Tag Archives: New York City

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When You’re Forced Indoors

So Irene was a dud.

My apartment was full of people, food, supplies, and booze, and the worse that happened was some pretty fierce winds and a lot of rain. I’m thankful that we all overestimated and Bloomberg attempted to make up for the snow-acopolyse by being fully prepped for a hurricane, but my roommates and friends all agreed: we were a little disappointed.

The puns on Irene were plenty (Me, Myself & Irene on FX, “Come on Irene” status updates, playlists dedicated to the storm, etc.,), and it gave us all one giant excuse to stay inside, watch awful television and procrastinate doing the things we actually needed to do like laundry and grocery shopping.  We all were braced for the worst and wanted to have a safe sleepover indoors without electricity, without television, without internet, without those things we all live by. I even wrote blogs a few days earlier because of all the hype – determined to sincerely write every single day for a year. But nothing happened, except my apartment became a center for giggling festivities and six pack drinking.

I know it’s a blessed thing that Irene passed quietly by – but why waste a weekend crammed up in a tiny apartment when we could have been enjoying our city? Why did we have to give up our Saturday?

To teach me a lesson, of course. Why else?

Irene made Step 11 real for me. It’s all about learning how to relax. And there is nothing like being told by your mayor that if you go outside you could risk your life, to make you sit tight and take a forced-breather. So that’s what I did – without anything or anyone to answer to, I sat back, opened the windows to witness the doom-and-gloom outside and did what every 20-something does to mellow out: gossip, eat, drink and sleep for 10 hours (give or take a few loud gusts of wind that woke me up).

I still have to learn how to meditate to complete the 11th step (have plans to join my friend A on Sunday), but for now, I can attest to the fact that Irene actually brought something rather positive. As Mr. P would say (and often does), she taught me how to “chill the f*** out.”

If only for a day or so, anyway.

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Hurricane Irene, Part 2

With dreary skies outside, M and I sit anticipating Hurricane Irene, prepared with water and food, candles and flashlights, just as everyone advised. We’re watching the news as long as we have power, trying to prep ahead for work on Monday and figure out how we’re going to get there if the transit doesn’t open until noon. We’re comfy in sweats and trying to decide what in the world we’re going to do if nothing works and we’re without the means to shower. While it’s scary and no one really knows what to expect, it’s also a little exhilarating.

I mean, two natural disasters that don’t normally happen in the Northeast in one week?

God forbid anything happens and lives are lost in the city, I think it’s an interesting lesson for New Yorkers to experience. The island gives you a sense of invisibility. If you make it here, if you can survive the task of living in the city in general, then you’re tough. You’re strong and bold, and because you’re on the good side of Manhattan, the buildings will protect you. The streets will, as Ms. Keys says, make you feel brand new and you’ll walk them tall and proud, inspired by the existence you’re lucky to have. Unlike Los Angeles, it is quite rare to have an earthquake and unlike Miami, it is even less common for us to be in a state of emergency because of a hurricane. But both of those things have happened, and New Yorkers aren’t quite sure what to do with themselves.

The two grocery stores near me have lines lining the block, everyone holding their umbrellas and talking to everyone they can, while they can. The office was busy with chatter about what we should do, if we should be more afraid than what we are, if this is the real deal or if it’s going to blow over. My friends and I were texting all night and this morning about where we should stay, what’s safe and how we should prep. My roommate’s boyfriend has filled our living room with buckets of water so we can flush the toilet if we need to. My other roommate bought a case of water and M brought beer with her – all necessary requirements for being stuck inside.

Me though? I made sure to call my mother so she wouldn’t worry, kiss Mr. P like I meant it just in the rare case, I wouldn’t get to again, and checked up on everyone in NC and in NYC. And then, of course, I took a really nice, long shower so I would at the very least, feel very clean.

But you know what I really feel?

I feel like I shouldn’t take New York for granted as much as I do. I should value the city in the same way I would if I didn’t live here, like all of those 20-plus years I spent idolizing Manhattan because I wanted to be here so badly. I should count my blessings and be thankful for what I have, and never, for a moment, believe nothing could take it away from me. Because maybe a really powerful earthquake could rattle the pavement – most of New York is built on a fault line anyway. Or maybe this hurricane will be worse than what we think and there will be clean-up and relief efforts I’ll be able to volunteer with.

