I'm posting from a BlackBerry at work, which in and of itself is a pretty funky experience. Postings will become much more frequent once we have the internet installed in our little home in Idaho, and until then things will continue to be a bit soporadic. The dude comes Tuesday at 8am. I totally can't wait. This week has been an exercise in true Idahoness. I have been completely sequestered from news outlets of all types. I didn't even know that Lindsay Lohan had been checked into another hospital, or that Lance Bass was gay (well, come on, we all KNEW he was gay) until just today. And I have so many blogs to catch up on it's not even funny. So anyway.
Brandon gets in super late tonight, like around 1, and my dad gets in slightly before that, which blows the roof off any reunion sex we might have had, but being that my dad is coming to do more work on our little cigar box of a house, I'd say that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. Between now and then I've got to gas up the car (my first in a year!),buy paint supplies, do said painting, fold the laundry (so domesticated we are), clean the house, yadda yadda yadda. All the while trying desperately not to kill the dog.
See, the dog is a twerp. I guess I can't really blame him for being such a rotten thing, I am crating him for 10 hours a day lately, and he didn't ask to be moved to Idaho (neither did I, for that matter), but he is risking his life with this terrorist behavior, if you ask me (which you did, implicitly, by coming to this here site).
This morning he bit my arm, peed on the carpet, chewed up two bras and ran off with my headband. Yesterday it was more peeing, another headband, the nicest dress shirt I own, the scizzors (scizzors! He is titally suicidal! Wouldn't you be, too? Living in Idaho?), and an entire roll of paper towels. All between 7:30 and 7:45, of course, when I need to be goiing to work. Some days I'm calm with him (read:jaded) and other days I'm a homicidal mess. Today I almost slow cooked him in the crock pot, because eating him would be about the only positive and useful thing he is good for these days. I guess the point of a dog these days isn't that he is useful, but cuddly, which according to the Dog Whisperer is wrong, but my point here is, right now, the dog, he is neither. The least he could be is tasty.
I took The Pan for a long walk today and promptly got lost among the old, decrepit houses. After a half hour of wandering in the 100+ degree heat, I asked a guy out mowing his lawn how to get myself home. He gave me directions, and I might have heard him except for the gaping hole in his mouth where his teeth should have been. I live in Moscow, folks.
My parents came and together we overhauled the kitchen cabinets, pulling them all off, painting them, reinstalling them, and then painting them again when we realized that by letting them dry outside overnight we had in essence opened a bug hotel and that those bugs were now all permanently frozen in time in my cabinetry.
The heat is pretty bad, but it's true, it's dry and it's not as terrible as it was in Brooklyn. However, unlike Brooklyn, 1. there is no air conditioner and 2. there is no culture to make it all better. Just wheat fields.
Really I'm being too hard on it here. There is every kind of fast food and two movie theatres (I'm going to see You, Me & Dupree tonight by my lonesome) and there are new homes going up and a lot of cute college kids and everything is new and clean. But today when Brandon left for the airport and my parents left to go back to Portland it hit me hard. I live in Moscow. And for this week I live in Moscow alone. With no TV. No Internet (I'm at Samurai Sams using their WiFi). Just me, the puppy, a new job, and a whole mess to clean up.
Would it be wimpy to cry about now? Cause I'm fighting it but it's hard.
Thurdsay night, back in New York City, we had dinner at The Fry Pan, this restaurant on the Hudson River in Chelsea, up on a pier about three stories up (so you could feel every last little kick and wave on the shore, how appetizing is THAT). On the way down the stairs I fell. Just for no reason. I fell down about three stairs, knocked over the velvet rope and two of the stands, and then just laid there a jumbled mess, waiting for someone to save me, I guess? Nobody made a fuss, this is New York City of course, and I'm sure they're used to drunken idiots falling off things all the time (no alcohol was imbibed, as per usual).
Yesterday, we were driving around town with my parents in our new kicky ride (pictures to follow, eventually) looking at new constructions going up (this is my parents' favorite hobby. I just don't get it) when I fell out of the car. No really, I fell out of it. I took one step on the ground, twisted something somewhere, and took a slow-motion nose dive toward the ground. Seeing that I was going to fall on the rocks I twerked my body and then fell onto the road. I didn't just fall to my knees or anything, I fell flat on my face, whole body contact, kissing the concrete. The husband, seeing the fall, rushed to make sure I was okay. As I was telling him I was fine, huge gushing sobs came completely out of nowhere, totally surprising us both, and so I just let it go and cried. Not for my foot which I'd scraped, but more just for the frustration of leaving somewhere you love, being an adult in your childhood home, feeling the stress of moving and trying to be perfect for everyone and failing miserably, and mostly for Brooklyn. Then I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and figured I was finished being a clutz.
