TEEMS IN THE CITY

The Path of Most Resistance

2009-11-19T00:01:00.004-05:00

Almost every day, I walk home from work twice. Once, when I go home at lunch to walk Gertie (lovingly known as The Pissbag) and again when I’m actually walking home after my day, again, rushing to walk The Pissbag.

The fastest way from point A to point B is to take Broadway. For those of you who don’t know, Broadway runs the length of practically the entire city. You’d think, given the length of New York City, that there are parts of Broadway that DON’T SUCK. You’d be wrong.

I happen to live/work all the way Downtown in the Financial District, where Broadway starts. I walk by “The Bull” every day. “The Bull” (an anatomically correct statue of a bull) is the bane of my existence, as there is never any time of day where some numb nuts isn’t grabbing The Bull’s balls while his/her moron friend/parent takes a picture. It’s mob scene. The whole street, from start to finish is an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm.

So the other day, I leave at lunch to walk Gertie. Imagine every suit still left on Wall Street and their mothers out of their offices getting lunch to go/to stay/or to just eat right there on the sidewalk. Just idea of it makes me tense up like my brothers did on the night of my wedding; I don’t even want to THINK about it.

In order to preserve the sliver of sanity I grasp so desperately to, I generally reject the sidewalk on Broadway and I take the street. The way I see it is that the street (walking the wrong way, against traffic) is the path of least resistance.

It wasn’t until the other day, when I was nearly clipped by a rouge taxi, that I really stopped to contemplate: is the path of least resistance really the best way to go?

I’m 29.8 years old. If I were to think of the M.O. of my life thus far, it’s that I tend toward this path. I’m not generally a confrontational person. I like to have a clear road ahead of me with little drama, small speed bumps, and practically zero obstacle. I like to be the peacekeeper and the voice of reason…even if the reason is that I just don’t feel like having anything in my way between Point A (me) and Point B (content happiness).

People have been so bold as to say that I “smile too much”. Well, I smile, because that’s the path of least resistance. No one, not even the angriest, most aggravated person can resist an honest smile, and an understanding disposition.

In most cases, this has served me well. But is it possible that this has been a disservice?

I mean, think about it - it’s equivalent to walking in the street on Broadway; 99 times out of 100, it’s an aggravation-free route to getting where I need to be. No hassles, no stepping on any toes, no drama. But there’s bound to be that 1 out of 100 when I get absolutely LEVELED by a Downtown bus. And then, in comparison, a few hip-checks and couple episodes of “getting caught behind leisurely tourists” doesn’t seem so bad.

So I ask myself: in life…do I want to risk being leveled by the Downtown bus?

The few 1 out of 100 times I’ve been “hit” has been bad. As opposed to joining the rest of the world on the sidewalks – throwing shoulders, exchanging dirty looks and having it out right then and there, I’ve been walking up a one-way street, smiling. And then, a taxi (or any kind of major issue) pulls over into my personal space and virtually kills me. That one time I decide to fight the fight, I’m outweighed…drastically. And, as it turns out, the repercussions of the path of least resistance are far greater than getting a stubbed toe, or simply enduring a “fuck you” by a random passer-by.

A few times in my older age, I’ve decided to “veer into on-coming traffic” to speak up, or to stick up, or to voice an opinion on what I think is right – even if it meant stepping in front of on-coming cars. Practically every time, it has ended badly. Which leads me to believe that perhaps being on the sidewalk, and speaking up, sticking up, and voicing my opinion on what I think is right on a daily basis is the way to go. At least then, I’m not up against anything I can’t handle…I’m just in the ring with the rest of the world – fighting for Point B.

After all, picking battles is a hell of a lot easier when you’re surrounded by them. Fighting the war from the sidelines is just a good way to get trampled by a policeman on a horse (which, again, has happened to me).

So from now on, I think I’m going to walk up the sidewalk of Broadway. I’m going to push past tourists, and yell at someone for littering, and shoot back a couple of stink-eyes from strangers. I’m going to take the path of most resistance, and when I get to Point B - at very least - I’ll feel like I’ve earned the right to be there.

But no - I'm not going to smile any less.

What is the meaning of this?

2009-11-18T12:13:00.004-05:00

I have to say, I'm a little dumbfounded. I'm also incredibly touched, and a little scared. Mostly dumbfounded, though.

Here's the deal: I feel dead inside. Maybe it's the impending holidays (which never fails to fill my creative brain cells with chocolate and Christmas music, rendering them useless for much else), maybe it's the fact that I've been sleeping very little and have literally zombified, maybe it's the shorter amount of daylight...who knows. In any case, and for whatever reason, I'm brain dead, and in a creative coma.

Last night, I contemplated blogging and actually chose to make myself even more brain dead by watching "Bride Wars" (Note to Kate Hudson: bangs aren't your thang, girlfriend) and polishing off the rest of a delicious bottle of wine, courtesy of Chris Tugeau, Mother Extraordinaire.

I'm embarrassed to admit that fact - I am. I should have said that I watched "Love in the Time of Cholera" - or better yet, read it. But I need you to see how desperate the situation is! BRIDE WARS, people!

Don't ask my why Robin is checking my blog while she should be working (busted!) but she just asked me what the deal is. It's been 19 days since my last entry, and I can't tell you what I've been doing instead.

Well, I know what I did one night (see picture).

I told her that I was in a coma and to wake me when the holidays are over and I can once again decipher ass from elbow. But then, I became curious.

I've been radio silent for nearly a month...has anyone noticed? Does anyone care? How can I procrastinate on this invoicing any more than I already have?

I had to know. I had to procrastinate. And so, I checked.

Mind you, I still don't know if anyone cares, (as I am many things, but mind-reader is not one of them) but people - a lot of people - have noticed! Holy Cow! I have hits on a daily basis! Lots of 'em! Even some on the weekends...which surprises me the most, as all the tea in China couldn't get me in front of a computer on the weekend.

Like I said, I'm touched. I mean, look how many "!'s" I just used. That's my LEAST FAVORATE PUNCTUATION! That's how touched I am.

I don't know who you are - but thanks, Friend. Thanks for the love.

That said, it's amazing what a little love can do. I've got a blog idea - it just came to me, and it's practically writing itself.

So...head's up, Loyal Readers...

INCOMING!

ps - To follow up: I went out on Halloween night, and saw more T&A than a straight girl who's afraid of nakedness should ever see in a lifetime. Well done, Women of New York - you have not let me down. You've made me want to gauge my eyes out, but you have not disappointed.

...and Frog.

2009-10-30T12:55:00.005-04:00

I just got totally reprimanded.

I have a friend…well, we’ll call him a friend and a FAN…who just sent me an email telling me I HAVE to blog more, because he’s sick of getting all excited for the latest installment, and then sorely disappointed when there’s the same, stupid (albeit cute) picture staring back at him that has been there since the 15th of October.

For shame.

So friends, fans, and people looking to procrastinate - I’m going to attempt to hurtle the obstacle of writer’s block, and please the masses with something we can all enjoy: a little ditty in honor of Halloween…

About a week ago, I was introduced to this: http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1715915

Do yourself a favor, watch that (NSFW!), and then come back to me.

Are you dying of laughter? Good.

That, of course, it supposed to be a satirical commercial – poking fun at several things that I, too, like to poke fun at, such as: Hackensack, NJ, guys who are constantly yelling, home-made, low budget commercials (Bob’s Discount Furniture), and…sexy Halloween costumes.

I giggled last week, because I thought this was the ultimate in ridiculous. “Sexy 1800’s Steel Conglomerate Tycoon?!”, I thought. And then…I went costume shopping.

Let me preface this by saying that I am not a Halloween person. I loved it when I was little because of the candy – now I loathe it because of the candy. I loved it when I was younger because of the costumes – now I can’t comfortably wear sweatpants and a winter coat under them anymore. I loved it when I had a neighborhood, friends and a plan of attack – now, I have a neighborhood, friends, and no clue what to do with either.

Over it.

That said, Halloween is on a Saturday this year, and when a friend of mine told me to “enjoy Haloween while I can, because I could be in the ‘burbs answering doors next year for all I know”, I decided to motivate.

Last year, I borrowed a “beer wench” costume from a friend, which included a very little skirt, and a corset. I was all T&A, and although that’s not normally my scene, I enjoyed being like every other American woman for once; using Halloween as an excuse to be extremely underdressed.

As fun as it was to have cleavage, this year, I decided I wanted to be clothed.

So after work the other day, I went where any red-blooded New Yorker goes in search of some fake red blood: Ricky’s.

Ricky’s is another NYC phenomenon. It’s supposedly a beauty supply store, but it seems to carry everything but (and possibly including) the kitchen sink. Around Halloween, it turns into a costume superstore. Much like Duane Reade, there is a Ricky’s on practically every corner in New York. If a Baby Gap closes down, a Ricky’s takes its place. If a bodega shuts its doors, Ricky’s is there the next day. You get my point.

This year, Ricky’s leased a space in the Financial District, strictly for Halloween costumes. I figured this was a sure bet.

Not 3 feet through the door and I had to phone a friend to share the experience. The place was wall-to-wall SEXY. It was like that commercial! Sexy little bags of sexy little costumes as far as the eye could see. Sexy fairy. Sexy Dora the Explorer. Sexy Nun. Sexy SpongeBob Square Pants. Sexy Pirate. Sexy Kate Gosslin?!

Oh, and Frog.

I nearly died.

Turns out, the commercial isn’t satirical at all. It’s honest. Girls were fighting for this stuff! Grabbing at thigh-highs, ripping garters out of each other’s hands, clawing for sexy devil horns, bunny ears and bumblebee antennae. Every chick in there had armfuls of lycra and fishnet, fake eyelashes and glitter. It was a swarm of estrogen…all fighting for the costume that would make their one night of looking like a hooker worth all the fuss.

Although I’m sure I would look ravishing in a prison uniform with the midriff cut out of it, I didn’t feel like getting cat-clawed in the face by some over-zealous financial type in a power suit just dying to let her hair down. So I cruised the aisles, stepping over the debris of feather boas, fake fingernails, and the occasional clear plastic platform shoe, looking for a costume that didn’t carry the potential of having a nipple slip.

I kid you not when I say that “frog” was my only option. I seriously thought I was on Candid Camera.

Are there really no other options? 900 costumes to chose from, and unless I feel like having my butt cheeks exposed to October weather, I have the option of…frog?

Don’t get me wrong, I love frogs. I’d love to BE a frog. But not for $85 – which is how much the FELT costume was.

(Next blog idea: the TOTAL price extortion of Halloween / Halloween costumes)

At some point, my world started to slow down in the way that Tom Hank’s world slowed in the opening D-Day scene of Saving Private Ryan. And not to belittle D-Day by comparing it to Halloween costume shopping, but this was…war. Women were fighting, and running, and carrying (plastic) guns and knives and swords. Little grenades of costumes were going off left and right. And there I was, phone to my ear, stumbling around – just trying to get out of there alive – with a costume that was not the equivalent of a bra and panties.

When I came out of the fog, and life was no longer in slow-motion, I was in front of the wigs. I shook my head, got my bearing, and stared up at the Great Wall of Hair. Blond, brown, pink, green, long, short, curly…again, overwhelming. Again, sexy!

I turned to leave – defeated.

Just then, I caught something out of the corner of my eye: the un-sexiest thing in the entire store…a Joan Jett wig.

Now don’t get all in a bunch, you Joan Jett fans – I’m sure she had her sexy days and she’s totally badass, don’t get me wrong. But on no planet, in any decade, is it/was it ever acceptable – let alone sexy – to have choppy spiky mullet hair. No amount of tight leather can make that sexy.

In other words, with that wig, I had found my costume.

However, the question still remains: will I venture out of my apartment tomorrow night to be the only fully clothed woman in a sea of sexy?

Stay tuned…

And p.s. - The pic? Circa 1990. I believe that aside from Joan Jett, dressing up as "Halloween" (far left) might be the un-sexiest costume of all time. Good thing, too...we were 10.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-10-15T13:57:00.001-04:00

“If I nurture the newness while I have it, perhaps, I won't lose it — at least not for something less. And if I nurture what I keep, perhaps, I won't miss what I have lost.”

Jan Denise

Marking My Territory: By Gertrude B. Ewers, Dog Extraordinaire

2009-10-14T10:18:00.002-04:00

On the 2nd of October, my parents (who, I should mention, are incredibly good-looking) moved me. Well, they moved US, but really it felt like just me.

Ever since I was rescued from the mean streets of Harlem, I’ve been living in the lap of luxury (and in the laps of anyone who will have me). After 6 months at 90 West, I knew my way home like the back of my paw. When the elevator doors opened on the 18th floor, I hung a right until I hit the door that smelled like me. That was home. Then, all of a sudden, we didn't go right anymore. They made me go left, down two hallways to a door that smelled like fresh paint.

Confused.

I used to be able to chase a ball from one end of my home to the other in one, quick sprint. But now, there are corners, and doors and umbrella holders in the way, making it a virtual obstacle course on slippery hardwood. I didn't know my way around, and found it totally unacceptable that I couldn't “play ball” in the house now that it might ruin the paint job.

Frustrated.

Not to mention the fact that there was now a blond parent-type lurking about. "Aunt Robin". She’s pretty awesome, but she smells like a boy dog. I think the boy dog’s name is Gus, and from what I could tell, it seemed as though the blond one and my parents were planning an “arranged marriage” between Gus and I, which I found unsettling. I mean, I haven’t even sniffed this Dude's butt yet, and they’re already wedding dress shopping?

Appalled.

Something had to be done.

With all of this change, I started to feel like less of the boss – more like my life was living me. New digs, new faces, new routines – I felt misplaced and overwhelmed. I’d lost all control. So what did I do? I did what any logical canine would do…

I peed.

I peed on the blond's stuff. I peed on my parent’s stuff. Heck, I even peed on the carpet in front of my old place – just to prove that I was there.

Be disgusted all you want, but you know you do it, too. It’s impossible to make sense of change, or a new place, or a new routine without peeing on it a bit. This behavior is true across the species board. Whether it’s hanging a picture, finding “your” local coffee joint, or lifting a leg – the best way to make a house/a city/a life your home is to mark it.

18W? Officially marked. Officially home.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-10-02T11:28:00.004-04:00

And I'll be back 'round again
Yes I'll walk in time with you old friend
And we'll find that place
That we had danced in so long ago

"Song That Jane Likes", Dave Matthews Band, 1993

Our Friendly Neighborhood Terrorist

2009-10-02T10:33:00.007-04:00

Every morning, millions of New Yorkers stop for coffee on their way to work. Of those millions, I’d say that most are skipping the swill of Starbucks, and going straight for the chronic: the breakfast cart Joe.

Vendors of all kinds line the sidewalks of New York, but in the morning, the breakfast carts are out in full force – and yet, even if there are three seemingly identical carts in a row, serving the same sugar-topped pastries, squished up against the glass in the front, all three of them will have a line.

This would be a mystery to me – if it wasn’t for the coffee. Vendor coffee is a breed all its own. To me it’s similar to “gas station coffee”, whereas if you were in a blind taste-test, it would take one sniff of the cup to pinpoint its origins. Of course, from there, there are sub-categories (Mobile, 7-11, Love’s, etc. – but I’ll put that in my trove for another time).

I didn’t really believe in the vendor coffee until I tried it, and I must say, it deserves mad respect. Here’s why:

A) It’s a dollar. If you’re getting ripped off, it’s $1.50 for a large cup of Joe. Where can you get ANYTHING for a dollar these days? In a large?
B) It’s liquid crack. It may not even really be ‘coffee’ in the traditional sense – perhaps it’s water and 25 years of residue from the inside of the big silver brewers. But it is…crack-ish. Or so I can imagine…if I knew what crack was like...you get my point.
C) There’s lingo. But it’s not lame lingo like “Tall Decaf Mocha Cappuccino” it’s cool lingo like “Regular, black, sweet.”
D) It’s a dollar!

Much like me with my fruit guy, you’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone who cheats on their vendor. Day in and day out of coffee and pastry getting leads to a pretty serious relationship. They know your face, your order, and exactly how much cream to put in your coffee to make your day.

This is a symbiotic relationship that at times, resembles one you’d see on Animal Planet.

NARRATOR: “Watch how the Executive approaches the cart. Notice the exact change in his hand. The Vendor sees the Executive; there is recognition. The Vendor proceeds with his craft as the Executive looks on. Then, an exchange. Notice the head nod as both Vendor and Executive utter simultaneous “Thank yous”. The Executive rushes off, and the Vendor moves on to the next Executive in line. This truly is nature in its purest form.”

This special relationship is why it sent waves of shock, followed by pangs of deception through my workplace upon hearing that our old coffee vendor (he disappeared about a year ago…) was just arrested as a terror suspect.

For real.

The story broke several weeks ago, and as it became a National interest, and pictures of Najibullah Zazi started to surface, several people here at IRG recognized his face. I didn’t – as he was not “my Guy”.

The more we researched, the more it seemed as though this man, who was arrested in Colorado after investigators uncovered bomb-making materials and blueprints in his home, was in fact the coffee vendor who set up shop at the end of our street. The end of our street, mind you, is in the Financial District of Manhattan, just a stone’s throw away from “The Bull”. He was located directly across from the MTA building, which is on our street.

Turns out, it was him. About a year ago, Zazi disappeared seemingly overnight, and was replaced by another man, who remained on the same corner (until this news broke, of course). About a month ago, one of my co-workers saw Zazi at the cart, conversing with the new vendor and said Hi to him; asked where he’d been. Apparently, he was back in New York sorting out some logistics of transferring the business over to the new guy.

Not a few days later, Zazi was arrested in Colorado, and we were all like “Is that the coffee guy?!”

Unbelievable.

You know, this is super unfortunate on so many levels if you ask me. Not only for the obvious reason that a man who worked 50 yards from where we work is suspected to have used his off-hours to plot terrorist attacks, and not only because most people here feel as though they had a friendly rapport with the guy, but because this takes us all back to Square One.

Living and working down here post 9/11 is interesting, to say the least. If you’ve read some of my past posts, you know that New York is still shaking in some respects. Forgetting what happened is not an option, and moving forward as if all’s well is difficult, if not impossible. There are times in which this city feels very vulnerable. This is one of them.

Personally, I want to have faith and trust in humanity. I want to believe that I don’t have to be legitimately afraid of my coffee vendor because he resembles the men who concocted and executed the attacks on 9/11. I refute racial profiling, and try to treat people – all people – in one general way: as I would like to be treated by them.

But stuff like this, Man…really burns me. I mean, what the Hell, Dude?

This clown just solidified and validated people’s fears, and some people’s hatred. He has managed to poison more hearts and has brought justification to judgment. And all I can do about it shake my head, and try to not let it affect me - as affecting us was probably his ultimate goal, right?

I can also hope that his efforts – whatever they were – have been thwarted.

Big sigh.

That said, I've still got "my Guy" - and he's great. I will continue to greet him every morning with a winning smile and a dollar, and I will accept his liquid crack in return. I will appreciate the fact that he knows how to make it just right. I will trust him, and I will believe that he is earning an honest living, and not “casing the joint”.

I will proceed unafraid, and unaffected. Which is, in my own way, giving a good old New York middle finger to people like Zazi.

After all, I have to – I can’t afford Starbucks.

http://www.theledger.com/article/20090926/ZNYT02/909263014?Title=From-Smiling-Coffee-Vendor-to-Terror-Suspect

**UPDATE: Najibullah Zazi appears on the cover (and is featured inside) of the latest TIME Magazine. This just arrived today. Jesus H!

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-10-01T09:47:00.002-04:00

When one has much to put into them, a day has a hundred pockets.

Friedrich Nietzsche

It's That Time of the Month Again

2009-10-01T08:58:00.003-04:00

Thank God for Chris, when I say it's "that time of the month again," I am referring to none other than the 1st Friday of the month - the time of the month that I contribute pearls of wisdom, gems of advice and a few rocks of sarcasm to the Weddzilla.com blog. I can feel your excitement radiating!

This month, it's all about The Dress, so if you are in the market to hear what I have to think about wedding dress shopping, (boys, I can practically hear the cheering) please visit! If not, please visit anyway, as I totally need some comments. Last month, I had an embarrassing FOUR comments on my maiden blog! And one of the 4 was from my Mother. So really, 3.

If I didn't blow it by turning in my submission at the 11th hour (it appears as though I haven't lost my touch for procrastination since college - nice!) I will be up and running on Weddzilla tomorrow AM. So tune in, tune out, and leave me a comment referring to how my blog has changed your life.

I have even posted a little cleavage shot to get you all pumped up for tomorrow's rain of wedding knowledge. Psyched? Thought so.

http://blog.weddzilla.com/

Change is in the Air

2009-09-28T14:18:00.003-04:00

When I lived in LA, and was asked what I missed most about the East Coast, my go-to answer (and the clear winner), was Fall. Hands down.

To me, Fall has always been like cleaning (not just erasing) the chalkboard of life, and opening a brand new box of chalk - discarding the little nubs from last year. It's a time for change, reassessment, and new perspective. That's why I missed it the most.

You don't realize how much you come to rely on this "restart" button until you don't have it. Beach-going in October is fantastic, don't get me wrong. And we all know that I love a good year-round tan - BUT, without the chill in the air, and the closing of the toes of shoes completely absent from SoCal, I found myself the EXACT SAME PERSON - 12 months a year.

Not that I'm not awesome...it's just that I like a little variation. At least in wardrobe.

That's why this year - although my head is about to pop off from spinning - I am embracing the Autumn, and the windfall of change that it's piggybacking. I am horribly shirking my blog responsibilities, but that's my only complaint. As soon as I can decipher my ass from my elbow, I'll be back in full, fantastic force, with a brand new piece of chalk.

After all, there is truly no better fodder for hilariousness than good old fashioned CHANGE. And to quote from my newly-minted favorite book, "Who Moved My Cheese?",
"Enjoy Change! (Savor The Adventure And Enjoy The Taste Of New Cheese!)"

Believe me, I love new cheese.

And now that the last wedding of the season has been attended, I am here, and ready to lose my tan, break out the boots, and shop for ill-fitting hats that I'll never wear, but keep forever (see picture) . I'm upgrading apartments, making one very overdue trip, and buying New York out of red carpet so that I can welcome my best bud to town in the way she deserves to be welcomed; Hollywood style.