The city isn’t invisible and neither are its inhabitants. We’re the same people with the same warnings and same worries of those anywhere else in the country, and this week, the weather is reminding of us of that.

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Dudes and Dogs

So my roommate got a kitten. She’s tiny with piercing blue eyes and her name isBowie.

When she started flirting with the idea, browsing Craigslist looking for eligible animals that were rescued or abandoned and now up for auction or for free – I admit I was a little jealous.

I’ve never quite been a cat-person, though I grew up with one who recently passed away. His name was Indiana Jones Tigar, named after one of my favorite series as a kid. We nicknamed him Indy, and he was adventurous and quick, always getting away from me with a smirk that spoke louder than his meow. And then of course, there’s M’s baby Milo, who as my “godson” is permanently embedded in my heart and I’ll admit, that when the earthquake shook New York, I wondered how he was alone in M’s apartment.

And now, there’s yet another kitten sashaying into my life and with her arrival, my heart sinks just a bit. While some women at my age, God bless ‘em, feel like they’re achin’ to have kids, I’m achin’ for a pet.

Specifically, one of those puppies with sad, sad eyes from the Humane Society commercials. Or maybe one that’s across the street from my friend K’s apartment in the WestVillage– the one that every time I walk past it on my way to her place, I fight the urge to ask just how much is that puppy in the window?

The time isn’t ticking on my ovaries anymore than it’s ticking on my ability to support a dog right now, but I have this overwhelming desire to own one. I want to come home after a glorious day at work, followed by drinks with my favorites, to a wagging-puppy-dog-tail that’s excited to see me and will lay by my feet at night. I want to have responsibility for something else, something to take care of, something to depend on me, something that’ll grow because of my loving nature and guidance.

Rationally though, I know I’m not in the right time of my life to adopt a dog. While I could support it financially, I couldn’t give it the time and attention it deserves and that it would crave. Walking a dog through Central Parkwhen it’s painted with an earthy palette while wearing my fleece peacoat seems beautiful and idealistic, but it’s quite unrealistic.

Animals, like relationships, aren’t as cute as we imagine and far more work than we’d like to realize. I’m fully aware of this truth, both with puppies and men (quite similar if you think about it…), and yet, I still want them both. I’m not sure which tail is cuter, frankly.

But sometimes, the right decisions and the hard decisions are one-in-the-same. Being an adult means sucking up what you want to decide what’s best. Ensuring your life and your happiness continue to excel means getting rid of those things, those people, or those ideas that hold you back. Even if one of them happens to be the image of a rescued, wet-nosed pup who adores you. Maybe even a man who adores you, too – though he’s not the best for you, as much as you’d like him to be.

Because when you take the plunge and commit to a puppy or to a guy, you’re promising to come home each night, just as you said you would. You pledge to be there to fill their bowl and build their ego, stroke their cute little heads when they need encouragement or to be soothed. To excitedly call their name, even if they’re not really doing anything you are getting excited about, and to play with them, regardless if you’re tired and have a headache or not.

Men and puppies require attention and time, both things that aren’t difficult to sacrifice when you have many other things that fulfill you. But the fever that comes with dudes and dogs is one that’s rather difficult to extinguish.

But I fight the puppy-fever by volunteering to help others with their pets. By giving Milo andBowiean extra pat on their tiny kitten heads, by complimenting dog owners on their adorable pets, by volunteering when I can at shelters. By bookmarking photos of dogs I’d like to have and stopping at every rescue center or puppy-for-sale store I see.

And man-fever? Well, I still have 26 days to figure out how to battle that high.

 

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Half-Hearted Love

I can’t believe I’m subjecting these heels to pavement, I thought as I crossed seventh avenue rushing to meet a stranger I met online. I also can’t believe I made a profile on Plenty of Fish – aren’t I too young for this? I wouldn’t respond to someone who called himself Play6969 in real life, why did I think I’d be intrigued when he messaged me “Watup gurrllll” in an anonymous inbox? 

Linds, what’s wrong with you?