Ahh, but these things come in threes, don't they? Yesterday I was driving said kicky ride through Lake Oswego, our old neighborhood, and I was remembering this gorgeous view we used to have. So I drove to the old apartment, parked the car, got out with my soda and walked out to our old favorite view point. Halfway there, as I was walking down some pretty tame steps, I biffed it. Not only did I fall face first, but I dropped the soda, which EXPLODED on impact, sending gushes of coke into my eyes and all over my clothes. I stood up, coke blurring my vision, my hair sticking straight up in all directions, and I waddled back the said kicky ride and drove home. Humiliated. Beaten. Deflated. Moving sucks.
I spent the afternoon yesterday wandering aimlessly around 5th Avenue, using the bathroom at Saks, pretending like I was actually shopping at Tiffany, trying on shoes at Versace, silly things like that. I had a blast. My feet got tired so I stopped in a Barnes and Noble to sit in the air conditioning and relax. I read a bit of "The Shopgirl" which was romantic and sweet, and then on my way out the door I saw a book on Steve Jobs called "icon". This cracked me up because it reminded me of all of his products - iPod, iLife, iPhoto, iChat... and all those names just come from sticking an 'i' before the word of what it is. Right? Duh. So this book on Steve Jobs was, what? Saying he was a Con? Was it a book praising Steve Jobs or lamenting the heist he pulled on us all? I couldn't decide in the five feet it took to walk from the book to the door, and once outside staring at St Patricks Cathedral I promptly forgot everything and nearly cried at the beauty of my city. So I guess we'll never know.
At Henri Bendels I got a make over. I just walked in the door and some cute little gay guy told me I had got it all wrong. He sat me down, wiped my make up off, and redid me. He gave me cat eyes on the top lid, washed out my lower lids with a nude pencil, put cheek stain all over my cheeks, and then highlighter directly on the bags of my eyes because my face is "angular." It was the first make over where the guy didn't do exactly what I do every day or didn't use purple eye shadow (shudder). I don't know what it is about me and purple, but at every make over at every make up counter, I get slapped with purple. I was relieved he chose slate gray and, get this, blue. And I looked great. It was crazy.
In other news, IT'S MY LAST DAY HERE. I'm trying to figure out a way to have a good time and enjoy the city without crying all day. Even Brandon shot me a sad little email about how much he will miss the city! It gets in your blood!
I toyed around with ending this website today, since I started it in New York and now New York is ending. It would have been a grand, sweeping gesture reflecting the end of an era, the end of a great year, but then I started my period and decided it must have all just been pms talking.
Awww, big warm fuzzies! Thanks for posting in to let me know you're still there, guys! Obviously my counter is wrong, or gone? Who knows? But yeah, sorry for the huge fonts, it was doing that all yesterday and I kept checking back and going Huh?
Well, we're getting closer and closer to zero-hour. It feels like we're just visiting here now, and try as I might I can't picture life outside of Saturday morning. For all I know now, once we get to Saturday and we wake up and board the plane, life will just go blank and stop. Not an end so much as just a nothing. You know what I mean? I just haven't been able to focus on what we'll be doing Saturday and Sunday and Monday when we're not here. I think I'm being a little dramatic, don't you think?
We had a dilemma here with the puppy that I think I've solved, but I'd like all your input nonetheless. Peter Pan will be flying in the cargo, and this makes me very nervous. Not because I don't think the cargo is safe (the cargo is safe, right? Right??) but because I'm worried that Peter Pan will feel scared and alone down there, with all the loud noise of take off and landing. So Brandon went to the vet the other day to see about medication for him for the flight. She handed him a Valium pill for Peter - no real instructions to go along with it or anything - and then Brandon came home, holding a pill in his hand and not sure if we should give it to him with food, without, and not having an extra to "test" in him first. I'm not so crazy about the idea of giving him an unknown substance without knowing what it will do to him and then leaving him, in a dark cargo area of an airplane, where no one will be there to check on him for 6 hours. I made a few phone calls, emailed his breeder, and did some research on pet sedation, and then promptly threw the pill away. I'm thinking now I should have kept it for myself.