This is all happening right now. You know what else is happening right now? Holiday cups at select Starbucks. This makes me tinkle with glee.

So as I swim just barely afloat in a sea of newness, I beg for your patience. I have so many stories - so much to tell! I mean, I've got write about the Terrorist Coffee-Guy! And the time my skirt blew totally up on a crowded sidewalk! And of course the Central Park concert/premier where I found myself totally VIP'ed into one of my most favorite NYC nights to date. And then there's the woman on the subway who had only 4 fingers. And I would be totally remiss if I failed to write about how I went to Brooklyn, and didn't have a mental meltdown due to an overabundance of hipsters.

All of this new cheese!! So mark my words, Friends...these stories, and many more, are on their way - they're coming with the chill in the air.

Long live Fall.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-09-22T09:18:00.003-04:00

"Gravitation cannot be held responsible for people falling in love. How on earth can you explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love? Put your hand on a stove for a minute and it seems like an hour. Sit with that special girl for an hour and it seems like a minute. That's relativity."

- Albert Einstein

Happy Anniversary, Teems.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-09-21T09:56:00.002-04:00

Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.

Oscar Wilde

The Frat Party: Aged Like a Fine Wine

2009-09-21T09:30:00.000-04:00

When I was in college, I hated Frat Parties. To say ‘hate’ would actually be an understatement, as I loathed them, and was usually dragged kicking and screaming if I went at all. My roommate, Jessica, will attest to this, as she was usually the one doing the dragging.

Sorry, J.

It wasn’t that I hated the idea of Frat Parties. After all, they have all of my favorite fixin’s: beer, music, and boys (in that order) – but there was something about the University of Delaware Frat Parties that never tickled my fancy.

Imagine 200 tight black t-shirt clad, hair-gel’ed Jersey Boys packed into a sticky basement, grinding with 400 Jersey Girls to “The Thong Song”. Now imagine me there.

I could be found in the corner – solo – chugging beer.

Not that there’s anything wrong with people from New Jersey (inherently) and not that I don’t love a tight black T, and not that I don’t think hair gel has its place in life. And don’t think for one second that I don’t love a little “Thong Song” and that I didn’t consider it as an appropriate dance tune at my wedding, because I do and I did. It was just not my “scene”, per se.

My often blogged-about friend, Marisa, went to school at The University of Virginia. UVA was close enough to Delaware, that I could get in my car on Saturday morning, and be there in time for lunch. I often did so. And it was there, in Charlottesville, that my love affair with the Frat Party was initiated.

Imagine 200 khaki clad, pre-executive hair cut’ed Preppy Boys packed into the living room of an estate, white guy dancing to Huey Lewis and the News. Now imagine me there.

I could be found on the dance floor – surrounded – chugging beer.

Both situations at both schools were totally obnoxiously awesome. I just happen to really like “The Power of Love”.

It was at UVA that I fell in love with the Fraternity Party.

And it was in High School that I fell in love with the Flip Cup.

In Ridgefield, CT, we took “Cups” very seriously. It was played at nearly every house party (or half-day-of-school celebration) I ever attended, and the teams were iron-clad and difficult to get on, easy to be kicked off of. If you were the weakest link, or had a bad streak, you ran the risk of having a rogue sophomore take your place. There was no humiliation worse. Cups teams in high school were not a place for losers.

Often it was Seniors vs. Juniors, or Girls vs. Boys, but in any case, I ensured that I was on the winning team, as competition was high, and losing, at least for me, was not an option. My fondest memories are those I made in High School around a ping-pong table.

So last weekend, when a UVA Frat-Alum threw a Flip Cup Tournament to celebrate his 30th birthday, these two of my favorite pastimes came together in a perfect storm of 14 kegs of beer, 1 roofdeck, and a dozen Cups tables. I’ve looked forward to few things in life more than this.

The 29-year-old in me was not willing to completely sacrifice my coveted Saturday (the party started at 1:30pm), so Chris and I had a day, and rolled to the party around 6. This meant that we were not guaranteed a team, as most teams arrived on time, and fully uniformed. We were neither. At that point, I didn’t mind, as I was attending more for the fun of it, less for the competition – or so I thought.

On our way, I got a text from Marisa: “wear clothes you don’t care about and flip flops”. I was already prepared, wearing just that. Everybody knows that Cups and a lot of boogying to bad 80’s pop tunes has a tendency to get messy.

When the elevator door opened to the hallway of the apartment floor, we were socked in the face with the smell of one thing, and one thing only: the Frat Party.

Oh, you know the scent - floors marinated in a cocktail of beer, muddy shoes, and sweat, topped off with the faint tannin of cigarette smoke. I was immediately taken back in time – to a time when adrenaline was high, and competition was stiff. I could hear the cheers and the roars of the victors inside, radiating through the entire building. Right then, I breathed in the sweet breath of the carefree, and I did not exhale until the next morning.

We opened the door to what I can only describe as a dance party. The place was blaring to early 90’s hip-hop, and there was a man (they’re men now, I suppose) wearing nothing but a robe, dancing to Fresh Prince Will Smith – I believe it was “Summertime”.

The robe was his uniform. He was dancing with a gaggle of scantily clad Police Officers, and one guy who looked like Judge Smails from Caddyshack. Turns out, there was a Caddyshack Flip Cup team – he was Judge Smails.

We entered at our own risk, and I immediately started to recognize faces. The guys were exactly the same, the scene was exactly the same, the music, the everything – all circa 2000.

However, there was something naggingly 2009 about it all - there were a few more notches let out on a few more belts, a few more smile lines on a few more faces and several more gray hairs. It was as if the entire party and everyone in it had been dipped in age.

Myself included.

In no way did that stop me from bellying up to the keg immediately upon arrival. It was there that I discovered that pumping a perfect keg beer is like riding a bike – no matter how long its been, one never forgets.

The apartment was phenomenal. It had the biggest wrap-around balcony I have ever seen in New York, which had a separate set of stairs leading up to a private roofdeck. It was spitting rain, so they had rigged the world’s largest tarp over the entirety of the balcony, as the tournament raged below it.

It was breathtaking.

A few beers in, the rains let up and Marisa and I rallied and formed two teams to partake in an impromptu face-off on the roof. We made ourselves teammates, and proceeded to brag to the people across from us about our winning streak in the birthplace of Cups (for us, at least), RHS. Needless to say, they wanted to crush us.

With the first clink of the plastic cup, I could feel the rush of competition. Our teams erupted in cheers for our teammates, and jeers for the opposition. I was in the middle, and as the action crept closer, I could feel the anticipation of pressure starting to build: WHAT IF I SUCKED?!

It was then that it dawned on me that the last time that I actually played Cups was perhaps in High School! College was more of a Beer Pong experience, and when in the last 10 years have I even remotely been in a situation where a friendly game of Flip Cup was suggested? I haven’t.

Panic set in. What if I’d lost my touch?

Before I had time to fake an important phone call, Judge Smails had flipped his cup, and all eyes were on me. I had no choice but to dig deep. I had to dig deep to the core of me, to the me I was when I was 17, had not one gray hair, smile lines that disappeared with a frown, and was one of the best damn Cups players to ever attend Ridgfield High School. I had to find that time in life when my biggest fear, worry and pressure was to succeed at flipping a cup on the first try.

And….I did. I chugged my brew, effortlessly flipped the cup, and immediately shit-talked the girl across from me - just like old times. When our anchor ensured a win, there was a team-wide celebration that involved jumping, singing and hugging. On any given day these days, I would have found this display of complete tomfoolery embarrassing. But last Saturday, when I was hopping around in victory, I remembered what it was like to enjoy being completely carefree – and I must say, I recommend it.

After a few more wins, the game eventually broke and I walked away donning an Indiana Jones hat that I had won the right to wear, and a shit-eating grin that I had also won the right to wear. And I wore them for the rest of the night.

I suppose the moral of my long-winded story is this: every now and then, you’ve got to remind yourself of yourself. For some people, that’s taking the time to read a book in the grass, or rowing a boat on a lake. For some, its volunteering, or painting, or sitting with an old friend over coffee. For some, its letting your hair down at a 30-year-old’s Frat Party to play Flip Cup. Whatever it may be, I suggest it.

I suggest it because there was a moment at that party when I found myself in the bathroom, recognizing the person washing her hands (with no soap) in the mirror. I was a bit blurrier than usual, but it was me, having a good old-fashioned great time doing two things that I’d forgotten were so much fun.

Granted, it will probably be another 10 years before I find myself at a Frat Party Flip Cup Tournament (and in fact, I hope its longer – as it may take me 10 years to recover from this one), but it was a wonderful reminder of the fact that every now and then, its actually a good idea to wear clothes that I don’t care about and flip flops – in the hopes that things are going to get messy...

…to the tune of Huey Lewis, of course.

We Have Made It!

2009-09-18T17:47:00.002-04:00

Behold.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-09-15T10:43:00.003-04:00

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

- Johnny Castle, Dirty Dancing, 1987

A Dark Day in Ridgefield History

2009-09-11T20:40:00.006-04:00

On September 22nd, 2001, I attended the funeral of the only person I knew personally who perished in the attacks on 9/11. His name was Tyler Ugolyn, and he was my boyfriend for about 5 minutes the summer before I went off to 8th grade, and he entered High School.

Obviously, he was much more than my boyfriend for five minutes in 1993, but the fact that he was, always makes me smile. He was the kind of guy that seriously EVERYBODY liked - as it was impossible not to. Its annoying that those types of people are always taken too soon. Whereas the people who take them are still alive and well.

Anyway, I was a Senior at the University of Delaware during the attacks, and I was close enough to my hometown of Ridgefield, CT, to attend Ty's funeral. Three of my closest friends were not.

When I got back to my parent's house, I remember being in a trance. Exhausted from the emotionality of the weeks prior, I was almost too tired to sleep. I remember sitting in my Dad's leather desk chair with his giant PC and a Diet Coke until the wee hours of the morning, drafting an email to my friends who weren't able to make it home.

I thought about Ty all day today, and when I came home, I searched for that email, and found it. I've decided to post it. Not only because I would like to honor his memory, but because its relatable.

That's the thing about September 11th...everyone can relate.

Subject: A Dark Day in Ridgefield History

At 9:15 this morning, I stood on the bricked entrance to St.
Mary's peering over the coffee that I had hoped was hiding
my tired face.

Despite my father's running commentary about "God damned
Towel Heads", I couldn't take my eyes off the flood of
darkly-dressed, zombie-faced people making their way up
the sidewalk. It was like a Twilight Zone high school
reunion, and all I wanted to do was to wake up.

At 9:20, we rushed in to claim three of the last pew
seats in the house...the service was scheduled to start
at 10. For the next forty minutes, I watched. I watched
faces walk by that I haven't seen in years. Faces that
I never thought I would see again. It was weird,
though...the faces were different...older. But they
weren't the happy faces I so fondly remember seeing
in the halls of RHS...this time they were pained, some
angry, some on the verge of tears. As I scanned the
room, there were few people that I actually made eye
contact with. There was the Davis family...Amanda kept
looking back and eventually smiled. Sara Jacka-whatever
was across the isle...there was a moment of contemplation,
and then no recognition. Mike Coffee was sitting to my
left, Mike Principe was standing to my left, and if I
turned my head to about 4 o'clock on my right, I could
see Liz Townsend. Mrs.Fennel with her unmistakable hair
sat directly in front of me. Later I shook her hand when
we were asked to greet those around us. No one spoke.
Except, of course, for my dad, who broke the silence by
making fun of the choir who was practicing in the balcony
above us. He made me laugh...I felt like the Devil.

At 9:59 it was way past standing room only. It was shoulder
to shoulder and looking around, I imagined there were dozens
who weren't even lucky enough to enter the church. Later
I learned that they were huddled near the outside speakers,
all on the balls of their feet, attempting at a glimpse
inside.

Music started, we rose, and the remaining Ugolyn family
passed on my right practically holding each other up as
they made their way to the front. My dad started convulsing
as he always does when he doesn't want anyone to know he's
lost it. From there, it was a series of hymns, gospel
readings, and prayers. I was numb to the Bible talk. Preachy,
preachy...then, Ron O'Brien stood behind the podium, and
made me cry. When Kirk Castles poured himself into the mic,
I was on tissue number two, and then Scott Weiss got me
thinking about what friendship really is. When Ty's roommate
described their first encounter, and his girlfriend described
their last, I saw myself, and I saw you guys, and I cried
through tissue number four. We sang "God Bless America" as
the family exited the church...I reached for number five.

Like a black-clad snake, what seemed like thousands of
people slithered to the reception doors. Some waited over
an hour to get inside. Soon after my father commented on
"some kid with earrings", we left, as we were about 300th
in line to pay our respects.

It's 2:15am. I just got back from Bully's. It was packed.
Some were there to drown their grief, others were there
to support, but it seemed like all of us were there to
laugh...for maybe the first time in 11 days. Tonight it
wasn't Bully's. It was the halls of RHS. It was full
of those smiling faces that I so fondly remember. It was Ty.
It was just what we needed.

For more about Ty, click below. He was featured in Sports Illustrated on September 24, 2001, and his story was continued today...

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1023760/index.htm?eref=sisf

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2009/writers/jeff_pearlman/09/11/ugolyn/?eref=shareFB

*Photo (and all of the other mind-blowingly great photos posted on this blog) by: Christopher Loren Ewers

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-09-11T15:18:00.003-04:00

I know in my heart that man is good.
That what is right will always eventually triumph.
And there's purpose and worth to each and every life.

- Ronald Reagan

The Saddest Day of the Year: from the 18th Floor

2009-09-11T12:00:00.006-04:00

Even though I see it, hear it and walk around it every day, it often escapes me that I have a front row seat to the aftermath of the most horrific day to date.

Ground Zero, 9/11 and all things related have become a part of my life in a way that is difficult to describe. But I'm very glad they have. Its quite an experience - and a quite a view. Especially today (see above).

I received an email from Chris this morning that I thought I'd share a piece of:

[I'm missing you today something fierce.

I was very sad and emo during the moments of silence at 8:46 and 9:03. It was the first time since we've moved in that it really hit home where we live, what we look at, and what I photograph everyday.

Standing there in the window, I could literally hear the silence outside and a solitary, ringing bell indicating the exact moment when the planes hit. It crushed me. All at once I was overwhelmed with the understanding that almost 3,000 people died 8 years ago right in front of our apartment and hearing the surviving family members read the names of their lost loved ones on the TV behind me made me miss you severely.]

The University of Nantucket

2009-09-10T08:58:00.002-04:00

10 years ago, almost exactly, I was returning to college to embark on my sophomore year after having spent the summer living and working on Nantucket Island. I remember knowing at the time that I had had a big summer. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced (largely thanks to Julia Ix, the 26-year-old on my fake ID). I knew I’d never forget it – but I knew very little about how much that summer (the Summer of ’99) would impact the rest of my life.

I was there this past weekend with 4 of my closest friends, 2 of whom I lived with that summer (see picture, see the Freshman 15, try not to laugh). It brought back a flood of memories – good, bad, and embarrassing – but perhaps what was most surprising was when I took a moment to really think about what that seemingly tiny decision did to the course of my life thus far. In 1999, I figured “Why not?! Why not live on Nantucket for a summer?” And thus, I changed the entire course of my future.

I got off the ferry in June of ’99 so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, that I defined that cliché. I settled easily into my friend’s parents’ sweet digs, which perched on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. When I arrived, I had 2 suitcases (full of bathing suits and sweatshirts), a lead on a hostessing job at a popular local restaurant, and a fake ID that couldn’t pass for me if I was blond and had blue eyes (like she did). I thought I was SO READY.

Turns out, I was. I could have used a few less Mom-shirts and a few more SPF’s in my sun screen, but I was ready. I was a little sponge at 19, and I absorbed it all. That summer (which happened to be the 1st of 4) was the best internship I could have asked for. And I got paid for it – imagine that.

Things I learned in college that I still use today*:

- Microsoft Word.
- Plastic Keg Cups.
- Procrastination skills.
- How to write compelling stories about boring people.

Things I learned on Nantucket that I still use today:

- Smile your way into getting the job. I did it then (with no experience), I did it to get the job I have now, and I did it to get every job in between the two. It never fails.
- Never let anybody intimidate you. Several of my contemporaries at the time cried at the receiving end of our boss, Timmy’s wrath. Me? I would offer him a mint, and tell him to go have a smoke. He always took me up on it – and respected me for it.
- Deal with rich people in the same way you deal with your nieces and nephews. You have to be nice…but you must be confident and stern, or they’ll walk all over you. Also, when in doubt, use a treat. A little treat from the kitchen soothes the sting of having to – gasp – wait for a table (or anything).
- A cold cocktail to the spine of a bare back is a sure-fire way to make it unscathed through a busy bar.
- Always, always, always have these two things: a back door (for coming and going) and an extra table (or, a little ‘cushion’).
- Be the first one to scope out the new staff. One of them may turn out to be your future husband.
- A shot of beer is an instant cure to all anxiety.
- If you want to look older (or just old), wear a scarf around your neck. I look 19 going on 46 in every picture from that summer.
- When someone tells you to run, RUN.
- When your brother defends you, let him – that’s what siblings are for.
- When trying to convince someone of something, look them in the eye. Especially if you are convincing them that you are 26. And blond.
- Making friends with bartenders is the best and fastest way to save money while getting drunk in the process.
- Trading is key. If you can trade what you have for something you need, everybody wins.
- Stillettos have a one-summer shelf-life when cobblestones are involved.
- Don’t ever go anywhere where you have to stand on line - its never worth it (unless its for ice cream). But if you do, know that the girl at the door holds the key to your night. Be nice.
- Huevos Rancheros is not the best breakfast before a day at the beach.
- USE PENCIL. Things change.
- Everything is a puzzle. Any problem can be solved with a little creative re-positioning.
- Skinnydip with friends, only - and avoid pictures.
- Sunblock actually is necessary (that lesson took 10 years to learn).
- Everyone loves drama, and everyone is still mentally in High School. Steer clear of the rumor mill - or eventually, it will be about you.
- The boss always wins. Especially when the boss is a woman.
- Be wary of a popped collar.
- Be extra wary of anything with whales on it. Especially pants.
- When someone asks you what Private School you attended, take a phantom phone call.
- When entering a party where you know no one, smile and head straight for the bar.
- Don’t let your jaw hit the ground when your friends turn 30. You’ll be 30 someday, too.
- Phone etiquette is key. Without it, you’re seriously without.
- Never let anyone see you panic – even when you think you might puke.
- Always be prepared for a hospital visit.
- Working hard is the best workout.
- Friends remember everything, and never let you forget either.
- Be equally pleasant to everyone. You never know who you’re talking to.
- And perhaps the greatest universal lesson of all: if you can’t tone it, tan it.

Bored yet? Because the list goes on.

Its alarming how lessons learned then on a tiny island have translated into real life now on another tiny island - but they certainly have. I largely survive in New York on the knowledge I absorbed by spending a summer on Nantucket 10 years ago. And its all because I figured "Why not?!"

So the next time you make a seemingly small decision, think of me. I suppose that life's biggest events spawn from the smallest bends in the road.

Thank you, Gray Lady.

*Mom and Dad: please look away.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-09-09T10:25:00.003-04:00

We are still masters of our fate.
We are still captains of our souls.

- Winston Churchill

Todays the day...

2009-09-04T14:16:00.003-04:00

....http://blog.weddzilla.com/

Go, comment, and try to be nice.

I, on the other hand, will be back in action on Tuesday. And by "back in action", I mean in a coma. Day 2 of my five day, five girl, five hundred glasses of wine on one tiny island extravaganza, and I'm already in need of a good detox. If I return, I predict it will be in pieces. Very happy pieces.

Until then, cheers Friends...hope your weekends are Labor-free.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-09-02T10:04:00.003-04:00

"I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ahhhh, Young Love.

2009-08-31T22:39:00.003-04:00

She may live to regret it, but one of my 3 beautiful college roommates has just asked me to guest blog on her legitimate blog on her legitimate site.

I wonder if she knows that I chuckled Devilishly and rubbed my palms together before I replied with an enthusiastic “absolutely!”.

You see, she and her husband have a fantastic site (weddzilla.com) for blushing (red-faced) brides who are entering into, and/or find themselves buried in the thick of the wedding planning process.

Though I am almost 2 years removed (can you even believe that?), my recollection of this experience is tattooed into the forefront of my mind. No amount of drinking will ever kill or dilute my memories. I know this because I have tried. Truthfully, that’s OK – because in retrospect, my wedding planning stories (good, bad and ugly) are downright comical and extremely educational.

I implore you to tune in. But bear in mind that I have to be somewhat helpful, so it will not be solely a collection of stories all resulting in Chris sleeping on the sofa (though those are the best ones). I can’t dissuade brides from making it to the altar…not in good conscience, anyway.

But once a month (in fact the first Friday of every month) I will be the featured blogger, and I encourage you to visit and comment NICELY. Enough publishable comments about how brilliant and beautiful I am, and I get some extra blog publicity. And in this case, there IS such a thing as bad publicity – so visit, comment, and keep it clean, Folks (Hoff). Brides-to-be don’t need your wit, they need mine.

So write this on your hand: Christy “goes live” on Wedzilla at 8am on Friday. I expect all of you to be poised with bated breath for that very moment. And, of course, if you know anyone doomed to be in/around the wedding planning process, please tell him/her about the blog. I plan to shoot it straight - and who knows - maybe it'll keep him/her off the sofa.

See you Friday at: http://blog.weddzilla.com/

Mrs. Ewers out.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-08-28T11:02:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I was a dog. Today I'm a dog. Tomorrow I'll probably still be a dog. Sigh! There's so little hope for advancement.

Snoopy

Hiring: Do you want the job, or not?

2009-08-25T16:04:00.002-04:00

We’re hiring at IRG (hiring!). As I have stumbled into the role of Director of Human Resources (please, stop giggling), all resumes go through me on their way to anyone else.

Its an odd sense of power. One that I thoroughly enjoy.

Posting an ad on Craigslist is the fastest way to be absolutely inundated with resumes. And in this day and age, its the fastest way to slow your company server, as what seems like billions of resumes come in not 45 seconds after I hit “post”.

How does one deal with the sorting, you ask?

Its simple. Add a little blurb to the bottom of the ad saying: “Please put your resume in the body of an email. No attachments will be opened.”