Seeing the address a block away, I considered turning around and catching the uptown train. It wasn’t too late – I hadn’t actually seen the guy and I purposefully didn’t save his phone number, just in case he didn’t show, I wouldn’t be the whiny, pensive girl who reached out to see where he was, I’d just act like I didn’t care. Even if I did, I didn’t have a way to complain about it via BBM, and I’d be damned if I signed onto PlentyofBullS*** after being stood up.

Standing him up, though – that didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I could free myself from any troubles, from awkward first-date introductions, from telling him the basics about me that don’t really mean anything (I like red wine. I’m allergic to peanut butter. Yes, it is pronounced like the animal. Yes, I promise. Yes, it’s funny. Check please?), but I’m hungry. And he’s tall, right? Didn’t he say he was a doctor? If I had a Jewish mother, she’d tell me I’d be crazy not to go. I close my eyes and picture Fran Drescher”ma” on The Nanny, and enter the restaurant.

Mmmm, he’s stunning. Glad I wore the red heels, I complimented myself while praying for them to stop pinching my feet and for my skirt not to ride up. Maybe it’s a little too tight for the doctor type – or maybe he wants me to play nurse? Let’s see how engaging the conversation is. And he planned everything about this date, so let’s see how clever and creative he is – then maybe I’ll let him take my heart rate or maybe look at that thing, down there, that’s been….hurting? Yeah, something a little achy – like a lady part that’s pathetically lonely and bored of inaction.

He has a nice voice and he’s kind to wait staff, even talking like he’s old pals with the bartender, I analyzed while sipping on the drink he ordered. We would be hitting a few places around the Hell’s Kitchen, Times Square area – he had just moved here, after all. He wanted to see things he hadn’t before, try places he hadn’t tasted, perhaps wrangle wildlife he had yet to learn how to tame? I watched him carefully eat his food, taking incredibly small bites and demonstrate his near-perfect table manners. He even held his fork the European way, something I hadn’t seen a man do since my days of pageantry in the South. There the judges expect you to be a crystalized, real-life version of a Barbie Doll with humanitarian intentions, so they’ll give you a bit of class while eating overpriced Chicken Pot Pie at the table with ya.

The night continued in the fashion of most New York evenings – where anyone who didn’t live here would be amazed by the views, I had become in a short time, used to them, only experiencing those Louie Armstrong moments occasionally. And though we were walking around the tourist and rodent-ridden eight blocks of congestion and extremely bright lights, just as he wanted, Mr. Half just wasn’t that intrigued. The more he drank, the more reserved he became. By the last bar, it was so painful to consume our shared plate of french fries and specialty beers, that I finally had to pull the journalist out from hiding (she knows it’s not appropriate to interrogate on the first date, much better to listen), and ask him what happened. Where did my cheerful doctor who was going to inspect my body after a romantic night on the town go? Why was he so sullen that he matched the hideous gray walls in a sub-par bar charging $8 for a Bud Light?

He took another sip of Amstel, sat it down with vengeance, cut his eyes at the lines of liquor ahead of us, gave me a little grin, and asked me: “Is it possible to love with half of your heart? You’re a writer, right? You write about this stuff. Is it possible? Because as beautiful as you are, as much as I feel lucky to be here, as much as I’d like to take you home tonight, I only have half a heart left. The woman I thought was the love of my life took the rest.”

After nearly falling off my bar stool, I gathered myself and smiled at him, tears obviously welling up in my eyes. I took a deep breath, having recently ended my relationship with Mr. Idea, and answered as honestly as I could: “I have no idea, Mr. Half.”

It’s been over a year since that date, which happened to be our last (I never heard from him again) – but I remember taking a cab home that night, not because I was tipsy but because I was sad. For one of the first times, I didn’t make conversation with the cabby, but shut the window and cried as silently as I could, only pausing briefly to pay and head upstairs, to sob some more. My heart ached for Mr. Half, for myself, for all the people who put themselves out there, gave every bit of  a heart they have, only to end up with half of it at the end.