After reading about what it does to pets' blood pressure and how many animals have been lost from improper dosage, I've decided I feel better about letting him panic for a little bit at take off and landing than I would about drugging the sucker and then wondering if we'd find him alive or in a drug induced coma. And really, let's be honest here, I am displacing my emotions. I am the one feeling anxious, ME. Not the dog.
After we made the decision I instantly felt better. I'm sure he's going to be just fine. And, it's air conditioned! He'll be juuust fiiine. I'll be juuust fiiiine. Right?
Today I think I'm going to walk up and down 5th Avenue and do some window shopping. Tonight we're going to some burger place on a barge? In Chelsea? Really it makes no sense, but Brandon's fabulous friends have lives and know great places so we're just along for the ride. Tomorrow is sushi.
This reminds me of a story. Over a month and a half ago I stopped taking the pill. I stopped mid-cycle, which was silly and impulsive, but no big deal. Two weeks ago I was supposed to have a period and didn't. Two weeks and a day ago I was convinced I had been miraculously impregnated (see, we use protection. Always. Like, Fort Knox, no way is anything fertilizing in me right now, I have to support this here rag tag family for the next few years and unlike before where kids would be welcome, now if we got pregnant we would erupt into spontaneous bankruptcy, though at least I'd be a happy bankrupt gal.) But really, there wasn't any way we were expecting. And a pregnancy test confirmed that nope, nothing interesting happening here. So I'm just waiting for a period? Just waiting. Where is it? What's holding it up? Is there a fabulous sale going on somewhere and it's just late? Or is it mad at me for quitting the pill in the middle? Or maybe it just has been regulated so long by medicine that it is rebelling? Mostly, I think it has been stressed and weight-lossed and sicked into submission. There was the 5 pounds I lost when I had no appetitite because I had 5 pounds of sand clogged in my sinuses, and then there is the move... I think that's what it is. I'll let you know when it comes though, becuase it will certainly be cause for celebration. The only thing worse than getting a period is not getting a period, guys. I really want to be fertile again! Please!
The boxes are packed and picked up and on their way to Moscow. The apartment is completely empty. We have just enough clothes to make it through the week. We fly away on Saturday morning.
The puppy has his health certificate, his microchip, and a Valium for the flight. Where's my Valium?
I had my last hurrah and went to the Barney's Co-Op in SoHo and bought a pair of expensive jeans (my last expensive purchase of, well, EVER, for THREE YEARS) and wound up getting them on sale, anyway, so it wasn't a bank-breaking last hurrah like I wanted it to be. But oh well.
I am so depressed. I am just totally run down. The rest of the week I'm just going to walk around town trying to memorize everything. How the buildings look, the way it smells, the crowds and the attitudes. Then when I'm in Idaho and feeling completely in shock I can close my eyes and pretend like I'm here again. Even thinking about moving makes me feel a little panicky. Ugh. I didn't expect it to be THIS hard, I knew it'd be sad, but it feels like my insides are being torn out. Even Brandon feels all empty and sad about it, and it's HIS FAULT we're leaving. Oh well.
Yesterday we went to lunch at the Bryant Park Grill, this great little outdoor place where all the business-types meet for lunch. The weather was gorgeous, it could not feasibly have been nicer, and the food was great. And after we ate I went to use the restroom and this outdoor restroom was gorgeous! Marble sinks and gold framed mirrors and beautiful flower arrangements and completely clean! And then, the belching. The gagging. Some girl in the next stall was retching, vomiting, FOREVER. It was traumatic. I went and cleaned up and then literally sprinted out of the bathroom. It wasn't until I got past Wall Street on the Number 2 that I felt okay about life.
And my entire family back in Portland has the stomach flu. All 5 of them. And it's been nasty, to hear them talk about it. And it's not over yet. They're just dropping like flies. And then this. I've had a pukey weekend, and I haven't even been sick!