Guaranteed, a staggering 45% (at least) of the interested parties will send you nothing but a resume – as an attachment.

Guaranteed, you will have weeded out 45% of people who can’t follow directions.

If you’re interested in whittling it down even more, add to the blurb: “Please include cover letter.”

Guaranteed, of the 55% who put their resume into the body of an email, at least 20% will not include a cover letter, or even a “Hi, I’d like to be considered for this position.”

These people are either incapable of following instructions all the way through, or they’re lazy. Either way, they’re not getting a job, a call, or even a glance. Putting “laziness” under their list of qualifications would give them a better chance…because that, at least, would make me laugh.

Though this makes my life SO MUCH EASIER – it is a horrifying reality. Could it really be that at least 65% of all applicants are discarded simply for lack of following directions?

That’s like failing a test that you would have aced by being too lazy to put your name on it.

I’m trying not to let it get to me, but this also seems like a personal attack. Did they think I was kidding? Do they think they’re above my rules? Do they think they’re too qualified to even say Hi to me? Are they being blaze' because they think I’m not reading them? Well, I AM! I am reading them! And anyone worth even half their weight in cover letters is getting at least one foot in the door. Its just that simple.

Perhaps people think that their Craigslist job applications are falling into the black hole of Craigslist, never to be seen or heard from again. Perhaps they’re disgruntled and frustrated. Perhaps they’re defeated. Perhaps they think I won't notice.

And believe me, I’ve been there - I get it. Searching for a job is the hardest job I've ever had. What I don’t get is why people are not even trying - or worse, not reading the job post all the way to the end. And yeah - in that case, I’m happy to sit here like a black hole – with my trigger finger on delete.

Coney Island: Making me a better person.

2009-08-24T22:20:00.002-04:00

Last week’s heat in New York City was unbearable to me. Feeling like I am cooking in a microwave, while breathing into a plastic bag is not what I signed up for.

Word on the street is that “Summer is finally here”. I say, WHO THE HELL INVITED SUMMER?!

So needless to say, by the time Saturday night rolled around (after a near homicidal melt-down on the sticky streets of SoHo), I was climbing the walls of my apartment, desperate for an ‘out’. New York was officially suffocating me.

Gertie, though the love of my life, is a giant, furry handcuff. Day trips, weekend trips, trips uptown, downtown, any town are pretty much out of the question if you’ve got a 60lb dog in tow. So I hit the Internet on a frantic search for a half-day adventure that would get Chris and I out of Manhattan – if only for a change of scenery, and the chance for a light breeze.

And what did I end up with? A day trip to Coney Island.

STOP LAUGHING. YOU STOP LAUGHING RIGHT NOW.

Fine, I know its ghetto, but once upon a long time ago, Coney Island was the place to be! Granted, that was in the late 1920’s (if then), but that’s neither here nor there. Also, websites can be very misleading, as the official Coney Island website makes it look comparable to the sandy beaches of Amity Island, minus the killer Great White, plus a rollercoaster or two. What’s better than that?

AND, there’s a Ferris Wheel. Ferris Wheels are my most favorite summertime activity – aside from eating mint chocolate chip ice cream.

So…despite my better judgment, I decided it was a-go, and Chris reluctantly agreed to be my escort. Coney Island, or bust.

12:15pm Sunday: Board the subway, Coney Island bound.

12:15 – 1:00pm: Notice that the people getting on and off the subway are getting less and less savory as we near our stop. Bury face in book, move closer to Chris.

1:05pm: Get off subway. Notice that the station is like that of European train platforms – I like it. Notice that EVERYTHING seems as though we’re in a foreign country – not sure if I like it.

1:10pm: Pass Nathan’s Hot Dog headquarters, where they have a giant countdown until next 4th of July’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. The pictures on the billboard of people double-fisting hot dogs make me dry heave.

1:11pm: Step foot on boardwalk, and begin to experience what I can only imagine an acid trip feels like.

Please, join me – and click the pic above for the full, trippy experience:

The first thing I notice is the boardwalk. The boardwalk, itself is slightly whimsical. It’s a stretch of wooden planks as far as the eye can see – and it makes that “dock-like” sound beneath the various shoes of the hundreds who walk along it.

If you close your eyes, and listen to the sound of feet on the boardwalk, waves and seagulls, its all very storybook.

Unfortunately, with open eyes, its not. Aside from the wooden planks of the boardwalk, Coney Islands’ whimsy is as dead as I would be, had I gone on the Ferris “Wheel of Wonder”.

I recently caught an episode of the History Channel series “Life After Man”, in which they chronicle what would happen to man’s creation if all of a sudden one day, man ceased to exist. This series is so compelling that we nearly missed a wedding because we wanted to see what would happen to Vegas.

In any case, being at Coney Island is like watching that show. Aside from the people who are there – its as if man no longer exists. Of the boardwalk buildings that still stand, none of them look as if they’ll survive the summer. Paint is chipping on every sign, every door and every structure. Lettering is crooked, and cracked. Merchandise appears sun-bleached and worn, as do the vendors selling it. Restaurant chairs are dirty, tables are rickety and the food comes with a lot of ketchup – as I can only assume to mask the taste.

Drink stations line the boardwalk, advertising “Free Refills”. They’ve got 3 drinks on the menu: Strawberry Daiquiris, Margaritas, and Pina Coladas – all of which are sitting in huge, plastic vats, boiling in the sun. All of which come from a spout that has probably never been cleaned by a woman who has never smiled.

There are little gazebos to the right – one of which has a karaoke machine in it. A woman is screeching “I Will Survive” to a small crowd – all of them woop and cheer.

In the distance, we can hear a man who sounds like Rodney Dangerfield on a mic. As we near, Chris and I look at each other – “Did he just say ‘Shoot the Freak?’”

And then we realize he did. Under a huge, makeshift sign reading “Shoot the Freak” is an empty lot. It looks as though any empty lot would – overturned garbage cans, cinder blocks and plywood haphazardly strewn about. But what makes this lot different, is that it’s a human hunting ground. People have crowded around because someone has just given this Rodney Dangerfield person $5 to hunt and shoot a human target with paint pellets. As the crowd draws in, so do we…this, we have to see.

Sure enough, there’s a little human target down there – a man in head-to-toe padding, looking hot and miserable. Oddly enough, “The Freak” is the least freaky looking person I’ve seen yet. When he’s done being pelted by a chubby marksman with plumber’s crack, he puts in his earphones, and returns to the shade. The announcer says “Thanks, Freak”, and the crowd disperses.

The beach is to our right, and looks mildly inviting, as the water is actually nice from afar. Unfortunately, its far from nice. As we look closer, we see signs lining all beach entrances – the water is “closed” due to “conditions”. We shudder to think of what conditions they’re referring to.

Eventually we walk down to the Ferris Wheel. One look, and I know its not an option after deciding that it was not a good day to die. The shrill screams of terror and loose steel pull my eyes to the right of the Ferris Wheel.

And there she was.

There was the “Cyclone” – the “rollercoaster” of Coney Island. She took her maiden voyage in 1927, and I’m guessing her last ride is right around the corner. From my vantage point on the boardwalk, I could actually SEE nails wiggling free on the track as each car passed over them. The structure rattled under the weight of the passengers, and something constantly clicked as if it was about to come unhinged. I was about to come unhinged!

Turning away from what I was certain would be the last Cyclone ride, ending in a tragic blood bath, we passed a man who had 2 live lizards hanging off the front of his shirt (“Does that man have live lizards hanging off his t-shirt?”, “Yes. Yes he does.”) With that, we decided we’d be safer on the beach.

We’d both worn flip-flops, predicting to have our feet in the sand. One step onto the beach, and I wished I’d worn galoshes. We stared at the sand in wonder – what WAS it? It wasn’t sand. It was…dirt. Fine, brown dirt – like the clay on a baseball field. In it, were finely ground pieces of plastic, Styrofoam, and paper, scattered with the occasional shard of glass. And no, I’m not referring to sea glass, I’m referring to jagged pieces of freshly broken glass, sitting slicing edge up in the ‘sand’. It was a minefield of serious hazards, yet directly to our right was a fake palm tree, shooting cold water into a fountain of refreshment to hoards of frolicking barefoot children beneath it. The water on the sand was making mud. The mud was full of plastic bits, shards of glass and children.

We proceeded on.

The beach was sprawling and only sparsely littered with people, so we had no trouble finding a quiet(er) spot. We laid our towels on the hard sand, and giggled about how we felt sorry for the underside of our towels. We then lay down, huddling to each other as though we were on a tiny raft, surrounded by the fins of circling sharks. “Sand” got on my arm at one point and I tried to brush it off. It smeared across my skin leaving a dirty smudge.

Despite the constant drone of the Cyclone rattling in the background and the occasional squawk from our tanned, drunken neighbors, we managed a few hours of relative relaxation. Chris napped and I read a book to keep me distracted from the sweltering heat. The sound of the waves was actually quite nice, and for a moment, I found the escape I was looking for. The peace - however nice - was fleeting, as a large park ranger literally kicked a man off the beach for swimming. He then proceeded to yell at everyone within earshot - us included. This woke Chris up, and it was time to go.

At this point, we were DISGUSTING. I, personally, had a layer of grit on me so thick that I could have scratched the word “dirty” into my forearm with my fingernail. Yet, there was nothing to be done! No way to rinse off! Chris battled the children for a moment under the palm tree, but came out with muddy shoes, wet with questionable water. I put clothes on over the filth and stuck to them from the inside.

I held my breath long enough to attempt the women’s room for at least a hand-washing, but returned defeated. No soap, no paper towel, no hot water.

Our only possible cure? Beer. Ice cold beer. So we saddled up at an outside hightop at ChaCha’s Bar, with a bird’s eye view of Shoot the Freak. Perfect!

To expect “ice cold” was like shooting for the stars with a BB gun. I got a warm Corona Light, Chris got a warm Blue Moon – and they were the best warm beers we’ve ever had.

Shortly after the Freak got one in the face, it started to drizzle, and I relished in it. I was more than happy to bathe in the acid rain.

If you’re ever so inclined to conduct a social experiment, or if you’re just in the mood to feel normal, go to Coney Island. “Normal” is the only different at this place. There were people from every walk of life around us – none of whom seemed to be firing on all cylinders. There was a man next to us at the bar who had portraits of “Daddy’s Treasures” tattooed on his bicep. All three of them looked like Chucky.

I imagine it is a flawless artists’ rendering.

We chugged our beers and headed for a hot dog.

I never thought I'd say this, but thank God for Nathan’s - they serve their fries with a fork. Otherwise, I’d have starved.

With our bellies full, and our skin toxic, we headed towards the platform and passed the Lizard King (by lizard, I mean "Bearded Dragons"), a completely toothless woman, and a bright-eyed tourist who was wearing a three piece suit, having seriously misjudged the weather. Exhausted and ripe, we boarded the train back to Manhattan.

I must admit, this was one of my favorite adventures, and by far the best homecoming I’ve had in years. The City seemed clean and shiny and new. The people appeared pretty and friendly and showered. The breeze along the river was crisp, the birds sang, the grasshoppers chirped and there were no sounds of metal-on-metal rollercoaster wheels. Mission accomplished: I left my suffocation in Coney Island, and once back in Manhattan, I could breathe again.

I came away from my adventure, sure of two things:

1) This would be #5 on my list of Most-Needed Showers (see below for #1-4)
2) Coney Island is the first stop on the Subway ride to Hell. Therefore, I am going to make a conscious effort to be a better person. An afternoon is one thing – an ETERNITY is quite another.

Christy’s Top Five Best (and most necessary) Showers of All Time:

1) Travel Lodge on Route 66 after hiking down - and back up the Grand Canyon.
2) Senior Year of college when Preakness was 40 degrees, raining, and after having lost my favorite yellow slicker, I spent the day in the mud with a cooler of Bug Light.
3) I spent the summer living on the far end of a greenhouse, and walked face-first in the pitch black into a giant spiderweb.
4) The morning I ran the Los Angeles Marathon.
5) After a day at Coney Island.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-08-24T08:42:00.002-04:00

After the game,
the king and the pawn go into the same box.

Italian Proverb

The End is Near

2009-08-21T17:26:00.004-04:00

One minor breakdown, one delicious dinner, one sleepless night, two Gertie-peeing-in-the-apartment-after-drinking-too-much-water clean-ups, one GIANT work move, two slices of pizza, several rogue bruises, and 5 days later, my week from Hell is officially o.v.e.r.

Until Monday.

The radio silence from your favorite procrastination pastime (me) is deafening, I know. Please accept my most sincere apologies.

For now, I'm going to go dive into a jacuzzi-sized martini, and bathe off this whole disaster of a week, so that tomorrow I can wake refreshed, reeking of booze and ready to tackle the rest of August shoulder first.

And you, my Dears, will be the first to hear about it.

Meanwhile, to sweeten the sour of my absence, please enjoy these posted photos of my youth when a "week from Hell" meant that I lost at Butt's Up. The one shining moment of this week? My 1/2 hour with the Company scanner.

En-joy.

A Big Apple a Day: And I haven't even had my coffee yet.

2009-08-18T09:52:00.002-04:00

While waiting for my apple-a-day this morning (among other fruits), I couldn’t help but notice that the line for my fruit guy was longer than usual. Maybe its because its offensively hot already and its 8:20am, maybe its because the weekend’s overindulgence has lead the masses to seek healthier breakfasts (not that I would know), or maybe its because this fruit is like morning candy – all I know is that the line was long, and I made myself late to work to stand on it.

While waiting for my order, I notice a little scuffle a few people behind me. I look back to see a woman, standing behind a man who appears to be British (not that I’m one for stereotypes, but this Dude’s suit + hair + teeth = British). The woman looks like she’s about to bite his head off, praying mantis-style. And then, seconds later, she lights into him…

“I’m not gonna go there this morning, because I don’t feel like it. BUT, if you think you can just insert yourself into line in front of me again, I’m gonna go there. If you walk up here and jump in front of me again, I’ll haul off and hit it you.”

Man, looking like he peed his pants: “I didn’t cut you.”

Woman: “You didn’t WHAT?! Yes you did! Yes. You. Did. And if you do it again, I swear, I will haul off and hit you!!”

At this point, everyone in line was pretending that they were invisible, or listening to music (earphones, or not). The people BEHIND these two – who probably knew exactly whether or not he had cut, had all diverted their eyes, and the woman behind me looked overly interested in her shoes. As for me, I couldn’t let it go. Call me crazy, but I couldn’t let that slide.

I mean, even if he DID cut her, who behaves that way? At 8:20am on a Tuesday wouldn’t you just say “Excuse me, the line begins back there” or something a little less aggro than “I’m going to haul off and hit you”?

Also, I think its worth noting that these people are business people. This wasn’t a tourist and an angry street vendor having it out. These were two people, freshly pressed, freshly showered, and on their respective ways to work.

I think its also worth noting that this woman was not dressed as if she worked at the DMV – which would have been the only valid excuse.

So I start audibly gasping and say buoyantly, “Well, Good Morning, Everyone!! God, its Tuesday morning - not even Monday. I’d expect this on a Monday. I tell ya, if I hadn’t ordered already, I would offer you my spot in line.”

And she says, pointing right at me “I don’t need nice, either.”

Me: “It sounds to me like you might.”

I paid my fruit guy, who probably understood 3 words of the exchange, but apparently didn’t need to – he was smiling and shaking his head.

“They’re fighting over your fruit, Dude!”, I said. He smiled bigger – by now, he knows who “Dude” is.

I then turned and went down the line, personally wishing everyone in it a “Good Morning”. In the end, I got one scowl, seven smiles, and a large tin of fruit salad. And I didn’t even have to haul off and hit anyone…

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-08-14T16:45:00.002-04:00

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken

Revelation: Working at Work is Exhausting

2009-08-13T17:23:00.002-04:00

I’m flattered, touched, and slightly creeped out by the fact that I have somewhat of a following of people aside from my Mother. As it turns out, she is my #1 fan, but not my ONLY fan, which is a shock to everyone’s system. Namely mine.

Happy to have you, nonetheless! And….hi.

In light of our current economic situation (I use the word “situation”, when I REALLY want to use the word “shithole”), I have bitten off more than I can chew. That cliché bugs me, too, but unfortunately, its true.

Work just isn’t what it used to be…what, with me having to work now, and all. As much as I long for the good ‘ole days of having my feet up on my desk, yelling “BUY. SELL!” to a dial tone on the other end of my phone, I fear those days are gone. For good. With the recent forced retirement of my Gopher, it looks as though the sunny days of blogging at work whilst someone fetches me a latte are gone as well. Hopefully this is not ‘for good’, because lattes don’t just fetch themselves.

Anyway.

Its not that these streets aren’t teeming with blog ammunition, its that I can’t be the gun I want to be. And although I have asked my version of God (repeatedly) for more hours in the day, he has chosen to make the days shorter, and has successfully tripled what I have to cram into them (typical God complex).

So, dear Friends, I may run dry for a day here and there - tumbleweeds, where there used to be a river of lush sarcasm and wit. But never fear. For I am not going anywhere. Except, perhaps, to go get myself a latte. Sigh.

Keep coming back, keep checking in, keep showering me with contradictory compliments a-plenty about how I’m a horribly great person with a surprisingly bleak, positive outlook. And definitely either tell your friends, or hit this site from different computers from all over the world, because when I reach my goal of visitors, I’m being treated to what every little girl dreams about: a hulluva lotta wurst and a vat of sauerkraut.

Prost! (That's German for "Boo-ya.")

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-08-13T10:42:00.002-04:00

Fear makes strangers of people who would be friends.

~Shirley Maclaine

Bitches Be Crazy (sorry for the language, Mom...but its true!)

2009-08-12T08:00:00.001-04:00

On Sunday, Chris and I walked Gertie along the Hudson River as usual. Like any other day, we were discussing one of two main topics of conversation – 1) the meaning of life, or 2) how cute Gertie is.

We rarely stray from those topics as neither has any limit.

Often, we catch words or sentences of other people’s conversations on these walks. Its not as if we are eavesdropping (yes we are), but we’re more overhearing (I realize there is no difference). In any case, between the two of us we’ve been privy to A LOT and its truly amazing what people will say when they don’t think anyone is listening.

Take for instance, these two broads on Sunday. I've heard a lot in my day and my jaw rarely hits the ground - but after overhearing these two, I dragged it for a good 50 yards.

The scene:

Two women, early 30’s, both mildly attractive, both blabbering loudly.

Woman #1: Men are so much better in New Orleans.
Woman #2: No kidding.
#1: New Orleans men are real men who like to go out and party and have a good time no matter what. New York men are just pussies who are all married and too afraid to leave their wives and girlfriends in order to have fun in life.
#2: So they stay in bad relationships, I know.
#1: Totally.

Chris and I must have walked in silence for a good 30 seconds before he said “Did you…” and I said “Yeah.”

Personally I think this is a new low in female reasoning. You see, what these two women were doing was convincing themselves that their issues with men in general stem from something other than themselves. In short, they were justifying why they’re still single. But it wasn’t the usual “He’s got Mother issues” or “He was too hurt by his last relationship” or “He just needs some time to figure out what HE needs” (please) – it was “All the men here are married and no fun”.

Oh, Ladies, Ladies, Ladies. If you think every man in New York City is married and - gasp – refuses to cheat, you are sorely mistaken! I personally know lots of delicious single guys and I see hundreds more every day. Methinks the answer you’re looking for is... wait for it… wait for it… YOU’RE PSYCHOPATHS.

Perhaps you’re not psychopaths (you are) but perhaps they (as in every male in New York) are smart and therefore tell you they’re married or have girlfriends (whether its true or not) just to dodge the bullet of crazy that is you. Or maybe they actually ARE married or have girlfriends and you missed the boat – because guys have been dodging your crazy bullet for years.

I’ve been to New Orleans and I’ve partied with “real men” – most of whom are from someplace else, pretending to be someone else so that girls will flash them for beads. Saying that those men are ‘real men’ is like saying that Vegas is teeming with marriage material who won’t pawn your ring for a buy-in. Its just….uneducated.

When we were blessed enough to overhear these two Beacons of Rationality (insert sarcasm here) we were around Chelsea Piers (23rd Street). To put my/our reaction into perspective, we didn’t stop talking about them until we were home and I was feeling defeated by yet another idiotic woman and her moronic friend who make it SO DIFFICULT for us females – as a gender – to survive outside of the Romantic Comedy. We live in Battery Park….

What do I mean by this? I mean the He’s Just Not That Into You Romantic Comedy genre and the 4 billion other books/movies about manic, neurotic women, who spend all of their tireless energy “trying to get the guy”.

YES, these women exist (these two for instance) and YES, we’re all a little neurotic every now and then (I personally lead the charge). But what is perhaps a more relevant and definitely more interesting fact about women is that we are awesome.

And complex.

And intelligent.

Perhaps superior (if only for the birthing thing).

So why is it that we paint ourselves (and men just follow suit) as crazy bitches? Because we actually say stupid shit like “New York men are just pussies who are married and too afraid to leave their wives and girlfriends in order to have fun in life” to make ourselves feel better about not having one. And then we get our girlfriends to agree.

Nothing irks me more.

And, interestingly enough, nothing irks Chris more either. Although men are a little more black and white than us (understatement), he appreciates the fact that there is a fine line between insanity and genius – and that we women, teeter on it. Thus, we are awesome - and should be painted as such!

So when numbskulls like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle VERY Dum say something so…profoundly horrifying…this makes ME look bad because I share a chromosome with them. How is that fair?

Because of these unfortunate few, are we seriously destined to be viewed as generic caricatures within crappy Romantic Comedies? I fear it. In an alarming capacity, we are bound to the pages of chick books, appearing as “the lunatic brides”, or “the shopoholics” or “the drama queens”. We’re “the girl in the office doling out dating advice to our unlucky-in-love female co-workers, all of whom fit into one of several stereotypes”. We’re “the guy’s best friend and confidant, hoping that he will soon realize that WE are the one he’s wanted all along.”

What’s possibly worse than being pigeon-holed like this, is that we are programmed and encouraged by the Romantic Comedy to think that that actually happens - so when it doesn't, girls say the darnedest things to justify why it didn’t.

Granted, I love Romantic Comedies and I’ve justified some ridiculous things in my day. Thinking of it makes me cringe (and giggle). I, too, have spent a little too much time trying to dissect the male psyche, even though I know it just comes back to mine.