Relationships are funny that way – we all want to find that person. The person who is all that we wanted, with a few surprises we didn’t know we liked, but do. And in the middle of an ordinary day (as all days mostly are), we meet someone who makes us believe that it’s possible. Who is different and charming, but not someone who strays. Someone who wants to stay, who wants to give, who proclaims their love. Who feels warm in the winter and so easy to be around that summer days fade all the way into October. And though we swore that the last time would be the last time. That we would never invest so much of ourselves, of our hope, of our precious love into another person after being so broken before. That we would never have the ability to open up because we had become so hard that softness was a distant memory of what we used to be, not what we are now. That we would never subject ourselves to such scary vulnerability when history tells that it’ll just end up crumbling us into a cab speeding up the Westside Highway following a downright depressing date. That we would never be able to love with our whole heart because we merely had half of one left.

Even though we made all those promises to that box of wine (yes, box), to that half-gallon of Ben & Jerry while sobbing to The Notebook over our version of Noah that looks nothing like Ryan Gosling – we go against it all the second that butterfly lands in our tummy. From that first kiss or that first indication of “something is happening here.” I don’t know how to mend a broken, a half, or a whole heart, but meeting someone with potential certainly helps speed up the process.

So if I were to go back to that date, if I hadn’t met my own Mr. Possibility months later, if I had known then what I know now, I would tell Mr. Half to lean in and kiss me, madly. Because the only way to see if you can love with half of your heart…is to try.

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We’re Such Little Adults

Chatting way over drinks at The Standard Beer Garden, my bubbly and sassy new friend A says: “We’re such adults now.” At the time, the rest of us laughed and shook our heads playfully at her with the “well, duh” look on our faces. The conversation and the beer continued, along with a block-or-two walk to catch the train.

On the way home, M and I stopped by Trader Joes – an inexpensive grocery story with mostly organic, healthy items – to shop for the week. We compared prices, came up with lunch and snack plans by thinking about which nights we’d be out and which ones we’d spend in. We chatted happily about our new jobs, both floating on Cloud 9 of success, finally landing just where we wanted to be. We continue to dream about an apartment together one day, maybe some place downtown, maybe a little more pricey, but one that’s definitely kitty-friendly for baby Milo. I’m hoping to adopt a puppy from the rescue center within a year – I’ve already named him, but I won’t share it here, just in case it jinxes it.

Because of M’s super-bus-riding skills, we caught the M7 heading uptown and people-watched while commenting on our tired feet and excitement for taking a much-needed good night’s rest. My stop is a few ahead of her’s, so I hopped off and called my mom to check in, then checked the mail, checked the fridge for expired things, checked my Gmail for the first time today, checked my bank account to see where I stood on budgeting, and checked to make sure I had everything ready for work tomorrow.

Slinging off my Jessica Simpson slingbacks, plopping down on my bed, finally, mentally going over my life checklist, I heard A’s voice ringing in my head: “We’re such adults now.” My, oh my was she right – my birthday’s approaching (guess how old, folks?), and though by any standard I’d be considered an adult, I’m just now starting to feel like one.

We are such little adults.

I’m refraining from unleashing my Southern roots by typing the lyrics to Martina McBride song, “This One’s for the Girls” where she describes 20-something females in tiny apartments, just trying to get by, living off of dreams and spaghetti-o’s. I may upgrade to higher-quality food these days, but I practically live off of dreams, that now, somehow have a bit of reality to them.

As much of a fantasy land New York always has been for me, it now is a place with commitments. It’s now the place I call home, where I pay my cable and electric bill, my rent, my student loans, where I save and where I spend, where I have a library card, where I have a gym membership. It’s where my boyfriend lives and where I’m developing some strong friendships I’m convinced will last my lifetime. It’s where I started and where I continue my career. It’s the location I picked just for me.

It’s the first thing I want to see in the morning and it’s really the place that made me into that little adult I am.

Into that woman who knows how much to set aside to save, have fun, and meet monthly monetary requirements. Into that woman who grew incredibly excited by the idea of a book club proposed by a friend. Into the woman who can map out the subway – mostly – without the help of Google (not the buses, though). Into the woman who pays taxes, votes, reads the newspaper, does the crossword, attempts to gym-it and now read a book a month, who checks the New York Times each morning and has more Google Alerts than probably necessary. Into the woman who wants so much more than where she came from, but values and loves that Southern state so deeply. Into the woman who can go from rockin’ heels and a dress to an all-cotton assemble in a minute and feel just as beautiful.

Into the woman who knows she’s a little adult now…and couldn’t be happier for that sweet responsibility.