My huband found us a great car over the phone, a brand new Nissan XTerra, and negotiated a great price with a dealer and we were all set to pick it up this Saturday on our way back from the airport. And then he finds out that he can't pick up the car until we close on the house, just so we don't screw up our credit rating at the last second and then lose the loan. This means we can't get the car until Wednesday at the earliest, which pushes back our move-in date since we can't drive back to Moscow until we have the car, and this means that I'll be subject to my family's every whim the entire time we're there, since we'll have no car, nowhere to go, and nothing to do. I am not looking forward to this. Lately my mom has been really stressed out and hasn't been very nice to be around. And instead of agreeing with my mom like I am known to do, I just disagree. And so my mom isn't happy with me. (We can all be very silly in my family when it comes to things like "agreeing" or "not agreeing") so I wish instead that we could just stay here! Till Wednesday! Then fly back and get the car and drive to Moscow that day! Save the trouble! Get more days here in the meantime!
Ohh well. This is a downer of a post. It will probably get worse until we leave, and by then I will be so tired of feeling depressed that I'll just snap out of it, which is usually the case with me, because I'm pre-missing this place, but that's just life, I suppose.
So today was my last day at work. I worked at Merrill Lynch on the Early Case Evaluation team and since June 10th, when they chose my replacement and I trained her, I have done nothing - NOTHING - like as in NOTHING, all day every day. And it was wonderful.
To mark the occasion of a last day at a job where I literally had no job to do, I showed up at 10:30 and then took an hour lunch break with my husband at 11. Then I went home at 2. EAT IT, SUCKERS!
So I was walking home with all my crap - pictures, pencils and hi-liters and scizzors (I am an office thief, let it be known) and the flowers my husband left at my desk today (awww), when some guy, some random doofus blonde guy wearing stupid khaki shorts and dumb sandals with socks asked, "Those flowers for me??" with this retarded smile like he totally thought he was being funny. Being a superficially nice person on the outside (meaning my mother raised me to always smile and look pretty and polite and sweet no matter what, but my mother also raised me to be an easily-provoked champion arguer*)I contemplated just smiling and not making eye contact and carrying on with my life, as ridiculous as that person just was, but then I thought, Aw hell no! I am a New Yorker! For one more week! And we New Yorkers are MEAN! And we don't take that kind of stupidity laying down! So I shot him my best Look, full of witheringness and Give-me-a-breakness. And the guy with no legs who lives in the penthouse of our building and who sits outside all day long in his wheelchair and who never smiles and always looks at you like you're an idiot, well, he smiled at me. And he shrugged his shoulders. From one New Yorker to another.
For the record, when I go to Moscow and they ask me where I'm from, I'll proudly say New York City, even though it's really not where I'm from, technically I'm from Portland, but I'm not really from there, either, since we all moved around so much, and so since I can, I'm saying I'm from here. And I'll let THAT be my excuse every time I'm feeling snarky. Which is often, let's face it.
We had the craziest rain today. Let's start at the beginning, shall we?
COULD NOT SLEEP. I have nasal drip that could be put to use in the Army as a torture device. Drip, drip, drip. And my mouth seems to be generating mucus, too. And the throat of fire. Yes.
So I get up and watch TV to pass the time. I saw this weird infomercial selling an herbal pill that is supposed to retrain your large intestine to work properly so you have more effective bowel movements. Like fiber, only specialer. This is all weird and good, becuase I'm all about good, regular bowel movements (10:30 am, every day, is that too much information?) but then the guy goes on to explain how once his daughter had a poo so massive that when he glanced in the toilet (seriously, what kind of a freak is this guy?) it "scared" him. That's what he said! HE said it was as wide as his wrist and as long as his daughter's arm. I'm not kidding - have you seen this informercial? And his point in all this was to say that as adults, our poo should be similar, proportionally speaking. So of course I couldn't help but take a peek. Nope. I guess I'm not as healthy as I could be?
Moving on from this gross topic (and how's YOUR Wednesday?) when the sun came up and I finally stopped moaning from the ear/nose/throat pain, I decided to go ahead and be an adult and go to work. Even though it was the day after the Fourth and nobody would blame me for being gone, and even though 1. Friday is my last day at work, 2. My boss is out of town until sometime next week, and 3. I haven't actually had any responsibilities at work since mid-June. And also because the weather was all freaky and the satellite couldn't get a picture, and as we all know, a sick day without Maury Povich is not a day worth having.