But saying dumb stuff like those two girls on Sunday, makes me want to exile them from the island. Go to New Orleans! Find a good-time-guy! Leave the married, taken, and single ones here. Because usually, behind every great guy is a greater girl. And it seems the New York guys you’ve been chasing have been right all along…you’re just not that girl.

The Seven Mile Itch

2009-08-10T16:38:00.012-04:00

Very few things in life prompt me to walk 7 miles. I’d walk 7 miles to win a bet. I’d walk 7 miles to make out with Ryan Gosling (approved by Chris). I’d walk 7 miles to see Robin (at least!) but I never thought I’d walk 7 miles just for the opportunity to look up in New York.

Until last August.

I’m convinced that the only time anyone looks up in New York is upon their first visit to Times Square. If you’ve never been, picture Disneyworld. If you’ve never been there, picture Six Flags. If you’ve never been to either, you should get out more. So picture that, add more Broadway show t-shirts, less sidewalk, more expressions of confusion, and more groups of people standing in a bad place to stand, looking up.

I am irked by slow-moving, gawking crowds more than I’m irked by the Queen song “Fat Bottom Girls”. So you can imagine how often I look up and gawk.

Its about as often as I listen to that song.

Its not that I don’t think its worthwhile and amazing to look up – I do! I just think its:

A) annoying to anyone who is not you.
B) dangerous.

Taking your eye off the ball in New York could very easily send you to the emergency room. Every time I leave my apartment, I run the gauntlet. Between construction, swinging purses, speeding cabs, rogue bikers, strollers, kids, dogs, dive-bombing pigeons, divots, potholes, lost tourists, opening doors, busses, trains and even planes – I literally have to be alert, aware, and able to dodge a run-away vendor cart in 3 inch heels. Needless to say, I’m generally looking anywhere but up. And if I am, its probably because I'm flat on my back, having been clotheslined by a group of drunken bachelorettes.

This is why I’ve been looking forward to Summer Streets since August last - because 7 miles is easy when its danger-free.

Summer Street Saturdays is something that began last year. For three Saturdays during the month of August, New York closes off a route from the Brooklyn Bridge to the entrance of Central Park at 72nd Street. Its 6.9 miles of open road for anything but cars, and its a whole new New York.

One surprise about Summer Streets is how wide the streets actually are. They usually seem so narrow and congested - which they are. But open? Car free? They're like a runway. The sky opens up above as though you're looking at it from a concrete field. Sure, there's still the occasional stampede of first-time roller-bladers (never safe), or Livestrong-from-head-to-toe bikers (never OK) - but mostly, the route is full runners, walkers and revelers like me. Few are tourists, most are considerate and all are looking up, loving the view.

Seeing New York City from the ground up during Summer Streets is literally like being in another city. Or - perhaps more accurately - watching a movie from a Treadmill (as during Summer Streets, there is little chance of walking knee-first into a fire hydrant, or face-first into the side of a bus).

I've walked those exact streets dozens of times, and have never noticed the buildings. Some are old, with character, some new with none. Some have voyeuristic windows, some have broken glass. There are enviable roofdecks, balconies, and ivy covered walls. Some buildings look as though they've housed eccentric painters, famous writers and old women with 50 cats. Some buildings look as though they house someone who's never home.

This is where I live. These are my neighbors, my eateries, my Post Offices. I've literally spent a year walking by New York - looking for something that I blindly pass.

In a city of 10 million, its hard to feel like you're a part of it. Sure, this is the smallest big city ever when you bump into an ex on the subway, or see the same strange stranger twice - but in all actuality, this place is huge. Its easy to feel little to no connection to your own neighborhood, or neighbors, let alone the City as a whole. You are one face in millions.

And perhaps, that's why they do this - because there's something about huffing it 7 miles, in the hot sun, up the center of major city arteries that gives a sense of community that only doing so can describe. For me, I saw my city, instead of obstacles. I looked up at it, instead of down at me. And therein was the connection I've been searching for.

When we reached Central Park, Gertie was delirious, Chris was grumpy, and I was just getting started. I couldn't stop looking up - taking it in - gawking. I noticed the trees in the park, saw a red balloon escaping its fate, and I saw birds that weren't pigeons. That said, I also walked into a couple, tripped over a dog leash, and stood in the worst possible place to stand, looking up.

Next stop, Times Square. Que "Fat Bottom Girls".

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-08-10T16:12:00.001-04:00

Interestingly, according to modern astronomers, space is finite. This is a very comforting thought-- particularly for people who can never remember where they have left things.

Woody Allen

A Big Apple a Day: Tip This

2009-08-07T16:38:00.002-04:00

Night before last, I met a friend on 51st and Park for a drink or two (or 4).

Its a little-known fact about me that I HATE walking in to places alone. Restaurants, mostly – bars, especially – snooty bars, so much so that I’d rather drink at home. I don’t know. I don’t struggle with self-esteem issues, I’m not self-conscious, and I am naturally awesome, but alas, I hate it.

To combat this, I either wait outside, or I take a deep breath, and walk in acting like I own the place – which I assure you, is just an act.

ANYWAY, I was early, and this place (an outdoor bar/restaurant) appeared to be super-snooty. Lucky, I had an incredibly cute dress on (fact) and my hair was cooperating due to the humidity (yes, you read that right). So I decided to go in, and get a table - as that day was not a day to wait sheepishly outside for my friend to arrive. I was workin’ it.

Surprisingly, the place wasn’t as snooty as it appeared from the outside. Cocktail tables were readily available, and the bar was blaring tunes from the early ‘90’s top 40 list (which is just about when everybody at the bar hit their peak in life), so I had a one-up on the place from the get go (as I peaked between ’97 and ’98).

Still, I had nothing to pretend to do while I waited (i.e. book reading, emailing, Facebook stalking) so I literally just sat there, probably looking like I was one lonely moment away from busting a move to “You Gotta Be” by Des’Ree.

And then, the world’s weirdest-in-the-coolest-way waitress came over to take my order, and my night got decidedly better. She was a strange bird, who made awkward jokes and obvious puns (which I don’t think she realized were puns – or obvious) but she made me instantly comfortable. She was friendly, and she smiled, and she made me think that my order (a margarita) was the best order she’d taken all night. She was – and I don’t use this word often – delightful.

I waitressed for a staggering 6 years. One thing I can say about those years, is that they provided me the most priceless tip ever: the key to success is to be friendly and courteous as much as humanly possible.

I’ve never witnessed such textbook examples of ‘give and take’ as I have in the service industry. Friendliness breeds friends. Rudeness breeds assholes. If you’re a waitperson, and you’re friendly and cheerful, you will not only have an easier time with the patron, but you’ll be rewarded (unless they’re French) with a terrific tip. If you’re rude and bitter, you will not only be greeted with that in return, but you’ll inevitably find yourself spitting into their food and/or drink, and then feeling bad about it later.

Sidenote: Yes, that really happens. So the next time you want to send something back, or you complain about the temperature in the restaurant, or you bitch about not being able to substitute a side dish, remember what I said about the spitting. More alarming fact? The nicer the restaurant, the more it happens.

In any case, the equation for a successful shift/life is not rocket science: give attitude, get attitude – whether its good or bad. This is why it never fails to surprise me how many ornery waiters/people exist. At this point, I expect my server to be rude and to act put out when I say that “tap is fine”. So much so, that when this girl was unpretentious, and borderline funny, I was taken aback - and grateful that there is at least one person out there who isn’t afraid to be...nice.

Maybe she was drunk, who knows. All I know is that she made my night, and soon, I was joined by a friend – and she made his night, too.

When we asked for the bill, she brought over the tab, and delivered it with a disclaimer. When I originally sat down, she took my order without asking for a card to keep with the tab. Therefore, she didn’t know my name, and had to name me something in order to keep my tab going in the computer.

She explained this to me, and I cringed. When I used to do this, I’d name people “Free bowl of soup hat”, or “Thong showing”, or “Spare Tire”. Therefore, I was afraid to look.

Turns out, she had named me “Glowing”.

Girlfriend got a great tip.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-08-06T16:01:00.003-04:00

Whatever you are, be a good one.

Abraham Lincoln

Two if by Sea

2009-08-06T10:32:00.006-04:00

Last week, one of my oldest and dearest friends turned 29. This is alarming. I’m not alarmed at the number (wait – yes I am), but I’m mostly alarmed because while writing her birthday card, I did the math.

I met Marisa shortly before we started Kindergarten. Our Mothers thought it would be a good idea to introduce us, since we would be sharing a bus to school. She was cripplingly shy and I – as usual – didn’t feel as though I needed a new friend. So we stared at each other silently until our Mothers gave up and I went home.

That was the beginning of one of my most coveted friendships.

We were 5 years old. The math, is that we’ve been friends for 24 years.

Marisa’s favorite story about the fledgling years of our friendship is one that I vehemently deny, as it paints me as somewhat of an evil child. Well, maybe not “evil” but overly willing to laugh at others’ expense, which I am not proud to admit is so true.

Our Kindergarten bus driver was literally cut right out of the dictionary, where she could be found as the definition of “bus driver”.

This woman instilled the fear of God into every child who dared cross the yellow line. There was no standing, moving, talking, flirting, blinking, itching, smiling or – Heaven forbid – giggling allowed on her bus. If so much as a shirt sleeve became visible in the aisle through the rear mirror, to say she would go “apeshit” is a vast understatement. I swear, she would end a young life.

Marisa and I surprisingly enjoyed this, as it meant:

A) We didn’t have to talk to and/or make friends with other kids on the bus.
B) We still didn’t have to talk to each other.

Win/win.

As she still is today, Ris was the tiniest creature when we were 5. She was/is a little thing, with a small voice, and a sweet demeanor. It remains a mystery what she saw/sees in me. It also remains a mystery why (even though we were in Kindergarten), her backpack was the same size as she was, and certainly weighed more.

One morning, she boarded the bus, avoided the icy stare of the driver, and tried to slip into the aisle seat next to me. Its unconfirmed whether her back gave out under the weight, or her lifetime supply of My Little Ponys shifted inside her backpack, causing her to lose her balance, but Marisa did a cartoon back-flop into the middle of the aisle – backpack first.

She was lodged. Her backpack was immovable beneath her and she was attached to it. Panicked, she started flailing like an overturned beetle – unable to do anything to free herself except to desperately reach out – for my helping hand.

But my hand was occupied. It was pointing, and I was laughing.

In the end, Marisa’s life was spared and we became friends who actually talk. To this day, she loves to tell this story to people who think I’m a nice person.

This past Saturday, I celebrated Ris’ 29th from the middle of the Hudson River. When I wasn’t knocking into people, due to my poor choice of boat shoes, I was sipping (fine, guzzling) Greyhounds, and staring at the city.

Its amazing how perspective changes from the water - especially at night. I could literally close one eye, and crush Midtown Manhattan between my first finger and thumb, Godzilla-style. And I did, several times.

I was looking at land, thinking how ironic it was that from my perspective, it was like looking back at a sinking ship. The economy, the country and the world-at-large is going down.

Had I been given the wheel that night, I probably would have set course arbitrarily into the Atlantic and sailed until New York, the East Coast, and the entire country was nothing but a tiny spec of light on the dark horizon. And then, I'd probably keep going. Because when I wake up every morning on dry land, I feel like I am on the Titanic - and there are seriously not enough lifeboats.

I don’t see the need to outline the obvious comparisons, but I don’t know anyone who is standing on the bow of the boat of life, exclaiming that they are “The King of the World” anymore (well, aside from Chris, who - in the most literal sense - is incapable of being on any boat without doing so). Everyone knows we're going down, and people are clambering to save themselves - often, at the expense of others.

The way I see it is that rich will be spared, the poor will perish and those of us in the middle will have no choice but to fight, and struggle, and possibly survive.

So there I was Saturday night - drifting on the Hudson, feeling removed, isolated, and safer than I have in a long time. I had no interest in ever going home to the perils of our Country.

So I ordered another drink, and decided to enjoy it while I could. I then spent the rest of the night in the company of friends - telling old stories, making new ones, and toasting (several times) to another year of being in this together.

As we headed back to port, I realized that I really have nothing to fear - because I do have a lifeboat. I actually have several. One, I’ve had one for 24 years and counting.

And lucky for me, if I find myself flailing, Ris wouldn’t ever point and laugh.

Though, I’d probably deserve it.

The Freak Factor

2009-08-05T00:57:00.005-04:00

There are very few similarities between New York and Los Angeles. The vast difference between the who cities is what provoked my move West in the first place, and what eventually caused me to move back.

It took me 4 years to realize that I cannot run from something that is innately me. And what is innately me is being grumpy in the Winter. Hence, my new, cold digs.

But there do exist a few parallels that I can now see, having lived in both places.

For example:

Sidewalk urination. I’ve witnessed it on both coasts. And no, it wasn’t me!

Diversity. LA is generally tanner, but its rare that you ever see two of a kind in either city.

Fashion. I have a friend (Hi Robs!) who is terrified that she’s not a ‘hip’ enough dresser to make it in either town. Meanwhile, neither am I.

Clubs. Whether you’re clubbing in LA or clubbing in NYC, they all look the same from the inside. Dark.

Red Sox fans. There is no escape. Fortunately.

Hipsters. There is no escape. Unfortunately.

Tourists. Apparently, tourists heart LA as much as they heart NY.

But the number one similarity that I’m convinced doesn’t exist anywhere else in the US, is The Freak Factor.

My theory is that everyone is a little freaky – but not everyone waves the flag. In fact, most people don’t. But in New York City, as well as in Los Angeles, you are free to wave your florescent Freak Flag – and probably no one will notice. And if they do – they won’t care.

The Freak Factor is when being a freak, doesn’t make you a freak at all.

This dawned on me today as I darted out of my office, holding my purse over my crotch, hoping that the streets would be empty during the lunch rush. Its not what you think. I had a little Caesar dressing fight with a piece of lettuce today, and the lettuce won. Too bad for me, I had opted for the fuchsia colored skirt (I know – who wears fuchsia?), which, apparently LOVED Caesar dressing, because it sopped it up, and spread it out, and gave it a little ring around the outside for extra punch.

In a desperate attempt to save the fuchsia skirt, I drenched it in cold water. Before long, it looked as though I had sat in a puddle, backwards.

The timing of all this could not have been more perfect, as this was around 1pm, and I knew that Gertie would soon be watering our rug if I didn’t get home for our lunchtime walk. I could not wait to dry off. I could not ring myself out. I could not get out of the building without passing by our clients, who I didn’t necessarily want to assume that I was in need of a diaper. Sigh.

By the time I hit the pavement outside of my office, I wished to be dead. The streets were teeming with normal looking people who didn’t have stains or wet spots, or a potential bladder control problem. My Freak Flag was flapping in the warm, noontime breeze.

Then, ahead of me, I saw a man in a dress. He was a handsome man, in a pretty red number with spaghetti straps. He had on flats, and blush, and had some pretty impressive pecs. He was with a group of men in suits, giggling. He had lost a bet.

I then passed a woman wearing a unicorn t-shirt, a kid with a Mohawk, and someone in a Lobster costume.

And just like that, I forgot about my stain.

No one batted an eye at me. Nor did anyone bat an eye at them. No one batted any eyes at anyone.

And then it dawned on me: it’s the Freak Factor. There are people in New York who wear gold lame’ spandex outfits. There are people in New York who have purple hair, missing teeth and invisible friends. There are people in New York who wear capes, chaps, wet skirts, dry skirts, and no skirts. There are men in New York who wear dresses – even when they have not lost a bet.

And no one cares.

Therein, lies its greatest likeness to LA. In LA, people will walk down the street looking like Poison, circa 1988. In LA, people will wear bikini tops to the movies. In LA, people will rock breast implants, calf implants, body paint, butt piercings, red shoes, no shoes, and snowshoes on the beach.

The Freak Factor is bi-coastal. The only difference is time zone.

How lucky am I? I can be whatever, whomever, and however I want to be. I can dip my entire body into a vat of Caesar dressing and walk down the street if I’d like – and probably not be the biggest freak I pass. I can then fly to LA and do the same. This would make me stink, but it wouldn’t make me a freak. It would make me me…if I really loved salad dressing.

And that’s what I think is so wonderful about this place – and why I miss LA – it is impossible to judge someone for looking like a freak, because if you, yourself, look too normal – that makes you the odd man out.

Once home, I relieved Gertie, changed into a gray skirt and put on my crazy monkey underwear. Because I’ve got a Freak Flag, too…you just may not be able to see me waving it.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-08-04T09:06:00.003-04:00

There's a difference between us. You think the people of this country exist to provide you with position. I think your position exists to provide those people with freedom. And I go to make sure that they have it.

-William Wallace, Braveheart, 1995

As if I needed another Old Yeller.

2009-08-03T12:27:00.003-04:00

Good Lord, the economy sucks. I know I might be a little behind the 8 ball that I’m just NOW saying that, but I’d like to think that that’s because I’ve been intentionally living under a rock, in an attempt to stay optimistic-ish.

But it just got personal.

There are very few things in life that I genuinely look forward to. I look forward to Pizza Fridays, Groundhog’s Day, the eventual arrival of a mini-me, and Flurt on a Sunday.

As much as I love it, living all the way Downtown has its cons. Most of them can be viewed as cons AND pros. For instance, it’s a little “ghost-town-ish” on the weekends. When I’m bored but don’t feel like traveling, this is a con. The other 99.9% of the time, this is a pro, as I like the elbow room.

One con that has no counteractive pro, is Downtown’s lack of frozen yogurt. For those of you who don’t know, I could literally live on frozen yogurt. In fact, through 4 years of High School, I actually did. This is perhaps why I can’t fit into jeans from 13 years ago (which yes, I still have) - though, this may be a good thing, as a nothing-but-frozen-yogurt-diet is alarming and mental.

In any case, I love it. When the first Pinkberry (ever) opened in my LA neighborhood, I vowed to never move. When Pinkberry took over New York, I took over New York. This is a pattern that I don’t intend to break.

Thanks to the fact that imitation is the finest form of flattery and (in the case of Pinkberry) the fastest way to laugh all the way to the bank, there are impostors all over this city. I would not have moved to 90 West Street, had such an impostor not been located in Battery Park. Flurt was the final selling point in the apartment search.

Granted, I took a gamble, as Flurt is the only decent fro-yo place south of Ground Zero, but I figured I was safe, as it had the young mother market cornered in Battery Park, and very little overhead. They only accepted cash, ridiculously overcharged for only one flavor and very few toppings, and had a rotation of 4 young female employees whose hourly wage could not have been more than the cost of a medium, one topping cup.

I reserved Sundays for Flurt, as it’s a hangover cure, and by Sunday, all bets are that I have one. Yesterday was no exception. I spent all day on the couch, and by 5pm, I had decided that Gertie needed a walk, and I had had the type of weekend that constituted a large fro-yo with blackberries, strawberries AND mango. It was a trifecta day.

I then spent the next 20 minutes scouring our apartment for rogue dollar bills and change.

Pockets jingling with pennies, nickels and dimes, and perhaps some foreign coins, I practically skipped over there. As I neared Flurt, my skip went to a hop, which went to a walk, which went to a crawl, and I eventually stopped short. It was all dark inside. And not the usual “dark” that is a direct result of them running out, leaving “be right back notes” taped to the door, but “dark” as in no fro-yo, no toppings, no employee popping gum and reading UsWeekly. “Dark” as in closed. Forever.

The constant stream of store closure is an odd phenomenon of these times. There one day, literally gone the next, entire blocks of this city are being wiped out by this economy. It seems like the kind of thing that you can say “It’s a sign of the times” or “That place was a rip-off anyway” – until your favorite place turns up shut down.

And then, another phenomenon happens – one that I like to call the “Old Yeller Syndrome”. The Old Yeller Syndrome is when you just don’t believe it. Somewhere in the back of your mind and in the pit of your heart, you think it will end differently. Like, tomorrow, I’m going to round the corner and Flurt will be open – lights on, girl behind the counter painting her nails. But it won’t be. Old Yeller dies, Dude. And Flurt did too.

Unfortunately, this was the straw that broke my back. With Flurt’s close, went the last of my optimism, and welcomed the dawn of Sundays with no hangover cure.

The only bright side I can muster? At least the economy can’t shut down Groundhog’s Day. Or can it.

You Know You've Made It When...

2009-07-31T16:55:00.005-04:00

Because people are like snowflakes, everyone obviously has their own idea of what it is to ‘make it’ in life.

Personally, my “You know you’ve made it when…” is a constantly changing variable that has differed depending on where I am physically and where I am mentally.

For instance, when I was 5 years old, I would have said “You know you’ve made it when you have a pony that can talk and fly”. At 16, I may have said “You know you’ve made it when you can stay out past midnight without your parents being all over your case about curfew.” When I was in college, it was definitely “You know you’ve made it when you can close the Stone Balloon, and still ace an 8am midterm the next day.”

Please note that according to my 5, 16 and 21 year old self, I have yet to “make it”. Yes - my parents still fret if I’m out past midnight. No – ponies cannot fly (the jury is out on the talking bit). And no – I never aced a midterm.

But just as those are slightly ridiculous goals, I have yet to hear more hilarious “You know you’ve made it when…’s” than from the mouths of my contemporaries who live in New York.

The New York City version of “You know you’ve made it when…” is nothing short of comical and nothing above sad.

Allow me to articulate. The following quotes are verbatim:

You know you’ve made it in New York City when…

- Your square footage cannot be confused with your bra size.
- You have a view of something other than a homeless man in an alleyway, masturbating.
- You can afford beer at a bodega.
- The capacity of your kitchen does not cap off at 2.
- You have a kitchen.
- Your bed does not double as your couch, your coffee table or your counter-space.
- You’re not forced to smuggle flasks into bars.
- You can open your front door and your bathroom door, simultaneously.

I never cease to be amazed at what a person will do for a 212 area code (or 917…or even 347 now). I am no exception. Consider this amazing fact: if I had his number, I would call the Devil and sell my soul at a nominal price for one thing. I’d sell it for the one thing that would officially mean that I had made it (for now)…a washer/dryer IN MY APARTMENT.

For those of you who don’t have this luxury – you know exactly what I mean.

