like dealing with the public most of the time. The shop is in the middle of Michigan Avenue and between the filfthy rich housewives and plucky tourists, our customers are real characters. They never cease to amuse me with the ridiculous things they say. I start writing down all their crazy quotes on a long sheet of brown paper we use to wrap bunches of flowers in, and I keep it tacked on a wall behind the counter. It helps pass the time.

At work, I learn how to water plants the right way and how to strip roses and pull pollen and make the perfect $75 arrangement for a brand new baby boy and his family. I learn the names of flowers: Delphinium, Cockscomb, Protea, Lisianthus, Sweat Pea, Amarylis. I repeat them to myself for memorization.

One afternoon as we're prepping a new delivery of flowers, I tell my co-worker, Laura, that I might like to be a writer one day. Her brother's a writer and he has a short story published in the latest edition of Glimmer Train, so she brings it in the next day to show me. "You could be a writer, too" Laura says after I finish reading it, "You just have to sit down and do it." She wants to marry her rich boyfriend and cook gourmet meals all day and make a pretty house, she tells me. Another co-worker wants to be a professional sculptor, one wants to be a photographer, another one wants to be a fashion designer, and another wants to own her own flower shop one day. We all like our job fine, but none of us plans to stay here forever. Just long enough to figure out the next step.

My second spring at work, a terrible thing happens. A 19-year-old girl jumps from the railing on the 8th floor in our building and lands on the watch kiosk just ten feet from our store on the first floor. That morning I'm called to another location to help out and so I'm not there when it happens. I get a call from Laura and she says evenly: "I think we need to close up. They took the body away, but there's still blood, there's still all this blood everywhere."

The next day I get the full report: Laura was on the fourth floor when it happened, peering over the railing, talking with Lori about how to re-organize the merchandise on the first floor. They both say they saw the body fall right past them. "For a second, I thought someone dropped a jacket," Laura says. Stacy, Erin, Kathleen and Alexis were on the first floor. They saw the body hit the watch kiosk. They were close enough to see the expression on her face. "She didn't look 19," Stacy says. "How old did she look?" I ask. "I don't know," she replies, "Like she didn't have an age, I guess."

A few weeks later I take down my quote sheet from behind the counter. I stop wearing a jacket to work, summer comes. Then Fall. These days, when people ask me the names of flowers, I can tell them without even thinking: Delphinium, Cockscomb, Protea, Amarylis. These days, I can make a $100 funeral arrangement with my eyes closed.

None of us plans to be here forever, I remind myself one afternoon as I prep a new delivery. We're just here til we figure out the next step.