By the time I got downstairs it was raining giant sloshy buckets. I got to the subway station and there was FOUR INCHES OF WATER in the turnstiles level. Luckily I had on my cool rainboots (they're yellow! so sunny!) so I was prepared for the worst, but the guy behind me apparently wasn't, and he yelled out "Aw hell no, I'm going HOME." A nice old man next to me bravely waded through the water and probably ruined his shoes. But it was to get worse! There was water spilling down the stairs to the platform like a waterfall! Gushing! Like a total level 5 white water rapid! I could have gone down those stairs in a canoe! That would be fun, incidentally. By the look on the other strapanger's faces, they were just as alarmed as I was. People could drown this way! I took pictures, and I'll post them... eventually. I'm too sick for complicated technological processes.
And then once the rain stopped came the heat. The oppressive heat like a hot towel. Like being peed on. Even my eyebrows were sweating.
And now I'm home. This afternoon we are going to pick up some boxes at our friendly neighborhood UPS store and start packing up our lives. A week and a half, folks! Today I sat down with Peter Pan and explained that a lot of changes were coming, but that Mommy and Daddy would be there and that the flight wouldn't be scary and that he'd get to meet Uncle Monty! and that we would love him the same no matter where we were, and that he was going to be completely safe. I don't know if he gave a damn, but I feel better now.
Just got finished watching 10 Things I Hate About You, which was on at the same time as How To Lose A Guy In Ten Days, which is essentially the same movie, except one is based on Shakespeare and one isn't. I forgot how much I loved this movie, when it first came out this movie defined my high school existence, and damn if I didn't try to get my hair in a long thick braid like Julia Stile's.
And now I live in the same neighborhood as the hottie, but have never actually seen him, which means we only have 2 weeks to meet and casually begin a life-long friendship, in which Michelle and I will swap cookie recipes and Brandon and Heath will, well they'll just swap. Sounds good.
And now a rerun of Gray's Anatomy is on, and I must be off.
There are those people who find cat-calls and those construction workers who whistle at you from across the street insulting. I think they're making stuff up. It's not insulting! Annoying sometimes, sure, and scary even, when you're alone and it's nighttime, and usually the construction workers aren't out at night, but the bums and the scuzz bags totally are, but usually "insulting" is just the wrong word.
The appropriate word would be "fun." Right? Are you with me? Today as I was walking down the stairs to the subway at the Fulton Street station, a guy on his cell phone (on his cell phone!) interrupted his conversation to invite me on a romantic tryst. He was short and slimy and most likely unbathed, but aww, how sweet. So, I did what every stupid girl does and smiled at him. Heck, why not. He's not really serious about it, he just has to show of his masculinity, display his predator instinct, show that he can get it up if needed and will rock my world if I let him, and I appreciate that. In turn, I will show him that he really can't have me, that I know it's all empty threats and that it has nothing to do with any charm I may or may not possess, but that I think it's fun anyway. And then I will get on the train and go home to my husband who is currently throwing a hissy fit because the inspections on the house aren't going the way he'd planned. Oh well.
The other day I bought a pashmina off the street from my favorite street vendor. I don't know his name, but I imagine it's Barney or Willis and he wears a safari hat every day. I decided I loved him when I bought a white pashmina from him a few months back and he asked me if he could have my skirt. At first I was completely caught off guard - was this a come on? - but he explained that his wife would love it and he'd love to hang it as drapes for a surprise for her birthday. As completely ridiculous and unbalanced as that sounds, I found it charming. I paid my $5 and left while he yammered on about the print and the colors and how beautiful I was in it. It was fun, in a mentally unstable kind of way (the best kind of fun, if you ask me).
When I bought a black pashmina from him the other day he had to dig in his bags for a black one, all the while telling me what a complement it would be to my "striking olive complexion" and "Are you Mediterranean? Because you look so exotic." I kept down the laughter - what does he want, a tip? Me to buy another pashmina? - and paid for it. And every day when I walk past him I remember how delusional he is and how even the most off-base and ridiculous compliments make your day so much better. I mean, the guy could have told me I had the most beautiful African American skintone or that my long legs were a turn on and as false as it was, it'd work. He could have said my eyes were blue as the ocean - same result.
I hope Moscow has some street crazies to entertain me, though something tells me I'll have to be content with a different kind of crazy - the kind of crazy that comes when you realize that everyone around you is boring and normal. Maybe I'll have to take up the slack and be the resident loony. Maybe I already am?