The ironic thing about this is that I’ve never been one for laundry. When I was 22, and living in a gigantic house with 3 other people, paying $300 a month my very own room, my very own writing room, the house amenities and a washer/dryer in our enormous kitchen, I never did laundry. I have three girls who can attest to the fact that they forced it upon me on more than one occasion.

I’d like to say I’ve matured since then. I cannot.

In LA, the Laundromat was around the corner. When I first moved out there, I found it mysterious and romantic: the girl in the Laundromat. This quickly fizzled, and it wasn’t long before it became less important to be mysterious and romantic, and more important to just purchase new underwear in an effort to prolong the need for a laundry day.

My hopes were high upon moving to New York, as our building has a laundry room on every other floor. “I’ll do laundry!”, I thought.

Oh, Christy.

In hindsight, my optimism was endearing, but ridiculously unrealistic. I currently bargain with Chris, like “I’ll clean the bathroom if you do the laundry”. Or “I’ll watch a Will Smith and/or Mark Wahlberg-action-movie-marathon with you if you do the laundry.”

Can you fathom how many hours I’ve spent with Will Smith at this point?

I cringe to think of it.

This week, I woke up every day with a shit-eating grin, as there was a chance that we were upgrading to a new apartment within our building. This apartment contained “the coveted”. I was willing to forfeit our city skyline view to finally “make it” in life with a washer/dryer unit IN MY APARTMENT. I was finally going to do laundry. Sometimes.

Realistically, I could not attribute my shit-eating grin to the possibility of a washer/dryer, per se (because really, that would leave me without a single excuse not to do laundry), but to the idea of taking one more step in a positive direction.

During a time in history when we all feel as if we’re sprinting on a treadmill, it is important to be aware of the littler things. There are stepping stones for us to take – we just have to be willing to look down and squint every now and then to see them. Getting a washer and dryer in my apartment wouldn’t to stop my wheels from spinning, but it would be a little step – up.

Today I found out that we’re probably not going to get the apartment, and I’ll be just shy of “making it” this time around. To add insult to injury, we have so much laundry.

But you know what? I’m already thinking about how awesome its going to be when we have a washer/dryer AND a view, AND a pony that can talk.

And just like that, its updated: “You know you’ve made it when you don’t lose the determination to do so.”

And all things considered, going commando for a little bit longer isn’t the worst thing ever.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-07-30T12:59:00.004-04:00

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves and then we have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos."

- Snoopy

Not So Thrilled: Riding the Rails with the Undead

2009-07-29T16:55:00.004-04:00

The New York subway system is an interesting place to be at 11pm on a Tuesday.

I’d forgotten this, considering I am not usually one for the rails. I walk mostly, and if I’m not walking, I’m taking the subway, but rarely that late on a Tuesday. I’m 29. You can bet your bottom dollar that I am two sheets to tomorrow by 11pm on any given night.

So you can imagine my surprise last night to find that I had stepped onto the platform, and into the Dawn of the Dead.

Had it been 1982, I’d have suspected that the Thriller video had just wrapped, and every extra lived in my neighborhood. However, its not 1982, as I would be 2 years old, and the question would not be “Am I riding the subway with Thriller extras?” and more “Where are my parents, and where can I find a clean diaper?”.

Sidenote: If it WAS 1982, MJ would still be alive, and that would be rad. Sigh.

But in all reality, I had to rub my eyes to ensure that I was not, in fact, dreaming.

It was as if it was the witching hour, and all of the dregs of the earth sprouted from the ground, and shuffled their way onto the 4/5 express train. I was sitting next to a girl, who at 4pm, would be a girl a lot like myself: pulled together, articulate, poised (did I mention beautiful?) – but at 11pm, she looked a little like the victim of a mugging.

And then there was the guy in the brown suit sitting diagonally from me. Again, he looked like he was an executive during daylight hours – like someone I could take home to my parents. But now…now he looked like someone my Father would have to stab through the heart with a wooden stake. His executive haircut was tousled and spiking out at points. His tie was missing, shirt halfway un-tucked (How does this happen? I’ve always wondered) and one shoe was untied. His complexion was pale, with the exception of dark – almost purple - half moons under each eye.

The legitimately crazy woman in mismatched socks, with missing teeth and an invisible friend was – in comparison – looking like the sane one.

It was astonishing! There was an African American man sitting in the far corner, wearing a collared short-sleeved shirt, jeans, argyle socks and shoes with tassels – normal. Normal from the neck down. From the neck up, Dude looked like a wax figurine of a lobotomy patient. Slack face, dead eyes…he barely blinked.

Looking around, I realized that everyone in my car was like that: like Zombies. Bodies were loose and swaying and bumping with the rocking of the train, eyes were sullen, faces motionless and sad. At every station, they’d get up slowly and drag towards the door. They’d get off, and would immediately be replaced by another night crawler, shuffling onto the train and plopping into a seat.

What is it about nighttime weekday subway riders? Is it that everyone was like me, and wanted to be in bed? Was it that there was a tragedy above ground that I didn’t know about, and everyone was in shock? Was it because they actually were extras from the Thriller video, and I was in some kind of time warp?

Mind you, these were not threatening, or scary Zombies. These were friendly Zombies that sat, lifelessly (which, in and of itself, is scary), but I felt relatively safe. Granted, I felt like I was dared to spend the night in a graveyard, but safe, nonetheless.

But then something truly frightening happened: I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the subway car window, and I stared at it a minute – not knowing it was me. Because there I was, totally disheveled. The light was such that it cast a horrifying shadow on my face that made my eyes look hallow, my nose look long, and my cheeks, sunken. I was expressionless, and motionless, with the exception of the sway of the train. I looked like one of them. Possibly even worse!

THEY were looking at ME thinking I was of the undead! ME! Here the mugging victim was thinking that I looked like I may have just pulled myself out of a gutter after having been robbed. The guy in the brown suit was thinking that I looked as though I could be a girl he could take home to his parents during daylight hours. Mr. Argyle Socks was certainly thinking that I was coming straight from my Tuesday night lobotomy session!

Horrified, I ran my fingers through my hair, sat up straight, and bolted when we reached my stop – and didn’t look back to see what was after me.

I suppose it just goes to show that before one (me) judges, one (me) should consider their (my) own reflection first.

That said, I would have made a GREAT extra in Thriller. Even at 2 years old.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-07-28T09:34:00.002-04:00

"When you look at yourself from a universal standpoint, something inside always reminds or informs you that there are bigger and better things to worry about."

Albert Einstein, The World as I See It.

Exciting Times: Ants, Aliens and Nic Cage.

2009-07-27T20:07:00.004-04:00

It was suggested to me by Bryan Hoffman (the world’s biggest shit-giver) that I blog about “how exciting I am” because I opted to bail on a tequila shot fest with him in order to stay home and watch a horrific Nicolas Cage movie (aren’t they all) with my fuzzy two-legged and four-legged friends.

Granted, it was a Friday night, and as if Nic Cage isn’t a waste of enough time – to waste a coveted weekend night with him, is nothing short of a travesty. I KNOW.

Nonetheless, I stayed home.

I’m not proud to admit this, but we watched “Knowing”, which is a sci-fi movie about the prediction of tragic events, aliens using Earth as an ant farm, bad hair plugs, worse acting and the eventual end of days.

It was all a bunch of bally-hoo. However, the movie did something very interesting: it continued the recent (and seemingly endless) theorizing that Chris and I have been doing about life as we know it, life as we don’t know it, and aliens. The short of it? Chris believes whole-heartedly in aliens. I think I married wrong.

But oddly enough, we’ve been on this topic for months. It started with us seeing a History Channel blurb about the Egyptian pyramids. This prompted Chris to tell me his theory on how aliens beamed down, and showed all of Mesopotamia how to mummify people – which prompted me to think he was kidding. Until I realized he wasn’t.

Coincidentally, we watched “Hornton Hears a Who” shortly thereafter, and with that, our debate on the origin, meaning, and demise of the human race was officially underway.

I think its worth noting here, that neither of us smoke pot.

Anyway, not knowing that “Knowing” was going to crazily Hollywood-up the ending with Arian looking aliens (seriously, I’d have thought they were from Greenwich, CT, had it not been for the black trench coats) taking what seemed like a modern day Noah’s Ark spaceship full of 2 of everything into space, I was actually surprised when the underlying theme of the movie fueled the fire of our ongoing debate.

As opposed to huffing off to bed in a fury because I’d never get those two hours of my life back, we actually launched into a discussion about it. Needless to say, this did not happen after watching, say, “Con Air”.

No, I don’t think that Arian Aliens are going to save a modern “Adam and Eve” from the incineration of the Earth’s surface, and re-plant them on a ‘New Earth’ to begin this whole charade all over again. But -- the idea that we’re being observed like tiny creatures in a glass case in a living room of something huge is intriguing indeed!

I mean, the Who’s existed on a spec, and believed that that spec was the whole Universe…until Hornton heard them. So…whos to say we’re not Whos?

Crazy as it may sound, Nic Cage and his posse of equally embarrassing actors might be on to something, here. While I don’t believe that the world’s tragedies can be predicted, I’d like to believe that we are a part of something bigger. And if that’s the case, there’s a chance that we are, literally, living in a giant ant farm.

Think about it: ants are social. They live in colonies and have jobs like “worker” or “soldier”. Ant societies have division of labor, communication between individuals, and an ability to solve complex problems. Check, check and check. Most importantly, colonies consist mostly of women, with a couple of horny men thrown in there, otherwise known as – get this – “Drones”. Fertile females are “Queens”. This is uncanny, no?

And I’ll bet you anything that ants have no idea that their universe is a tiny spec on the ground of ours.

So if we are, in fact, bigger versions of the ant, then New York is certainly a colony, and I am certainly a “Worker”. I get up, walk from point A to point B, work, get food, work some more and return home. Sometimes, I’ll have drinks with my female friends (one of whom is a Queen!), sometimes, I’ll stay home with my Drone, and sometimes, I should go out on a Friday night for tequila – because the World (our world) could be incinerated or stepped on tomorrow. And since I’m certainly not in the running to make the cut for Noah’s Sky Ark (no one in New York City is), I might as well go out with a buzz on.

So color me “exciting” from here on out, Hoffman. You have Nicolas Cage to thank.

Want game? Get a dog.

2009-07-24T14:48:00.003-04:00

It’s a well-known fact that puppies are chick magnets. I am guilty as the biggest sucker for a dude with a puppy.

But did you know that a) that rule of thumb goes for men AND women, and b) it goes for 50lb adult (and painfully adorable) pitbulls?

I, too, was surprised.

Gertie has been a true eye-opener. Not only have I made friends through G (despite the fact that I stopped accepting applications for new friends years ago), but I’m absolutely slaying it with the menfolk!

Case and point: Marisa (babe) and I took Gertie for a walk along the Hudson not so long ago. We see a specimen approaching. And by ‘specimen’, I mean a man (well, he was almost a man) so incredible looking that just the sight of him stopped our conversation. For those of you who know Marisa and I but at all, you understand how hot he was.

Not that Ris and I aren’t total lookers (ahem), but there’s not a snowball’s chance in Hell this guy would have noticed us without a four-legged prop. He was that off the charts. Young, handsome, chiseled (am I getting carried away here?), and so far out of our league if only for the age difference. BUT – I digress…

As he approaches, he smiles (the most beautiful smile), and says (in the dreamiest of voices) “Great dog.”

Heart…skipping…beats…what do I say? WHAT DO I SAY?!

I beamed back at him, googley-eyed and said (in my dreamiest of voices) “Thanks.”

It took a good minute for Marisa and I to compose ourselves after giggling like schoolgirls. At which point, she said “Dude, we should never go anywhere without your dog.”

Agreed.

Sidenote: Marisa saw this same guy in Whole Foods not so long afterwards, and had no ammo. Sad.

And don’t get all “Oh, I wonder what Chris thinks about this” because those of you who know me, know that I called him immediately after our hot guy encounter to report to him that Gertie is seriously upping my game.

And he was proud – of both of us.

It goes both ways, by the way. Yesterday, for instance, Chris and Gertie met me for an outdoor lunch on Stone Street. I am not even remotely exaggerating when I say that we could not fend off the chicks. There was a swarm of waitresses, passer-bys, hostesses, Ladies Who Lunch - you name it – buzzing around our table throughout the entire meal. And was I invisible? Yes. It was Chris and Gertie and a gaggle of cooing Hotties.

And I was proud – of both of them.

They're, Their and Everythere: The Greatest Response

2009-07-24T11:14:00.006-04:00

My post about good 'old fashioned grammar' from yesterday, turned out to be a bee in several readers' bonnets. Much to my surprise, I got an overwhelming response - mostly from people who were POSITIVE that I was secretly referring to them in my long-winded diatribe about the sad state of email affairs.

Rest assured, dear Friends, it was a general observation. Though, yes Mom, you are guilty of all grammatical crimes. But that's why we love you!

I got one, really great and thoughtful reply that I cannot help but to share. For his sake and yours, his identity will remain a mystery - but the below is proof positive that there are some pretty awesome boys out there - if you just know where to look.

(And no, this is not from Chris - though, you are correct - he is a very awesome boy.)

I think all grammar issues and email abuses are derived from the demand for instant communication. It seems today if you don't respond to an email within 5 minutes you are slacking, or even worse - simply shirking responsibility.

I am not sure if this happens to you, I think it might be the bi-product of the large faceless corporate setting, but when did it become acceptable to start a sentence with "I just sent you an email...". Since when and why is it ok to assume that I have read your email in the last 1 minute and am well versed enough on the contained topic of the aforementioned email to begin a conversation on this in a thoughtful way?

Also when did it become OK for people to just walk up and start talking? What happened to the good old days of setting up a meeting or at the very least the nicety of beginning with "Hey, do you have a second?". I can't stand the fact that for some reason, as a society, we seem to be slowly reverting to the days of the caveman, where conversations are a series of grunts and when you want something you simply take it.

I often think about my grandparents and how disappointed they would be with the world around them if they were our age today. At the time it seemed bold for any generation to self proclaim themselves the Greatest Generation, but we have certainly helped solidify the statement as fact by following them up as the worst generation.

I think it must have been awesome to have "dates" and to put on a suit for those dates, and take your date to go dancing. Literally just out dancing (it is worth noting here that I hate dancing completely, but that is beside the point). Perhaps I was born 50 years too late, because I don't like video games, I would gladly read an entire book before I just waited for the movie to come out, I like the idea of opening the door for the lady I am with, I like getting dressed up to take said lady out, I don't need to be instantly connected to the world in every way, and on occasion, I like treating those around me as people rather than obstacles, or simply using the words please and thank you on a regular basis.

And while on the topic of speech, how cool it would be to "narro latin volubiliter" (translation: speak Latin fluently)?

So while it may have been bold and pre-mature - I say, The Greatest Generation indeed.

Amen to that!

GERTIE SAYS: This one's for you, Face

2009-07-23T16:10:00.002-04:00

Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises.

Demosthenes (384 BC - 322 BC)

They’re, Their and Everythere: What Happened to Good Old Fashioned Grammar?

2009-07-23T07:30:00.000-04:00

I read in a book recently that when Shakespeare didn’t know a word that conveyed what it is that he wanted to say, he made one up. If he didn't have the correct way to say it, spell it, punctuate it, he made it up. This makes Shakespeare totally GANGSTA!

First Gangsta ever, or not, we can attribute a ridiculous amount of words and phrases that we use 100 times a day - to one man; Billy Shakespeare. Every time you say flesh and blood, or good riddance, or love is blind (which it totally is!), you have him to thank. There are many more - and in fact, I found some of them so fascinating, that I have them footnoted so that you, too, may be amazed.

And as far as words go, Dude has the English language market cornered on coming up with them. Words like critical (how would anyone be able to properly describe me if it weren't for Shakespeare?!), and excellent (again, how would I be portrayed properly?!). The list goes on and on, but you catch my drift: William Shakespeare was the bomb - and probably even made up "the bomb" - when looking for the words to describe himself, of course.

However, neither you, nor I, nor rappers, school teachers, mothers, brothers, circus clowns, doctors, actors, hitchhikers, teenagers, CEO's, or astronauts are William Shakespeare. We must realize this.

We cannot make up words. The words we make up are stupid, and sound like "dizzle". We cannot run on because we don't know when to stop, and we can't stop before we're done (of course I'm referring to run-on sentences and fragments). We have capital letters and lower case letters for a reason, and although its cute to have your "personality" come out in the fact that you write in all lower case with no periods, I CAN'T READ IT.

Also, that's a sad state of a personality.

What I'm getting at is my horror with what has become of the written language these days. Not that anyone actually writes anymore (think pen, paper...you remember) - so that point is moot. I'm taking about email. EMAIL. Otherwise known as the demise of the literately educated.

I read what seems like thousands of emails a day. Some are quick little 'post-it notes' if you will, and some are considered 'documents'. You know how I can tell the difference between the two? 9 times out of 10, I can't.

Can you even imagine if John Adams penned correspondence with Thomas Jefferson, and wrote something like:

(No Salutation)

I was thinkign that we should rite some kind os declaration of independance docu so that our emancipation (sp?) from britan is legit and so the people of the united states knw whats currently going down and whats going to go down frm hear on out

thoughts?

Johnny :)

Giggle all you want, but you TOTALLY know what I mean. If that was the case, I highly doubt they'd make an HBO mini-series on the man (I'd say 'or let him be President' - but we know that's not true).

In an age of spell check (and even spell check's red-headed stepchild, grammar correction) emails still arrive looking like the one I illustrated above. Sometimes its not even stupidity, its laziness! Its not even giving it a once over before hitting the dreaded 'send' button.

How is this acceptable?

Educated, decorated, highly-schooled individuals have somehow digressed to being hormonal teens electronically. These people will send 5 paragraph emails in one paragraph (sometimes with very few, if any periods).

People....will....use....the...ellipse...to a completely ridiculous....extent....

there are correspondences in all lower case, like the person is either really tiny, or they're whispering.

OR IN ALL CAPS, LIKE THE PERSON IS SCREAMING (OR HAS A SMALL PENIS).

There are hardly any salutations (like "Dear" - what ever happened to "Dear"?!) and at the end, if you get any sign-off, its often times "- ". Remember "Sincerely"? I sincerely do.

Not to mention the apostrophe. Apostrophes are misused more than tits on a bull. People just don't know how to show possession like they used to.

And not to be a total snob (I may have a degree in English, but I can barely spell English, and until recently, I combined "a lot" into "alot" - which is inexcusable) - so - not to be a snob, but COME ON. People who made it past the 3rd grade and don't know the difference between their, they're and there and here and hear (notice the letter above...bet you didn't even notice!), bear and bare, and my biggest pet peeve, advise and advice - need to stop writing emails.

From what I can tell, the electronic age blew the doors off of the 99.9% of people who got through school not writing a damn thing. How else can this be explained? How do you make it to adulthood without knowing where a period goes?

As for the Next Generation, I have officially written them off as a lost cause. We're going to have to think of a different name for the English language in about 30 years. Like, "Acronymish" - where everything is BTW, OMG, LOL, JNTIY and where 'please' is actually spelled with a 'z'.

But the Next Generation cannot be blamed. We can. Anyone born before 1985 should know better than to let it be known that they drastically overuse or ridiculously under use the comma. Especially if you're drafting the Declaration of Independence - or something equally important, like a memo about the unnecessary use of an overabundance of toilet paper in the office bathroom - you want to be grammatically professional, no?

The way that I see it, is that the everyday written word is on the endangered species list and we may not be able to save it. But as always, there's a silver lining to this: if emails cannot be deciphered through lack of punctuation, might we pick up the phone again...and talk to one another?

As Shakespeare would say - it'll come full circle.

Sincerely,

Christy

*bated breath, tower of strength, foul play, foregone conclusion, good riddance, dead as a doornail, fool's paradise, heart of gold, Greek to me, fancy-free, devil incarnate, one fell swoop, for goodness' sake, vanish into thin air, eaten me out of house and home, elbow room, in a pickle, budge an inch, cold comfort, household word, in my heart of hearts, in my mind's eye, laughing stock, lie low, naked truth, neither rhyme nor reason, star-crossed lovers, pound of flesh, sea change, spotless reputation, there's the rub, too much of a good thing, what the dickens and wild goose chase.

This. Is. Real.

2009-07-22T15:17:00.006-04:00

July 4, 2009 - Wolfboro, NH

Picture by Christopher Loren Ewers

Turns out, seeing a rainbow from start to finish, is the Pot of Gold.

As for the Leprechaun, I think Gertie got 'im.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-07-21T07:58:00.000-04:00

The worst thing you can try to do is cling to something that is gone, or to recreate it.

Johnette Napolitano

Time is so not of the essence.

2009-07-20T21:20:00.004-04:00

Its 11:27am on Monday, July 20, 2009, and I know that. I hate that I know that.

Last week – lets say, last week at this exact same time - I had NO IDEA what day or date it was – let alone time of day. I knew that it was July. Mid-July.

Even though I was only 5 days into my vacation, I had miraculously erased all ‘real world’ ideas from my stream of consciousness. I’d also been doing a little bit of drinkin’ over said 5 days – which only magnified the blurriness, as every night seemed like a Saturday night.

It didn’t take long for me to lose all bearing. In fact, it took one night. We arrived on Nantucket on Thursday, the 9th at around 5pm. At which point, we settled in, BBQ’ed with friends, breathed salt air, and went to bed. The next morning, I woke to the sound of waves, seagulls and the occasional Gertie snore. The sun was blaring in through the windows that covered three of our four bedroom walls, and I was officially awake. I thought, maybe, it was 9am.

It was 5:30. For those of you non-crazies who enjoy a glass or 12 of wine, such as myself – you know that naturally waking up at 5:30am falls into the ‘never happens’ category.

When I looked at the nautical clock on the wall, I was like a shocked cartoon character – my eyes yo-yoed out of and back into my head. I then assumed that the clock was broken, and merely decoration. It was not. I was up at 5:30am ON MY VACATION.

Turns out that just as nothing good ever happens after midnight, great things happen before 9am. This, I’ve never realized, given that if I’m awake before 9am on any given day, “awake” must be in quotes.

But it was 5:30am, and I was AWAKE awake – and not from the night before! More alarming? Chris was up, too. Gertie was still in a coma.

So with nothing else to do, we got up, took Gertie for a long walk/swim/ball-playing extravaganza on the beach, came home, went to town, got coffee, went to the grocery store, came home, put everything away, cooked breakfast, ate breakfast, put suits on, went back to the beach, and settled in with a book. For all intents and purposes, and in comparison to life as I know it, it should have been 2 in the afternoon at that point - at least. It was 9am. People in New York were just getting to work, and I felt like 3 days had passed in one morning.

At that moment, I took my watch off, and didn’t see it again until last night when I unpacked.

I know it to be true, but I never really realized how much of my life is completely governed by the clock. I live on a ridiculous schedule – and I’m the one that hates to make plans. I shudder to imagine what it must be like for someone with a legitimate agenda.

I mean, when that alarm clock goes off in the morning, I have the time I have to do everything I need to do – down to a science. This is a pretty giant accomplishment for an English major. 10 minutes snoozing, 5 minutes dressing, 2 minutes brushing teeth, 45 minutes walking dog….and so forth. I walk to work, and even that is down to an art. If I’ve got time, I leave with 10 minutes to spare. If I’m running late, I know I have 7 hauling-ass-minutes to get there. It gets down to seconds, in the end – and I am aware of every one that passes.

At lunch, I have a certain amount of time to get home, a clocked amount of minutes to walk Gertie, and if there’s a long line at the place I like to get lunch, I’m skipping lunch – because I don’t have the time.

Time, time, time, time, time. It wasn’t until last week that I realized that time tells me when to do everything…and I love it when time shuts the @%!^&%# up.

For 10 days, I told the time of day by the sun - as if I was living in ancient Greece, and using my shadow as a watch. And no, I had no idea what I was doing (aside from burning my retinas on occasion). But it was great – the position of the sun in the sky gave me a vague idea of whether I:

- Was still out during peak sunburn hours
- Was allowed to have a cocktail without seeming like a drunk
- Had enough time to shave my legs in the shower without missing the sunset

Turns out, these approximate ‘times’ are really all I needed to know.

In the mornings, I woke up when my eyes opened. I ate when I was hungry. Drank when I thought it was after noon. Played all day until I was done playing, and then I would walk, or read, or sit and stare. If I had something ‘planned’ for that night, I would wait until it was dark – and then I’d go do it. And since I haven’t mastered the art of “reading the position of the moon”, I’d pretty much just stay out until I was kicked out. OR, I sent myself home once things started getting weird – which signals the passing of midnight (See: my theory on things that happen after midnight).

For those of you who may not know – this way of life is the way that God intended. Well, that and wearing underoos made out of fig leaves, which – for the record – I cannot get on board with. Itchy.

I suggest that everyone does this at least once, if not 100 times during the course of their lifetime. Find a beach house with no TV, no Internet, no neighbors (and therefore no tanlines) – and lose anything that tells time. Its truly amazing how liberating it is, how long a day truly is, and how there’s no judgment in cracking a 10am beer.

That said, when Chris’ alarm went off at 8am yesterday, there was an odd comfort in that wretched sound. Granted, that alarm was the sounding bell indicating the official end to our vacation (we had an early ferry) – but it was also brought me back to a place that I didn’t miss, but I desperately need to be: reality.

The closer to New York we got, the farther away from Cloud Nine I felt – and I spent every moment of that drive both appreciating my experience, and appreciating its perfectly timed end.

All things considered, if my real life was my vacation life, here’s why it would be a disaster:

- I’d be morbidly obese. I have an unusually large appetite for someone of my frame, which means I’m generally constantly hungry. If hunger was my trigger to eat, I’d be eating all day. You do the math.
- I’d eventually miss daylight all together. Every day that we were there, we woke up later, and later, and later. Given enough days of this, and I’d become a vampire. Which would only be cool if I was married to that dude from Twilight. Which I’m not. Unfortunately.
- I’d have a legitimate drinking problem. Who’s to say its not 5 o’clock?
- I would never be able to watch Scrubs reruns.
- I’d miss brunch and baseball games – because either could happen at any time of day.
- I’d be even later to everything than I already am. Which means I’d have no friends.
- I’d have to find a job with no hours, no deadlines, and absolutely no dress code. These jobs employ .0001% of the world’s population. I’d have better luck with the Lottery.
- I’d miss my watch. It is from my Dad. He’s the best.
- I could never live in New York. And although the City’s wake up call isn’t exactly waves and seagulls, I think I’d really miss the sweet song of sirens.
- I would never make the most of my time, because I'd have so much of it.

But that's what makes vacations so necessary - they end.

So on that note, this is my “Do Yourself A Favor.”

Do Yourself A Favor and get away. Forget about time. Don’t make plans, reservations, or promises. And enjoy it.

Because the fact is – you can ignore time as long as you want, but you cannot stop it. It will eventually find you. And when it does, you’ll be glad its back.

But -- you’ll still hate Monday.

Gone Fishin'...

2009-07-10T12:06:00.004-04:00

...literally and figuratively.

Currently, and for the next 10 days, I am basking in the sun, surf, and Greyhounds (the drink, not the dog or the bus) of Nantucket - and although I'm dreaming up blogs at a an alarming rate, I'm too...um...how do I say this...non-crazy to blow off the beach in order to sit in front of a computer screen. Not that I'm too good for a computer screen, or anything, but you see my point.

So, dear Readers, do tune in from time to time - because once I hit peak tan, I will be back - and not just back, but BACK - golden brown.

Prepare yourselves.

ps - GERTIE SAYS:

"When you're cool, the sun shines on you 24 hours a day."

So true, G. So true.

Chivalry? On its Death Bed.

2009-07-07T12:12:00.004-04:00

On my way home from work last week, I somehow ended up on the sidewalk on Broadway, as opposed to the road, which I usually take to avoid the inevitable football-style shoulder check all the way home.

To make matters worse on this day, I was not only on the sidewalk, but caught in the congestion of a narrow-to-begin-with stretch of sidewalk, that is littered on one side with vendors selling “books” that they wrote, black market DVD’s, and perfume that was mixed in a bathtub. On the other side, are the doors to Chipotle (always opening and closing as people around here (as I referenced before) think Chipotle is the shit), Aerosoles (where I have considered buying comfortable shoes that I need) and Nine West (where I usually end up buying uncomfortable shoes that I don’t need). Needless to say, the sidewalk is big enough for two lanes of foot traffic, tops, and is at a standstill during rush hour. Whenever I take that route, I feel like I’m waiting in line to go home.

Ahead of me, I see a parade of “street vendors in motion”. Just in case you don’t know what I’m referring to, I’m referring to vendors who have packed up all of their stuff: goods, table, chairs, racks to hang jewelry, etc., dumped it haphazardly onto something that has wheels, and who then disappear behind all the crap on wheels as they push their carts down the sidewalk. For a year, I’ve had bones with these guys. Not only are these ‘carts’ precariously packed, and teetering on the verge of collapsing onto innocent passer-bys, but they always have sharp, pointy corners jutting out, and a weight that is far too great for the vendor to control.

I’ve had to dive – literally dive – out of the path of several of these guys, as being impaled by a street vendor’s table leg is not how I’d prefer meet my maker.

Sure enough, the parade ahead of me is out of control, and people are diving out of the way. The woman in front of me has nowhere to go, as she is jammed up against the open door of Aerosoles to her right, and confined by the crowd to her left. I watched the lead vendor’s cart hit her, and proceeded to scrape her left side while pinning her between the door and the cart – she is screaming bloody murder – he is still pushing the cart. This little shit – and I mean that. This guy was a little shit – peers out from behind the cart, smiling. The woman is screaming, and here he is grinning like the Cheshire Cat. No one is stopping, and no one is doing anything. Men are squeezing by and continuing on. I am horrified.

The Little Shit says to the woman (as she’s still lodged) “Its your fault, Lady. Its your fault”, still smiling. I would have liked to have have killed him. Slowly. Instead, I helped push the cart off of her, and stayed – hoping to throw at least one punch.

Long story short, this guy had absolutely no regard for her, or for anyone else. He ran this woman down – could have seriously injured her – and smiled about it, telling her that it was her fault. It wasn’t until after she threatened to call the cops, and I stepped in as a witness, did he apologize. Little Shit.

But even aside from his gastly behavior - people, (men!) - respective looking people in suits who appear to have not been raised in a barn, but have just come from an important job - a job in which they landed after of several years of higher education…walked by.

Although seriously alarmed, I let this instance slide.

Then last night after work, I needed to go uptown, so I braved the rush hour subway - which I hardly ever do. The chaos of this subway system at 5:30pm is mind-blowing, but at least down here, it’s the start of the line, so there’s a slight chance for a seat if you’re quick. I, was not. Neither, incidentally, was the very pregnant woman who entered the car right after me. And when I say pregnant, I mean, the fact that she did not give birth between Wall Street and the Brooklyn Bridge was a Baby Jesus miracle. Please guess how many seated men offered her their seat.

Not one. My heart sank, as I have an unrealistically optimistic view of mankind, and this was the perfect opportunity to be proven right. I was wrong. This very uncomfortable woman was still standing when I got off 20 minutes later.

When we entered the train, it was empty enough for everyone to see everyone else get on. I’d say that for every female on the train, there were 4 men. I saw people notice her. And then I watched them pretend that they didn’t.

How is it possible that not so long ago – in the grand scheme of things – men threw their coats into puddles so that a woman would avoid getting her shoes wet or muddy? A woman never walked on the car side of the sidewalk, a woman never got up from a table alone, and men stood – even if their were empty seats – in order for a woman (any woman) to sit. Heck, even I remember the days when a man wouldn’t dare to let a door slam in a woman’s face.

Has the female population shot themselves in the foot? With all this ‘equal rights’ business, have we given the impression that common courtesy is null and void? I mean, I hold doors for men, shouldn’t they show me the same type of respect?

Until recently, I shared a floor of my office building with a man who would swear, burp, fart (though never audibly – which is worse!) and even peed with the door open TWICE. On what planet did he think that that was:

A) appropriate behavior for a creature that has evolved past the mental capacity of a monkey
B) acceptable work-place etiquette
C) something one should ever do in the presence of a woman – let alone a woman you hardly know
D) a way to avoid finding rat poison in his coffee

Mind you, this man has a Mother, a wife, and a daughter. Also mind you, he no longer has a job.

But Dudes, we all have Mothers. Would you really not hold a door for her?

So, Gentlemen - and even Ladies, the next time you see a rouge street vendor mow down a woman on the sidewalk, a pregnant woman standing on a train, or a bathroom door ajar when you have to pee, please for the love of your Mother, remember who really wears the pants around here – and bring chivalry back.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-07-07T08:50:00.003-04:00

All that is gold does not glitter; not all those that wander are lost.

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, 1954

A Big Apple a Day: I Feel Special

2009-07-06T09:19:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago, I was stopped by a random passer-by on the sidewalk a couple of blocks from my apartment building. At first, I thought this adorable suited stranger was going to ask for directions, or tell me my skirt was tucked into my underwear - instead, he asked me if I have a boyfriend.

After blushing, I replied with my witty go-to answer to that question, which is: "Nope - no boyfriend. I have a husband, though!" (totally missed my calling as a comedian). His response was "He's a lucky man" - and he walked away.

I, on the other hand, didn't just walk away. I John Travolta'ed my way home - and I think I may have even shot my doorman the 'guns' on the way into my building.

I burst into my apartment, showering Chris will boasts about how "I've still got it" and how "He'd better watch out, because there's a line of future ex-husbands waiting for me on every street corner" and saying "Oh, sorry you have such a smokahontas for a wife"....

This barrage went on until I could tell he had tuned me out completely, at which point, I continued patting my own back - to myself.

For about 10 days, I milked this encounter for all it was worth. My inner soundtrack had "Stayin' Alive" on repeat, and I worked it. Look, New York - I DO still have it, Dammit! Look at me go! I'm goin' on with my bad self - don't try to stop me now!

Last week, same time, same place, I passed the same guy. He stopped me again.

Dude: "Do I know you?"
Me: "Not really. I think we bumped into each other in this exact same spot at this exact same time not so long ago."
Dude: "Oh. Do you have a boyfriend?"
Me: (mental Stayin' Alive record sk...sk...skipping) "Still married, Dude."
Dude: "He's a lucky guy."
Me: (he'll also never let me live this down)

Looks like I'm not the only one with a couple of go-to lines up my sleeves.

And John Travolta, I am not.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-07-02T15:47:00.005-04:00

"We must all hang together, or, assuredly, we shall all hang separately."

Benjamin Franklin at the signing of the Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776

The 5 Year Plan

2009-07-01T19:18:00.006-04:00

Five years ago today, I was scared shitless.

It was my first day living in Los Angeles, and once my cross-country escort (my bud, Loftus), pulled away from the curb, I was alone. Correction: I had the clothes on my back, some in a suitcase, and a car full of all the worldly possessions that I could cram into a Toyota Corolla. I also had an awesome – but completely empty apartment. This felt very alone.

On July 1, 2004, I was sitting on the hard wood floor of what became my living room, bawling.

I had just taken my incredible, fortunate, safe, 24-year-old life, and I had flipped it like I’ve always wanted to do to a table when I’m angry. I left a sweet apartment in Boston, a sweeter boyfriend in Boston, all of my friends, all of my family, and mostly all of what I knew as life – 3,000 miles behind me.

I did it because I somehow knew that I had to. It was “now, or never”, I thought…and it turns out, I was absolutely right.

When I was 20, as a sophomore in College, I was asked (as we all are 100 times in our lives) what my “5 Year Plan” was. To that, my answer was “I hope to live in California at some point”. Period. Period?!? Yep – that was it. I hoped to live in California.

So, at 24, I pointed myself West, and hit "go".

As evidenced by my lack of calendar keeping, I’m not much of a “planner”. And although I felt as if I’d been scheduling this move to California my entire life, five years ago today, I was thinking “I probably should have planned this better.”

And as it turns out, I was absolutely wrong.

If someone had been there with me on the floor of my apartment with a tissue and the question “Where do you see yourself in 5 years NOW?”, I would have replied “I hope to have a bed to sleep on (I did not at the time). I hope I’m not living in a gutter. I hope to be happy and I hope to be healthy.”

If I’d planned that move – and actually thought about what I risked to lose by doing so – I never would have gone. Instead, I chose only to think about what I had to gain – and five years later, here I am: sleeping in a bed (a bed that’s not in a gutter), happy and healthy.

But the road between there and here is paved with things that I couldn't have planned, even if I desperately tried - all of which have made a profound indent on who it is that has become of Me. And granted, "Me" is a hot mess, but boy am I glad I didn't miss out on any of the below by ever setting the limits of my "5 Year Plan"...

I made brand new friends - something that I hadn't taken applications for since my first week of college. One of them ended up being the cheese to my macaroni.

I drove a little red sportscar – experiencing my mid-life crisis early in life. Check.

I watched the sun set over the continental US as often as I could.

I worked really hard for basic needs - skipping several meals along the way.

I went to Vegas on several occasions - and won!

I skied with my parents as an adult.

I got Rufied! – who gets Rufied? I do. That's who.

I met the man of my dreams.

I married the boy from Boston.

I realized that the boy from Boston IS the man of my dreams. Awww.

I ran the LA marathon.

I spent 5 Thanksgivings actually giving thanks.

I got lost in the desert - and found.

I let other people hear me sing.

I was humbled and inspired by the intelligence, experience and talent of other people my age.

I mastered the game of Gin.

I learned to appreciate proximity to an old friend, family, and Dunkin’ Donuts.

I spent a day at Frank Sinatra’s house and breathed his air.

I had sun, 363 days a year.

I did things that I'm not admitting to on the Internet (Hi Mom!)

I “planned” to stay in LA for a year. I left after 4.

I moved to New York.

I learned two cities, drove across the country with all of my belongings twice, adopted an entirely new family, adopted a dog, gained the joy ride that has been this 5 year evolution of Me, and I lost absolutely nothing - except for my favorite toe ring to the Pacific. That, sadly, is gone.

In retrospect, I guess I couldn’t have planned it any better.

So I'm opening the door to this thought: how do we presume ourselves to be so omnipotent that we try to plan the course of something like 5 years? And even if we could, would we want to?

I can't tell you how many times I've gone the wrong way - only to realize that the wrong way pointed me in the right direction.

Knowing that, is what lifted me off the floor on July 1, 2004. I got up, and I ordered myself a bed – and I went from there.

And now, I'm here.

Where are you?

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-07-01T09:23:00.002-04:00

“When lip service to some mysterious deity permits bestiality on Wednesday and absolution on Sunday, cash me out.”

Frank Sinatra, 1915-1998

Street Meat: Friend or Foe?

2009-06-30T07:42:00.002-04:00

If you've ever been to New York, you know what "Street Meat" is - whether you realize it, or not. Street Meat is the concession sold out of vendor carts on virtually every corner in New York City. The term "Street Meat" is a vague term on purpose, as I'm not sure if anyone - including the people cooking it - knows what kind of meat it actually is. Most often, I'd guess its chicken - but then again, doesn't everything taste like chicken? In any case, these vendors are impossible to miss - and just in case you do - they're impossible not to smell.

The phenomenon with Street Meat, as far as I'm concerned, is the smell. All Street Meat, no matter where or what it is, has an intoxicating scent that tickles the senses of any red-blooded carnivore. It smells addictive in the way that baking brownies do...mouth-watering, crazy addiction...like you never want to stop tasting it.

And herein lies my problem: I think Street Meat is visually repugnant. Repulsive, in fact. A lot of it comes on a sick (meat on a stick seems so wrong to me on so many levels), and its cooked right there - on the street - so often times, there's raw meat next to the cooked, in the sun, etc. I don't know. I can't really look at it without a gag. But then -- it smells so damn good. What's a girl to do?

I tried to take advice on the matter, and ask around. Turns out my sources are dodgy, at best. Gertie loves Street Meat, but she also licks her butt. Chris swears by it, but this is a guy who thinks Pop Tarts are a culinary masterpiece. I have a sneaking suspicion that Robin came to visit purely for the sweet nectar of Street Meat, but I've seen her eat the green stuff that comes out of a lobster. These are not credible taste buds.

To make matters worse, I am confronted by this conundrum on a daily basis, as there is a Street Meat cart right next to my fruit guy. This vendor cooks up the usual Street Meat go-tos: Falafel, Kabobs, Gyros, etc. The smell eminating from his cart is enough to make me abondon fruit forever. Not to mention the fact that every day at lunch, he's got a line around the block that rivals the line at Chipotle. And if you're reading this from California, and you just gagged at the idea of a line at Chiptole - let me tell you that that's another phenominon about New York: New Yorkers think Chipotle is the shit. And, well, its not as if I've got my nose in the air whilst saying that - its a guilty pleasure of mine, too. I hang my head.

But anyway, to have a line like that, means that the Financial District thinks this guy - and his Street Meat - is the shit, too.

And although I pride myself on being a pretty adventurous eater (I was once duped into sampling sea urchin and cow tounge - all in one sitting), I can't shake my trip to the Statue of Libery when I was 13, when I bit into my hotdog - and then into what seemed like a HUMAN BONE (I've had, like, 3 hotdogs since). Also, in my older age, I'm not keen on taking the 50/50 chance on food poisoning that Street Meat seems to offer. Though, on the other hand, that might be the kick-off that I'm looking for to the old 'summer diet'.

Eh. Still not worth it.

So, dear Readers - if you have a Street Meat success story, and wish to be on the 'pro' side of my list of pros and cons, do share. And if you have a con, you'd better tell me - because its only a matter of time before my will fails and I Street Meat the Hell out of my lunch someday - and then immediately regret my decision.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-29T17:19:00.003-04:00

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere's Fan, 1892, Act III

I Saw Stars!

2009-06-29T12:23:00.004-04:00

I’m pretty sure that – up until now – the best part about living in New York has been the experience of leaving it.

Since moving here a little over a year ago, my logged hours of sleep have severely diminished, my activity quadrupled, and a knot of anxiety has permanently set up shop right in the pit of my chest.

Perhaps this is because I don’t own a calendar, Filofax, Blackberry, iphone…or even just a piece of paper with upcoming events scribbled on it. I know of one person (Hi, Gill) who just had a heart palpitation by the very idea of relying purely on memory. Though I can’t seem to rely on anything else to schedule my life but my own head, I think that this anxiety might be stemming from knowing I usually have someplace to be – I just have no idea where.

So, when I have a trip, or an adventure out of Manhattan – not only is it the one thing I can remember, but it also means that for that period of time, I don’t have any place to be but exactly where I am. Brain, off. Anxiety gone.

This past weekend, Chris and I attended a wedding in New Hope, PA, and the phenomenon of what happens to me the minute I settle in on the train heading out, was true to course.

The start of the ‘going out of town’ process is a little Incredible Hulk-ish – throwing clothes, frantically looking under cushions and pillows for a rouge earring that I absolutely must wear, running back from the elevator at least 4 times, having forgotten one, or all of the following:

- Phone
- Charger
- Toothbrush
- Directions
- Head

Inevitably, its then a mad dash to Grand Central, as either the trains aren’t running (damn you, Wall Street stop!), traffic sucks (damn you, Downtown construction!), I’m just late (damn you, Me!) or all of the above. Once there, I insist on stocking up on UsWeekly and coffee for the trip, while Chris stands in the one line for the one teller selling tickets.

Sidenote: why bother with all the ticket windows in Grand Central when it’s a miracle if there are 2 in operation? It like being at the DMV – but so much worse, because we are always seconds away from missing our train, and inevitably behind someone who has no idea where they’re going, or how they’re going to get there. Dare I say that I actually prefer the DMV?

Once on the train – and winded from the 100 yard dash down the platform - I begin to recognize myself again. I’m sweating from the running, I’m knocking into people with my ridiculously large suitcase, I’m spilling coffee, and probably barking at Chris, but I’m slowly starting to turn a little less green.

The knot begins to untie.

Its easy to forget how awesome it is to be ‘out’. I love the sound of sirens, horns and footsteps on the sidewalk – it’s the life I live. But what about the sound of silence? Crickets? Waves? Breeze?

This weekend, I had my bare feet in dew, I smelled freshly cut grass, I chased a firefly, and – most importantly – I saw stars. Lots and lots and lots of stars. The knot, as usual when I leave, was completely gone.

Oddly enough, standing in a field in the middle of nowhere, looking up at the stars made me feel like so much more of a tiny ant than being in New York does. I felt so small. And I guess, that’s because I am.