When we first set out to pick a puppy and I was flipping through the pages of the AKC Breed handbook, one of the most attractive qualities of the Wire Fox Terrier was it's long schnoz. The breed has two little eyes right in the middle of his head, and then a nose that goes for a mile, with a scruffy little beard.
Peter Pan's Wire Fox Terrier schnoz has proved useful for many things, so far. It makes a great handle for when he is in the way and we need to move him, and it makes it easy to make fun of him, all we have to do is think up something clever about his nose - he has a clown nose, or he's Pirate Longschnoz, you get the drift. One thing we didn't consider was how helpful that nose would be in getting him into places he didn't belong.
Tonight my husband got me a glass of ice water. The minute he handed it to me, Peter got this look on his face which clearly said "That water, it's for me, right?" I took a quick sip as Peter slowly crept into sitting position (otherwise known as "I'm being good. Give me food.") and stared me down.
"What?" I asked him. "You want some water?" I motioned with the glass in my hand toward his face and this, of course, signaled an invitation for him to drink my water.
Not a half second later he had his entire nose stuck in my glass and his little pink tongue was sloshing away. At this point, well, it's his, right? So I sat there holding the glass while he drank. And drank. And drank. The whole glass. I assumed he was finished, so I put the glass on the floor (putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher is so beneath me). I looked down 5 minutes later to see Peter, his face stuck in this glass, desperately licking around for the remaining ice cubes.
Afterward, all the ice cubes eaten, he gave me an icy cold nosy kiss. And it was worth it.
Ahhh, my readers have turned on me! Well, to be fair, my readers are all right, as usual. Oh well.
It is a gloriously humid Friday! We have taken to leaving the air conditioning on in the bedroom where we keep the puppy stashed in his little 2x3 box with a door so that we don't come home to a deflated puppy, his tongue hanging out his mouth and his eyes glazed over. The effect of this is that when we come home from work we walk into a stale, hot, terribly uncomfortable apartment. We put down our laptop bags and take off our uncomfortable shoes, and then open the door to the bedroom. The blast of cool air that meets us and the change in atmosphere we feel is akin to that scene in The Wizard Of Oz when Dorothy opens the door to her black and white home to reveal the lush, technicolored world of Munchkin Land. It is like we are leaving the depths of hell and emerging, lifelike and wondrous, into the clouds of heaven.
For the rest of the night the ac stays off and we sit simmering in our own juices dreaming of iceboxes and over-airconditioned offices. The dog, I'm sure, has learned that we humans hate the cold and looks at us like we are crazy. And really, we are, because who spends all the ac money on the dog? We do, that's who.
I made it home today - a day that feels startlingly like yesterday, seeing as how I haven't been to bed yet - and immediately upon exiting LaGuardia the sticky stench of humidity hit me like a fog of a laundry room with no ventilation. Within minutes my clothes had wilted on my body, my hair was a mess of sweaty curls, and I had an unbearable urge to curse. Ahh, New York!
Our New York City experience reached its zenith tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we had dinner at Nobu. And not just any dinner - oh no - tonight we had a $270 dinner. And yes, it was THAT GOOD. Now, I am aware that for the price of tonight's dinner I could have bought a new pair of True Religion jeans. I could have bought half a pair of Manolo Blahnik's for that. I could have, essentially, fed and clothed an entire nation for a day, perhaps. But instead, we spent it on uncooked fish. Fish they didn't even cook! No cooking! Just cutting, squirting of some sauces, and serving. And man was it worth it.
7 courses. Folks, eating for two hours straight is a work out, and not to be attempted by the faint of heart! We had a toro tartar in a wasabi soup with caviar and an asian peach on the side to "cleanse the palate." Yellowtail sashimi on mustard greens. Red snapper and sesame oil - did you even know red snapper could be eaten raw? Then lobster tempura in a cream sauce with shitake mushrooms. And black cod in sweet miso sauce with foie gras. I had foie gras today! And THEN the sushi platter, and THEN the chocolate souffle and the green tea ice cream. And then they had to roll me down the subway steps and onto the platform, where Brandon and I took the number 2 home on a blissed-out sushi high. $100 per person, plus tax, plus tip, plus the fun of Oh this is Tribeca! and seeing Robert DeNiro's apartment across the street.