I was a good, hard reminder of that – and a reminder that ultimately, life takes you where you’re supposed to go. After all, it took me to Pennsylvania to realize that. And when I really think about it, even without the calendar, or the iphone, or having any clue what it is I’m “supposed to do” tomorrow, I always seem to end up right where I should be.

On the way home yesterday, we came in from New Jersey. We look the same route that I used to take on my way home from college. At that time, I would see the NYC skyline, wave to it, and I’d just keep on driving. I wasn’t supposed to be here then - and so I wasn’t.

Yesterday, as we came up on the huge City skyline, I felt like a tiny ant again - in comparison to it, and the life I live in it. But miraculously, there was no knot forming in my chest, no anxiety at all - I just couldn’t wait to get home. And in the end, that’s really the only place that we’re all supposed to be, right?

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-26T09:12:00.004-04:00

"Um... a malt Glen Garry for me and my friend here. And if you tell that bartender to go extra easy on the water, this 50 cent piece has your name on it."

- Trent
Swingers, 1996

A Big Apple a Day: Kindface

2009-06-25T16:50:00.003-04:00

At this point, everyone pretty much knows what “gayface” is. If you don’t, please see me, and I will send you some pictorial examples. Or, just look right.

But have you ever noticed “kindface”?

Kindface is a word used to describe someone with a naturally kind face. They might be evil inside (though, I can't imagine it so), but when you see them on the street you can’t help but think “Wow, that Dude looks like a really nice guy.”

In a city stuffed with Grumpy McBittersons, I have really grown to appreciate kindface. I mean – I admit! - I have meanface. And I'm pretty damn good at using it. I scowl around, hiding behind my sunglasses, doing my best Lilith impression...I do! People think I smile 24 hours a day (people, excluding Chris) and I’m not usually one to burst bubbles, but I am indeed a bitter butter. My smile may be a social butterfly, but it also loves to hibernate. I think it has peeked out 5 times in the last 26 days - and that is no exaggeration. This weather may end up doing permanent damage.

But that’s proving my point! Kindface is SO important in general, but even more so during a bleak month such as June ’09.

Chris and I jinxed each other yesterday, as we both noticed a kindface on a park bench. He had a full beard, blue, round eyes, tousled hair and was just hanging on a bench, carrying on conversation with a lady friend. That’s all. That’s all he was doing. He wasn’t helping a little old lady across the street. He wasn’t curing cancer. He wasn’t even smiling – he was talking. And yet, Chris and I both noticed him, and were both compelled – almost simultaneously – to say "That guy looked like a really nice guy".

And then we spent the next 15 minutes, musing about how refreshing it is to find kindface. Its almost like finding a 4 leaf clover. Its really hard to do - and there are fake-outs everywhere (3 leaves). But if you manage to stumble across a real one, you are really, really lucky.

Do Yourself a Favor: Stupidly Smart Advice from my Favorite Yang

2009-06-24T12:00:00.006-04:00

Sometimes, I feel like my life is a movie. In many ways, it is. Sometimes, its a drama (PMS), sometimes it’s a comedy (me, in general), sometimes its a romance (when I’m dreaming), sometimes its an action flick (dodging falling cranes, biting dogs and unlicensed cabbies), and sometimes, its like the movie “The Hangover” – and this is especially evident when I have the pleasure of spending and evening, day, or even five minutes with Chris and his best friend, John.

These two are the yin and yang of stupidity. They could not be any less alike, yet, any more the same. Their relationship is built on the stuff that makes friendship mysterious, ridiculous, and necessary. I appreciate Chris and I appreciate John, and even though it pains me to say it, I appreciate Chris and John together – because as absurd as they are, they’re like hetero-sexual life partners (we think) – and that’s pretty priceless.

That said, they both behave like the brothers I never wanted, and being the 3rd wheel with them is like putting my head between two banging cymbals.

Chris and John have an odd way of balancing each other out. In many ways (most) Chris finds himself on the receiving end of advice and guidance from John – as utterly frightening as that may be. In others ways, its Chris who does the schooling – which is even scarier.

My personal favorite is the “Do Yourself a Favor” advice from John. This advice usually comes at two times:

1) on the tail end of Chris doing something stupid (“Do yourself a favor, and never, EVER pay that much for a VW Cabrio again”)
2) as a preemptive strike against something stupid that Chris is about to do (“Do yourself a favor, and eat before we go out tonight”)

I have a serious love for the “Do Yourself a Favors” – because they usually exempt me from having to say it. I think it, John says it, and Chris listens – because it comes from John. Brilliant.

The more I thought about the genius of John’s “Do Yourself a Favors”, I began to think that we can all use them sometimes. Even me.

So I asked John if he would grace us from time to time with his infinite supply of pearls of wisdom – because after all, everyone is a little “Chris” sometimes…

So, my friends:

“Do yourself a favor…and don't post that you are hungover on Facebook...no one gives a shit!!!!!!!"

Fact.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-24T07:50:00.001-04:00

Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is youer than you.

- Dr. Seuss

Life in the Zone

2009-06-23T22:38:00.005-04:00

Over the course of the 4 years that I lived in LA, I’d literally forgotten what it is like to be cat-called.

I have:

1) Real boobs.
B) Real hair (brown).
C) Real wrinkles.
4) Real vocabulary (with an over-abundance of the word “Dude”)

Therefore, I was invisible in LA – something that I grew to love about myself there.

Even so, even if I had the boobs, the hair, the Botox – I still probably wouldn’t have ever been cat-called.

WAIT. Correction. I wouldn’t have been cat-called by the general population (excluding one particular culture, where I began to think that it must be considered rude if a man doesn’t stare, wink and hump the air every time a girl – not necessarily a pretty one – walked by)

Excluding them, its just not done. Surprising in a land of nothing but beautiful people, sure. I would theorize that people are too busy admiring themselves to notice others, but that would be a generalization that in the end, I can’t get on board with. I knew too many people who didn’t care for that to be true.

So, given the fact that cat-calling is not a pro sport in LA, I’d managed to extinguish it from my life all together, and I kinda forgot it existed.

And then…I moved here.

Picture this: Chris and I live at the very beating heart of the world’s biggest and most famous construction site: Ground Zero. Not only that, BUT – they are re-constructing the road in front of our building, constructing the residences next to us, the hotel kiddy corner from us, and actually de-constructing the building directly East of us.

I think its safe to say that we’re in the thick of it.

Now, given what I just explained – can you even imagine the amount of construction workers I walk by on a daily basis? Its in the hundreds. I walk by – sometimes through – hundreds of construction workers every day.

When we moved here, I stepped out of that U-Haul and into the dreams of about 50 men who work around my building. How do I know this? – that’s what about 50 of them said to me ON DAY ONE.

I have been cat-called in front of my husband (yes), friends (2 are better than 1), dog (from a distance)…I have been cat-called in front of my DAD, for the love of God (that was awkward).

Needless to say, I didn’t dip a toe back into it, I did a cannon ball into the very core of the cat-calling culture.

And the thing that is so alarming about it is that it can happen when I’m all sexy’ed up for a night out (appreciated), or it can be the morning after, when I’m wearing sweats, glasses, dirty hair and morning breath (not appreciated).

For those of you who are lucky enough to have seen me in the AM, its not a whistling, “Hey, Baby” type situation.

You’ve got to give them credit, however – they are totally unbiased, color-blind, open-minded and honestly don’t care if you’re a troll that lives under a bridge – as long as you’ve got any semblance of a rack, you’re gettin’ some love.

This is why that despite my seemingly negative views of this practice, I can appreciate a good gawk every now and then. Every girl knows that turning a head (no matter whose it is) makes her day. Even if heads also turn for the Troll walking behind her.

So, on day one, I knew that beating them was not an option. Joining them was unrealistic, as I’m afraid of heights and look horrid in a hardhat. The only other option was to live with them – which I do. Every morning, I shoot them a smile. Every afternoon, I give them an “Afternoon, Boys”. And every night on my way home from work, I tell them I’ll see ‘em in the morning.

They still give me “rounds of applause” – but at this point, I kinda like it.

The fact is, these guys have Mothers. They have girlfriends and wives…some have kids. They have bills to pay, beers to drink and maybe a few of them are saving up for an engagement ring. Granted, this doesn’t stop them from harassing women, but it stops me from being bitter. Most of these boys are harmless sweethearts who spend 14 hours a day immersed in testosterone. My eyes would bug out at the sight of a skirt, too, if that were my fate. So I smile, and take the compliment – because really (even in front of my Dad) that’s what it is.

OK, I had a point……OH. Jay. Jay holds the stop sign at the crosswalk of the West Side Highway. I walk over the highway with Gertie several times a day, so Jay knows me, he knows Gertie, he knows Chris…I know he went to a birthday party last weekend – we’re pals.

The other guys, I don’t know by name, but by face, and they know how I look walking away – so – we’re pals, too.

Today, Gertie decided to drop trou in the middle of the crosswalk. I kid you not when I say that one has approximately 45 seconds to get across the street before every cabbie in New York is skidding tires on that green light. And there’s G – hunched over, looking guilty, dropping bombs, as I try to drag her to a safe zone.

In doing so, I ensured that she had scattered her offerings all over the highway. Meanwhile, the walk signal hand was blinking, I was struggling with the poo bags, Gertie was making a break for it, and the cars were revving their engines at the start. Panic!

Out of nowhere, Jay was next to me, offering to take Gertie while I clean up. As if from the woodwork, workers from all over the site gathered to hold traffic while I frantically ran around playing pick up sticks. The lights turned green, and cars did not move. My boys were there for me – silently. No whistles (though, I’m pretty sure my skirt blew up), no rounds of applause (though it was quite a show). Just some good old fashioned lookin’ out. Gertie and I were safe, sound (well, she was) – and encased – by construction workers.

When the last poo had been picked up off the street, they dispersed and traffic proceeded as usual. I spent the rest of my day thinking about how awesome that was – and then it dawned on me. My experience on the highway today was a tiny example of my life everyday. This city may be crazy and hectic and dangerous, but here we are - safe, sound – and encased – by construction workers. And there’s no place I’d rather be.

On my way back tonight, I walked through them as I always do, got a whistle and a call as usual – but this time, I reveled in it – because this is home.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-22T10:28:00.003-04:00

The best way out is always through.

Robert Frost

To Daddies: Especially Mine

2009-06-21T23:06:00.003-04:00

It is easy to follow footsteps bigger than your own.

-Winnie the Pooh

The Weigh I See It: A Guest Blog by one, salty Dog.

2009-06-20T14:20:00.002-04:00

I have a friend who is hilarious and cynical in the most wonderfully annoying – yet truthful way. Of course, when I told him I started a blog, I was informed that Friend “doesn’t like bloggers” – but he still seems to like me, reads my blog, gives me his 4 cents (because 2 just isn’t enough) and has even come up with a title to his recurring guest blogs. (see witty title). Yet – he doesn’t like people who blog. Interesting contradiction, Friend.

Because he’s the world’s sweetest sour lemon, and my favorite pessimist, Friend has earned himself a blog guest spot as a ghost-writer – because the Devil forbid his name is ever revealed. I’d say “God forbid” – but I really don’t want to bring her into this.

And maybe next time, he'll make deadline, and I won't have to cut and paste an email to post on his behalf. ZING!

Please enjoy his tangy insights – and consider yourself warned.

“I was just in a meeting where a very Sr. person must have used the word “irregardless” 1,000 times and each time I felt like screaming "You uneducated moron, the word is “regardless”. Just “regardless”. Stop adding the prefix that in essence makes up a word. And even if it did exist, its a double negative and states the exact opposite of what you think you are saying".”

Well said, Friend. I concur.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-19T09:43:00.002-04:00

"Play for more than you can afford to lose and you will learn the game."

- Winston Churchill

A sad day for film.

2009-06-18T16:52:00.010-04:00

I’m, like, about to cry. Maybe it’s the 15th consecutive day of rain (really, God?), maybe its the fact that its not Friday, and I woke up thinking it was – but I just sent someone to Duane Reade to get a couple of rolls of 35mm film developed and he came back empty handed. Apparently, they no longer accept 35mm film.

CRY!

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Duane Reade, its comparable to CVS, or Rite Aid – with their own little photo section, etc. They’re all over New York. I don’t know what the deal is with Duane Reade, and why they have the market cornered, but I’m going to have to look that one up*. There are ‘Duane’ and ‘Reade’ streets as well. Who are these people?! Anyway, I digress…

Granted, this development (or lack thereof – zing!) may not stir the, um, older generations (Hi Mom!) – because they remember sitting for photographs (sorry Mom!), and have lived through the progression of cameras/photography/blah, blah, blah - but this disturbs me! I remember my first camera (it was pink), and my first roll of film (pictures of people without heads). I remember the pure excitement and anticipation of picking up the developed pictures and ripping through them like a little kid on Christmas. What was inside? What have I managed to capture?! And then, eventually, I remember having to stop for a moment to think, “I wonder if the photo developer saw this one. And if so – did he make copies?!”

There was no instant gratification. No erasing. No amount of endless storage. You had 24 or 36 pictures – sometimes, you were blessed with one or two more – which were always the best ones. And when someone wanted a copy of your pictures, you got doubles. And if two people wanted copies of your pictures, they fought over the double (Hi Ris, Rob!).

Are those days really gone? Are photo shops with the creepy pock-faced clerk who has his room wallpapered in other people’s pictures really going extinct? How can that be?

And maybe I’m a little too sensitive – being married to a photographer and all – but I must say that this marks the end of a HUGE era. I mean, if you think about it, digital pictures are pictures, sure. But if one never makes prints of them, they live in one’s computer, on one’s phone, Facebook, online photo albums…the pictures never actually live.

And they don’t have to. They can stay on the Internet forever - and ever. And ever. And that's a subject for another time...

But film – film, you have to develop. You’ve got to give it a little love. You’ve got to want those pictures bad enough to bring them in to get developed. You’ve got to deal with the creepy clerk. You’ve got to wait (sometimes DAYS!) and then come back to pick them up. In the meantime, someone has to go through a lot of trouble to process your film into negatives, and your negatives into prints. And unless someone does that, your picture never lives.

In this age of inista-everything, I find a strange comfort in the fact that if I so desire, I can dust off my 35mm camera, get the 5 year-old film out of my refrigerator, and take actual pictures. And I know that if I were to do so, I could go pick them up, and shamelessly sit in the driver's seat of my car, ripping into them like some kind of junkie - to get my fix of the good ones. Then, if they were worth sharing, I can send them - with a letter - on paper - that I wrote with a pen - to whomever I wanted to share my double with. I would then mail them - the old fashioned way (that is, if I had an envelope, stamp, or an actual mailbox). And who knows - maybe I'd even make an album to show my kids one day. Or not.

But that's irrelevant. Its irrelevant now, because all signs are pointing to the fact that that's quickly becoming a non-option. At this point, I have no idea where I would go to get these rolls of film developed. I just sent someone to the closest photo shop I know of, and again, they came back empty-handed...the store has gone out of business.

Obviously, there are places that still accept 35mm film, and all hope is not lost. But, you know, someday, it will be. I mean, they stopped making Poloriod cameras - just stopped. And if you have one (like me!) you're out of luck, because they stopped making the film, too. If it happened to the Poloriod, it can happen to my little pink camera and all of its family and friends.

I guess this bums me out so much because I got a digital camera in 2004. I never go anywhere without it and have thousands of archived pictures. I've made maybe one, actual album with crappy prints I ordered from Kodak.com. The reality of it is - most of these pictures will never have the chance to live. Unless I fall into millions of dollars to get good prints made (and that's not you, either, Snapfish) and a warehouse to house my photo album collection, I will never get them printed. Half of them were lost anyway in the Computer Crash of '08 (which nearly led to the Marriage Crash of '08 - oops!). Devastating.

Long story short, I'm kinda sad. Maybe its the rain, maybe its because its not Friday or maybe its because I feel like the cameras of my youth are a dying breed. In any case, I'm going to go home, dig out my 35mm that has sand stuck in its gears, and I'm going to take a picture using the film that has been in there since 2004. I'm going to find a place that will develop it, and I'm going to re-live the film developing experience for what will probably be the last time. And then I'm going to scan it and post it -- so you can see how awesome a little love is.

*Update, courtesy of Mr. New York and his infinite, useless knowledge:

Duane Reade takes its name from the Company's first successful full-service drugstore, which opened in 1960 on Broadway between Duane and Reade Streets in Manhattan. Since then, Duane Reade has grown to become the most recognized drugstore chain in metropolitan New York. Today, the Company operates over 253 stores in commercial and residential neighborhoods throughout New York.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-17T11:17:00.002-04:00

Fashions fade - style is eternal.

- Yves Saint Laurent

Style Watch: Bearing my sole.

2009-06-16T20:53:00.008-04:00

Dear Shoe-Makers from Around the Globe,

OK, I get it. Gladiators were hot. Especially when they were vowing revenge in this life or the next, but does that mean that we have mimic their footwear?

And granted, it would totally rock to be Helen of Troy, who had every dude in a loin cloth fighting over her, launching a thousand ships, etc., but does that mean that we must limp through life wearing matching sandals in order to live vicariously through her? The woman just sat around being fed grapes, looking gorgeous, and watching her boyfriend's brother be killed by her husband. She had her feet up, for sure.

This whole being 'an actual Gladiator', or 'Queen lying around watching Gladiators' scenario is hardly realistic. Even more so if you live in New York. In the 21st Century.

So riddle me this: why are these Grecian / Roman / Maximus Decimus Meridius sandals seemingly ALL WE CAN BUY in 2009? And moreover, if you're going to make us look like we're all extras in Gladiator: The Musical would it be so hard to make them comfortable?

And its not just the Gladiator sandals (I'm just picking on them, because they're rapidly climbing upward on my giant list of pet peeves), its all variations and all little, leathery, strappy sandals in general. What is with the piece of cardboard that they're giving us as support? The soles of these things are like walking on tiny cutting boards. And unless I want to look like a Golden Girl in my orthopedic walking shoes, I have no choice but to slowly crush the arches of my feet by pounding them into concrete sidewalks on a daily basis.

On any given summer day, I can walk anywhere from 11,000 to 25,000 steps (I own and wear a pedometer - don't judge me). That's a lot. That's like, miles and miles. Sometimes, I fancy wearing something a little girlier, and I'll bag the old t-shirt and shorts for say, a sundress. And God knows, running shoes should never even be seen next to, let alone paired with a sundress.

So, its sandals, or bust. And yes, I understand that there were whole populations of people who walked across countries with less support, but one must take into consideration that if I was one of them, at 29, I'd be well past my life expectancy.

So call me crazy, but I'd like to be able to walk into my 30's, 40's, 50's, 60's, 70's, 80's......

.......and traversing the streets of New York in nothing but a piece of cardboard, strapped to my feet with a sliver of leather that I paid WAY too much for (if they're more expensive than $6, its robbery) is going to make me geriatric by, like, next summer.

So shoe makers - do me these two solids:

- Wrap it up with the Gladiators. When they started hitting the knee, the line was crossed into total ridiculousness, as opposed to just teetering on the edge with the anklet look. And no - I don't care what Mary Kate and Ashley wear / wore / whatever - they're not Gladiators, either.

- Please make cute little summer sandals supportive and comfortable. If I have to start shopping at Aerosoles, and splitting the 'buy one, get one free' special with my Mom, I'm going to hit a new low in life - yes, lower than the time I owned (and loved) a pair of purple stirrups.

On my last leg (pun horrible - but intended),

Teemius Maximus

A Big Apple a Day: Day 3

2009-06-15T16:32:00.006-04:00

Thursday night, a *man-boy with a *popped collared blue Polo shirt, khakis and a *Yacht Club Executive Haircut, was next to us at a bar with a posse of clones. These fine, young future business leaders of America were taking Jager-bomb shots. If you don’t know what a Jager-bomb is – you’re better off.

In an attempt to not judge a book by its cover (why, I never!) – I did my best to avoid coming to my own conclusions by ignoring these clowns completely. This worked well. It worked well until I look over, and Blue Polo is visibly harassing my friend, Gillian, who appears repulsed by what I can only imagine is Jager/barf breath through a spit shower.

Later, during the night re-cap, she relayed to me that he was saying things along the lines of (and she quotes) “Why aren't you paying attention to me? I need attention.”

JAW. ON. FLOOR.

At this point, I couldn’t help myself. I’m a glutton for batting around drunken preppy boys (a girl does not cocktail waitress in Nantucket and not pick up a couple of fun habits).

So I say: “May I ask what your name is?”

Collar Pop: “Shep. (hiccup) William Shepard Rose, the Third.”

Me: “You’re KIDDING ME! That’s even better than I thought it would be!!”

Collar Pop: “Shep - the Third.”

Me (to myself): “BLOG – the Third.”

*Man-boy, adj.: A male that appears to be a man, until he opens his mouth, and the fact that he is – (and will probably always be) a boy – is revealed.

*Disclaimer: I have been known to pop a collar in my day, and condone the gentle use of this fashion statement.

*The Yacht Club Executive Haircut, noun: The Executive Haircut, but longer, and seemingly wind-blown. See: “Steff” from Pretty In Pink.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-15T10:03:00.002-04:00

"Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light."
- Helen Keller

That's my 'cue.

2009-06-14T19:23:00.006-04:00

I've been sitting here for the better part of 20 minutes trying to think of a way to even remotely encompass the awesomeness that was my day on Saturday in Madison Square Park at the 7th annual Big Apple Barbecue. I am at a complete loss.

I have concluded that I'm going to have to invent some adjectives, because the ones that already exist truly fail to describe the greatest thing ever - and that's exactly what the Big Apple BBQ is. The greatest thing ever.

But aside from being the greatest thing ever, the Big Apple Barbecue is essentially a block party, revolving around BBQ. The country's best pit-masters come from far and wide to converge here for two days a year of nothin' but barbecue. Vendors line the perimeter of the park, luring customers with smells of award winning recipes, and inside, there's a beer garden, a bluegrass band, and hundreds of picnicking carnivores.

I ended up there, because finger lickin', meat lovin', model American, Robin O'Malley visited New York from San Francisco this weekend, and happy days were here again. In an effort to revolve our entire weekend around food and drink (obviously), my friends and I had "Saturday Day = Big Apple Barbecue" locked into the schedule the moment that Robin booked her flight. The fortuitousness of these two occasions colliding was truly the perfect storm.

So - long story short, we woke up with a hangover. We knew this would happen. I actually kind of wanted it to happen for two reasons:

1) When I am hungover, I have an insatiable appetite. Insatiable appetite means trying as many BBQ stands as I possibly can, and then still having room for beer and a Mister Softie ice cream cone.
2) When hungover, I'm severely dehydrated, and therefore hardly ever have to pee - which is a genius approach to an outdoor festival.

I went in STARVING and totally dehydrated. Perfectly played.

Let me paint this picture with my barbecue brush: Chris and I got off of the R/W train at 23rd Street, and I was like Pepe LePew - my nose turned up, my eyes shut, and my feet lifted off the ground. The smell of barbecue had wafted down into the station, leaving a visual scent trail that went directly into my nose - just like in the cartoons. I floated up the stairs, across the street and to the entrance. When I finally came to, I was flabbergasted.

Just when I start to think that I, as a carnivore, am an endangered species, I should attend a BBQ Festival. This weekend, Madison Square Park was a vegetarian's worst nightmare - people as far as the eye could see, gnawing on ribs like cave-people. It was glorious!

There were 6 of us, and a Yorkie named Miles - it was like the Wizard of Oz. "Ribs, and sausages, and Mint Juleps, OH MY!"

We virtually skipped through the crowds of the Barbecue Brick Road, following the colored flags to the end of the line of the next vendor. Pulled Pork so tender, it literally dissolved in my mouth. Sausage a foot long, served with pimento cheese and peppers. Ribs, falling off the bone and into the gaps between my every tooth. It was a virtual smorgasbord of deliciousness, and for a good hour, I was in a meat trance so severe that I had quite literally forgotten that I was in New York - but was convinced that we had been beamed to some kind of heaven, where the streets are paved with meat, the rivers run with barbecue sauce and Mint Juleps come out of water fountains. Looking around, I could see that everyone was there with me - in Heaven.

But now, having been there, I know what Hell is: the 363 more days before next year's Big Apple BBQ.

Until then, I'm going to work on my adjectives so that next year, I may be able to articulate properly. For now, I have but one word to describe my Saturday - barbephenomitastic.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-11T09:50:00.002-04:00

"You're suspect! Yeah, you! I don't know what your reputation is in this town, but after the shit you tried to pull today you can bet I'll be looking into you. Now the business we have, heretofore, you can speak with my aforementioned attorney. Good day, gentlemen; and until that day comes, keep your ear to the grindstone."

-Chuckie, Good Will Hunting 1997

This one's for you, Aunt Robin :)

A Big Apple a Day: Day 2

2009-06-10T13:46:00.004-04:00

A man named Elio owns the Italian Restaurant, Ancora, located on the ground level of my office building. He wears a tux to work every day, and can most often be found outside the front doors, welcoming his patrons with a broad smile and a firm handshake.

On days that I take a lunch - on days like today - I see Elio twice. Once on my out of the building and once on my way in. Both times - in fact, every time - Elio greets me with a "Hello, Princess" and a kiss on the top of my hand.

Even on the gloomiest of days, Elio manages to brighten mine. Today was such a day.

Grazie, Elio.

A View From Ground Zero

2009-06-10T07:35:00.012-04:00

Chris, Gertie and I live in an apartment that overlooks Ground Zero. And when I say "overlooks Ground Zero", I literally mean that there is nothing between our window and the air above the site. (refer above) We have pipe dreams about charging admission to our apartment, as there is no better view of the site than from our living room. (come one, come all)

I have found our proximity to Ground Zero surprisingly peaceful. There's something undeniably soothing about the constant lull of construction. Its almost as if it talks to us all day and night long, and we've grown accustom to its voice, and what its saying - even though we may not fully understand.

Over the course of the past year, I have met a lot of 9/11 survivors - and I have heard stories of first-hand experiences that I almost can't even believe. When I attempt to write anything about these people, or their stories, my mind goes completely blank - as if there is absolutely nothing I can say.

Because there isn't.

In some way, I think we're all 9/11 survivors - whether you are or were in New York, the US, or the World on that day, I believe everyone survived 9/11 in some capacity. Its an odd kinship that became clear to me the minute I started living here - the minute I started pointing tourists in the right direction, the minute I started watching all the little Lego Men down in the site break ground, the minute I started seeing New York from my window, as I cannot see the City skyline unless I see Ground Zero first. Her biggest wound is in our front yard.

I tend to view the state in which we live as a country and as individuals in these frightening times in generally 2 ways: one can be paranoid, and anxious, or one can simply live, and continue to move forward for as long as one is able to do so.

I really thought I was the latter. I mean, if there's a threat made on the NYC subway system, you can bet I'll walk to wherever I have to be that day - but relatively speaking, I like to believe that life is too short to be paranoid - and ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time is tragic on every level - but it happens. Also, anxiety gives me zits. Uncool.

But two nights ago at 3:06 am, I realized that I am - somewhere inside - paranoid.

All I can really recall is being jolted by the shake of my building at the exact moment that a horrible rumble caused both Chris and I to shoot up out of bed from a deep sleep. Gertie was already awake and alarmed. It wasn't two seconds that went by, and the following thoughts had already raced through my mind:

- We never finalized the "In Case of Emergency" plan with our cousins...Lin and Paul are going to kill us.

- Should I call my parents immediately? How long will the phones be out?

- I thought of every friend I have in this City - even people I work with. I wondered if they were OK.

- I kicked myself for not having bottled water.

- I contemplated what shoes I should put on.

- I hoped Chris wouldn't try and be a hero - but I knew that he would.

- I wondered if all of us (City, US, World) would survive this time.

Chris jumped out of bed and told me to "stay put", and at this moment, I was honestly expecting him to look out our window and see the City ablaze....

.....we then saw the lightening, and realized it was a storm.

Granted, it was the kind of thunder that sends chills down your spine - and to be woken up by it at 3am was unnerving - but I had a moment of panic like I have never experienced before. It was only a split second, but I thoroughly believed that we were under attack.

Several people who were in New York that night thought the same thing. I guess that's another part of the 9/11 kinship that I had yet to realize.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-10T07:16:00.003-04:00

“I guess when you turn off the main road, you have to be prepared to see some funny houses.”

Stephen King

Girl Crush: Natalie Portman

2009-06-09T14:21:00.003-04:00

Natalie Portman turns 28 years old today.

Happy Birthday, Girlfriend - as far as actresses go, you are totally boss.

Cheers.

2009-06-09T09:53:00.003-04:00

Chris and I have been living in New York for a year and 10 days. Yet (and very surprisingly), it wasn’t until only a few months ago that we christened our “neighborhood bar”.

We live in the Financial District, which – by comparison – is a bit….sparse. However, he and I are lucky enough to have a pretty awesome Irish Pub located exactly 2.5 blocks from our apartment building. Its name is O’Hara’s.

O’Hara’s hosts the most wonderfully eclectic blend of...well…men. Being a stone’s throw away from Ground Zero, it’s the local watering hole for construction men. Being around the corner from 2 fire stations, its always full of firemen. Being the only bar in the Financial District where you’re not likely to be asked about the strength (or lack thereof) of your portfolio, it’s a hideaway full of businessmen. Given that no one there has ever checked an ID, there’s the occasional boy who is not yet a man. And then there’s the inevitable tourist; the bright-eyed bumpkin wearing Reebok sneakers and a brand new I HEART NY sweatshirt who got sick of staring at a chain-link fence that is “viewing the World Trade Center Site” and stumbled into O’Hara’s in search of a bathroom, but ended up having a beer.

For months, Chris and I walked by O’Hara’s - sometimes 3 or 4 times a day. We’d always peer in, but we’d never stop.

For months, we had been craving bar where they’d know our names.

For months, Chris had been poo-pooing my idea that the bar we were looking for could be O’Hara’s. He had poked fun at the bar and its barflies – having never actually been.

Finally, I ditched Chris and went in with a friend. I had several beers. I had a great time.

Chris still wouldn’t join me.

Then, I went again. I had several beers. I put music in the jukebox. I had a great time, and I stumbled the 2.5 blocks home. It took me 2.5 minutes to get there.

Chris still wouldn’t join me.

Then one Sunday, our day on foot was spoiled by rain. We wanted a beer, and finally crossed the threshold of O’Hara’s.

Two frosty beers, two underage kids, two crotchety barmaids, two firemen, two construction men, one bartender named Jimmy, and four wet tourists later, Chris turns to me and says “I like O’Hara’s. Lets make this our neighborhood bar.”

Great idea, Chris.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-08T23:01:00.004-04:00

“Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way when you criticize them, you are a mile away from them and you have their shoes.”

Jack Handey

Your Story: The Old Man and the Hudson

2009-06-08T21:42:00.004-04:00

In honor of my love and respect for Your Story Productions, a documentary film company, owned and operated by my extremely talented, handsome and Emmy-winning brother-in-law (www.yourstoryfilms.com) - I’m SO not afraid of the shameless plug – I have decided to entitle my latest column “Your Story”.

Erik documents actual life stories (have you checked it out yet? www.yourstoryfilms.com), I’ve decided to shake his idea up a bit. As many of you know, I like it shaken – not stirred.

People in New York are endlessly interesting. Whether its someone on stilts, in full gold body paint, someone who has a severe case of bedhead at 5pm, or someone who appears to be pretty boring, but there’s something in their eyes that screams “freak” (that’s my M.O. by the way) – everyone is interesting. And even if they’re actually not, I have decided to make them so. I’m using my imagination. Rather, I’m attempting to resurrect my imagination from the depths in which it has been hiding since I discovered boys.

But that’s neither here nor there. I’m planning to take strangers of interest that I happen across in New York, and I’m giving them a story. What I think their story is, was and will be. Hopefully, I’ll manage some accompanying pictures without having to become a voyeur – but not this time. This time, I’ll paint the picture for you…

Episode 1: The Old Man and the Hudson

Last week, when it was all gray and dreary and rainy, I decided to brave the elements to take Gertie for the long walk that she deserves. Usually, we walk long the west side esplanade, through Hudson River Park, and upwards from there. Usually, its packed with bikers, runners, walkers and other dogs. But not this day. This day, it was Gertie and I and a million raindrops. It was quiet and blustery and the Hudson was choppy, capped with white foam.

Just when I started to think about how eerie it was to be out there with no one in sight, I saw a figure in the distance. I immediately wished I had my camera, as the scene was so picturesque, it seemed like a set.

Just before the sidewalk turns inward, marking the end of Battery Park City, stood a man.

Between the stillness of the evening – the unmoving trees, the lampposts, and benches – he almost appeared to be a statue. Everything was light gray; the water, the sky, and even the grass appeared so. The man, however, was dark, and stood apart from his backdrop. He had on what one can only describe as a “rain slicker” – but not of the new, Patagonia persuasion, but weathered in such a way that I would have guessed that that slicker was new when he was in his twenties – and from the looks of it, that was a lifetime ago. As I approached, and he glanced at me over his left shoulder, I saw that he was as weathered as his jacket. The skin on his face told a thousand stories, as if he had earned every line by fighting for them. He had gray scruff, and brown, sad eyes, and that’s all I saw. As quickly as he’d glanced at us, he was again facing the water, fishing pole in hand, not moving.

What is his story? What brought him to the Hudson, on a Tuesday evening, in the pouring rain? Did he catch something? A fish? A cold? A tire?

Here’s what I think:

He’s not out there to catch a fish. And even if he did, he’d never eat it. He’d throw it back, and cast again. He’s not in it for the fish.

His name is Charles Finn. He goes by the name Barley – because his little sister called him that before she could say “Ch”. The nickname stuck, and he now introduces himself as such.

He was born in Maine. His father was a plumber, but became one only when Barley was conceived. Before that, he had been a fisherman, but changed careers in order to be home for more than a couple of months a year. His Mother was a seamstress with a wild imagination and an entrepreneurial spirit. She had a lovely singing voice, and had always dreamed of being on Broadway. His parents met at a high school dance.

His sister was three years younger than Barley, and her name was Claire. At age eight, Claire fell through the ice of a frozen river, and drown. Barley was there, and was unable to save her.

After Claire’s death, his parents moved the family to New York. His Father became disconnected, and thought maybe he’d get back into fishing. His Mother thought she’d sing on Broadway. Neither of these things ended up happening.

They moved to Hell’s Kitchen, and Barley became a bully. He wore a newsboy hat that he rarely took off – and that’s how everyone knew him. When he was 16, he turned his aggression to baseball, and was drafted at 19 by the Yankee’s, as their secret weapon. His fastball was clocked at 100 miles per hour, exactly.

Sadly, Barley has never donned the pinstripes. During Spring Training, he met Annie. She was a petite brunette who liked to wear polka-dots. In many ways, she reminded him of his Mother, as she, too, was a dreamer.

They fell instantly in love, and spent day and night planning what their lives would be like when he was a famous pitcher for the New York Yankees. They imagined that he would be able to find her in the crowd, because he would look for a polka-dotted dress (navy and white, of course) and he would blow a kiss to her before every first pitch. She’d be his good luck charm. She promised to never miss a game.

One night after practice, he offered to drive Annie home (she was there to watch). Barley had one hand on the wheel and one hand holding hers. They sang along to the radio. The next memory that Barley has is one of excruciating pain.

Later, Annie recalled the events of the accident. The deer, the swerve, and the tree they hit. The car flipped, as did they – and although Annie walked away, unscathed, Barley was not so lucky. His arm – his pitching arm – was crushed.

Barley recovered, but his pitch never did. He returned to New York with Annie, they were married, and they moved to a 6th floor walk-up in the West Village. Barley began plumbing to help his Father, who was ailing, and could no longer handle his workload. Annie began to audition for Broadway shows. Mrs. Finn was both thrilled and envious.

Every day, after they had visited their last client, Barley’s Father insisted that the two of them fish. It was a required daily ritual, and although Barley wasn’t much of a fisherman, his Father swore that there was no better way to let the world go – if only for a moment – and to think and worry about nothing. Barley soon learned that his Father was absolutely right. Mr. Finn understood the disappointment of dreams unrealized, and even in his final days, he joined Barley on the dock to forget things that happened - and maybe more importantly, things that didn't. The two of them never talked when they fished. They just thought, and worried about nothing.

After the first April shower, Mr. Finn surprised Barley with a charcoal gray rain slicker. The day before, it was raining as though it would never stop, and Barley was unprepared. When he came home that night, Annie told him it would take a year for her to ring him out, and asked that he skip fishing on the rainy evenings. The next day, it rained again, and Barley reported to work to find a box on his desk, tied with one, single red bow. The slicker smelled of plastic and sat stiffly over Barley’s work clothes. But when he came home that night bone dry, Annie retracted her request. Of all of the birthday and Christmas presents he had received from his Father – that is the only gift he can remember.

The years passed, and Barley took over the plumbing business when his Father died, and Annie became a successful off-Broadway star. She had the acting chops and the vivaciousness to compensate for what she lacked in singing voice. Mrs. Finn was Annie’s biggest fan, aside from Barley – and she never missed a performance.

More years passed, and all of a sudden, it was last week - the 1st week in June, 2009. Barley and Annie moved from the 6th floor walk-up to a condo in Battery Park City, as it was becoming difficult for Barley to tackle the stairs.

Annie was just cast in a new play. Barley is still running his Father’s business. His Mother lived to be 96 and passed away only a year ago.

They never had children – they never seemed to have time. The way he sees it is that that's the way it was always supposed to be.

He doesn't fish every night. He's too old and too tired. He only fishes in the rain. He only fishes in his slicker. He only fishes when its just him, the gray of the Hudson, the gray of the sky, and a few moments of nothing.

Except, of course, when Gertie and I walk by.

GERTIE SAYS:

2009-06-05T09:46:00.003-04:00

"Fear causes hesitation, and hesitation will cause your worst fears to come true."
Patrick Swayze as Bohdi, Point Break 1991

A Big Apple a Day: Day 1

2009-06-04T21:01:00.004-04:00

New York is a city of scowls, grunts and the occasional "I'm walkin' here!" (no, seriously). Its also a city of smiles, wide eyes, and the occasional kind-hearted stranger. But New Yorkers and those who visit are a breed of their very own - unlike the inhabitants and visitors in any other city, I'm convinced. I can't put my finger on it, but what I can do, is put a title on it. I'm going to pick my favorite New York moment of the day, and I'm gonna call it "A Big Apple a Day". Its a little Seasame Street, I admit. But Seasame Street rocks. So there.

Day 1:

I have discovered a wonder of New York that has made me so incredibly happy, its almost embarrassing to admit my glee. I have discovered the $5 fruit salad. Served out of a vending truck on the corner of Broadway and Beaver (hee-hee), this Chinese husband and wife team serve up the most delectable fruit on the planet. To boot, it comes in a huge container, so stuffed that they have to put two rubber bands around it to keep it all in. Its like, 7 lbs of fruit. For $5.

In any case, I am not the only person who visits Mr & Mrs Fruit. There's always a line. Generally, people are courteous and patient. Until today.

So, its "raining". I've put this in quotes, because it had stopped at this point, and the one, single open umbrella within eye-shot was the one belonging to the woman in front if me. The use of an umbrella unless its absolutely necessary is very close to being my #1 pet peeve; behind people who confuse their, there and they're.

She gets the fruit, she pays, and turns to go. As she fumbles with her purse and fruit, she backs up into me, swings around, and grazes my cheek/eye with the pointy part of her umbrella as I do a back-bend (mind you, its 8:25 am - WAY too early for back-bends) to avoid the loss of sight at the hands of a useless umbrella.

And then, Lady WALKS AWAY. Just walks away! Without a word! I have dodged blindness and stepped on the toe of the man behind me - all on her account - and she walks away? (says the girl from Connecticut in me).

But then I stop to think. There are several potential reasons for her cluelessness, which I must consider;

1) She may not have control over her hands, and thus, anything in them - causing her to be at the whim of her umbrella and the slightest breeze.
2) She's one of those people who carries an umbrella, rain or shine, for fear of both water and sun (pet peeve #3).
3) I'm invisible.
4) She's a tourist (though it would be unusual to see a tourist in a suit with running shoes (pet peeve #4!)).
5) She's in a huge hurry, and doesn't care (which I can totally respect).

So I did what any New Yorker would do: I ordered my fruit salad.

But why does she get the Big Apple a Day award?

A) Lack of respect for other people's personal space.
B) Irrational use of an oversized umbrella (in a line!).
C) Zero *Umbrella Etiquette.

*Umbrella Etiquette: Knowing when and where to use an umbrella. Knowing that in a city of millions, one must be aware at all times about location and proximity of umbrella to others - especially others eyes. Understanding that when one is around others, one must raise umbrella above head-level to pass by. Realizing that we're all wet, tired, cranky and wanting fruit.

Optimistic New Yorkers

2009-06-04T15:02:00.004-04:00

About a month ago, a query crossed my desk from the Features Reporter at the New York Daily News. The query read as follows:

[We're searching for the most optimistic New Yorkers.
Candidates would need to have overcome some kind of hardship - can be big or small - but remains extremely cheerful and inspiring.]

The deadline was only a few hours away, but I decided to reply. It was less an effort to be picked up for the article, and more an exercise in optimism - which as it turns out, I really needed. I think everyone does.

So, I thought I'd share:

Are you still looking for Optimistic New Yorkers? I saw your query, and my husband and I are interested in answering it.

He and I are lucky enough to have our jobs and health, however, our hardship came in the form of getting hung out to dry with unexpected taxes this season. We moved to New York in June of '08 from California, and instead of getting a return as we had planned, we ended up owing quite a bit to both State Governments and Federal. We were devastated.

To cure our financial woes? We made a huge financial commitment! We adopted a dog from SoHo's Animal Haven, scrapping the idea that "we cannot afford a dog" as we've been telling ourselves for years.

Turns out, we cannot afford to NOT have a dog. She has literally become a little light of hope and happiness in our lives. We're both up with her every morning at 5:30am, taking a long morning walk and then again in the afternoon. We live across the street from the Hudson River esplanade, and thanks to her, have seen the sun rise and set on a daily basis. Doing so (as opposed to pulling the covers over our heads in fear of a new day) has remarkably improved our outlook on our current situation and the current state of the City, Country and World at large.

We are beginning to see New York, and life in general, through a new set of eyes - our dog's! And what we have found is that its beautiful and alive and constantly moving forward - and optimism is in its very existence.

Our pit-bull mix, Gertie, was found starving and homeless in Morningside Park not 2 months ago. She was abandoned, as so many dogs - and people! - find themselves these days. She was left with nothing but New York - and yet today, she's healthy, fed, walked, sheltered and loved by just about everyone who meets her. Being privy to her story has become a major inspiration to both my husband and I - and perhaps she can be to others.

With so many people down and out, it might be nice to be reminded that the possibilities are infinite - and just when you think you're going to starve to death, New York just might take you in and change your life in amazing ways.

Historically Speaking: 6/4/09

2009-06-04T10:58:00.004-04:00

On this day...

1070 Roquefort cheese created in a cave near Roquefort, France

GERTIE SAYS: Your daily dose of wisdom from the world's smartest dog.

2009-06-04T07:50:00.005-04:00

Never has there been a better excuse than a rainy day.

- Gertrude Ewers, Best Friend and Dog Extraordinaire

First and Foremost

2009-06-03T22:29:00.004-04:00

Dear These People (arrow pointing right),

You infuriate me to no end - yet, I have no idea who you are and what it is that you actually do.

I just feel like I need to get that out of the way before I can really move on.

OK, I'm good. Moving on.

As if anybody cares. But you.

2009-06-03T20:52:00.005-04:00

Dear Friends, Family and Countrymen,

How hilarious is it that it has taken me 11 years into my internet experience (yes, 11 years - I live in a mental Stone Age) to create a blog. This is probably because I learned the definition of "blog" about 3 years ago, and just learned today that I can actually have one.

I have known since birth that I was born approximately 100 years too late. The word "blog" should never have entered my vocabulary. Yet, here we are...

But since I ended up gracing the world with my presence in 1980, I now have the opportunity to do this - to "blog". I have the opportunity that my Grandparents (and even Parents - sorry M&D) have never even dreamed of ever even wanting. I have the opportunity to bore countless friends, family, and anyone who stumbles across this with my muses, quandaries, observations, and - God help you all - opinions.

So, welcome. And buckle up. This has the potential to be more fun than you think it will.