In two months we will move to Idaho, where the only raw fish to be found would be fish we would catch in the river with our bare hands and eat like bears, and we will remember at night when we are feeling sad for our complete lack of sophistication and culture - Hey, remember that night when we went to Nobu? And we had all that great food? And we were in the cultural center of the Universe? And we, we! We lived there! And it was great. And damn, this place is boring.
You can tell I'm procrastinating the laundry and my writing when I've posted twice on a Saturday. Tsk tsk tsk.
But I so totally had to tell you about the crazy guy outside the bagel shop last night! He was an older dude, he'd peed himself and was standing in the rain yelling and cursing at a street sign (you know, with the speed limit posted and the parking rules). He was really ticked at it for some reason, and kept giving it the finger. Then he'd walk away and turn around for some reason, like the sign had started taunting him again and he had to go back and let him have it. At one point he was hitting it with what looked to be a blind person's walking stick - you know, white with the black spot at the end? Did he just find that on the street or something or was it his? He couldn't have been blind, he was hitting that street post with such startling accuracy.
We were eating bagels (well, I was eating a bagel - a bagel so good and squishy that it made my heart sing - the husband had a squeaky piece of pizza and a turkey sandwich, of all weird combinations) and looking out the window, watching this poor man beat up street signs, and then this cute girl walked past. A few people had been walking past him during his tirade but he ignored them all. But when this chick walked past, he suddenly lurched at her and started screaming in her face, his fists in the air like a champion boxer ready to pummel something.
She didn't even flinch. I flinched, safe inside this little deli, but she walked on as if nothing had happened and she was completely unafraid. I was amazed and totally awed. What was she, superwoman? In reality, she's probably just a New Yorker. And to me, that is freaking awesome.
One of the most bitchin things about living in New York is the storm season. Now, I know that hurricane season is nothing to find joy from, being that it kills and destroys and all that, but since up here in NY we're relatively safe (have you seen those commercials for the perfect storm series on the Discovery Channel that shows Manhattan being totally swallowed up in the sea? Yeah, scary) I can sit back and enjoy the lightning shows we get.
Last night we had a major t-storm. We completely lost our digital cable (DIGITAL CABLE SUCKS!) and so instead we watched the greeny purple sky erupt into light flashes and listened to the thunder all night.
We live on the 17th floor (technically the 16th) and so have a crazy view of Brooklyn. Since we're so high up, we can see every blast of lightning hitting every tall building in the area, and it's way cool. Peter Pan was appropriately concerned, but didn't show any sign of being a neurotic mess, so that was nice.
Then I tried to sing that song "Rain Rain Go Away" wherein I realized there are two renditions and I had no idea which went how and I realized Damn, I Am Old.
I remembered my sister Alexandra, who was about 6 when we lived in Connecticut. I was about 15 and was then (as I am now) deathly afraid of vomit (16 years vomit free and counting, knock-on-wood). Alex happened to be deathly afraid of rain after she and my mom were caught in a car under a freeway bridge in a bit of a flood during Tropical Storm Bertha in 1990-something. it was very tame and they were totally safe, but Alex was 6 and was therefore scarred for life. So every year during hurricane season, Alex would get really, really scared. Then she'd puke. Everywhere.
One time we had a cute boy over for his birthday. She yakked up the lasagna during birthday cake (so from then on it was rain and lasagna that terrified her - funny how you associate the food puked up with the terror of puking).
So it would rain, she would puke, I would hide in my bedroom. I remember once when she spent a marathon three hours in the bathroom across the hall from my bedroom. I was so skeeved out by it all that I stuffed towels in the cracks in the door and stood with my head out the window and the music cranking until her retching stopped. Yuck, those are weird memories.
Anyway my point is, there is nothing I love more than a good thunderstorm. We had great ones growing up in Mesa, where you could smell the rain in the desert before it even started to fall - and we have great ones here. Not like the rain in Portland, which just falls without any direction or aim and never seems to go away. This rain has purpose! Meaning! And that meaning today was to flood the number 4 train so Brandon couldn't get home.
He called from City Hall where he was transferring to the R after already having tried the 2/3 but which was so crammed he decided he'd get home sooner if he walked across the Brooklyn Bridge in the rain. So. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
In other news, I really need to get my pictures working up on this site again, huh. Jigga.
