A Note to Self

I cannot sit still in summertime.

Let me explain this fact further: I am literally over-stimulated from May to September, as warmth and excitement blankets our city. The constant need to move, move, move and bounce from one thing to the next grows in humid weather, like metal expanding in the hot, sticky sun. 

So yes.

The blog has been silent these last several weeks.

But I’ve been out of town!
And I needed to play in the resurrected, summer sun!
 < Insert numerous excuses with dramatic punctuation here! >

It’s also worth mentioning that my current job has me writing and editing streams of exclamation point and emdash-filled paragraphs for most of the day. Obviously I love what I do, but I’m rarely enthused to rush home to my computer—you wouldn’t be either (emdash!).

Still, I opened up that daunting white, blank Word Doc tonight because summer has already started; stories are continuously unfolding; New York keeps turning whether I want to write about it or not.

And then I remembered.
 (After some poking and prodding…)

I do want to record this city’s narrative—and our narratives—even if it means finding the time at 3AM to jot down an idea, or type up that ever-elusive prequel to a “brilliant” thought. 

As E.B. White once said, when talking about New York City no less, “[C]reation is in part merely the business of forgoing the great and small distractions.”

Hey, you.
One of you special 400 to 500 who still read this dusty ol’ blog.
 Don’t let me forget what I just typed.

*****

The conquering of summer has already started! Here's what's been happening in my neck of the woods:

Pianos have been played.

Goodbyes have been made.

I’ve gotten my first sunburn of the season,

And sat on countless rooftops for no good reason.

We all took a jazzy step back in time,

And visited our favorite dive bar—covered in grime.

There were Tony Awards to watch in Time Square,

As well as Shakespeare to hear in the glorious night air.

We danced on a boat,

And read a sidewalk quote,

And realized there is always something beautiful to note. 

The Tale of Two Cities


Charles Street was lined with old lampposts and brick buildings that housed vintage dress shops or art galleries. Each step forward was a step back in time. The gray clouds weren’t dreary; they were quaint and cozy. The spitting rain wasn’t a nuisance, but the perfect excuse to dip into basement boutiques. We were content to wonder, with no plans or final destination, enthralled with a city so divergent from our own.

“New York is like our husband,” said Ivy with a smile that meant some truism was sure to follow. “I feel like New York is the love of my life… but Boston’s the hot young thing.” And we laughed, because she was too close to the truth: New York is home, New York is ours, yet 
New York is the confinement as well as the escape.

This little weekend fling was exciting, and none of us wanted to admit how much we could possibly enjoy another city. The accents, the talkative cabbies, the fluffy hotel pillows... It was cheating! Our feelings were defiant against the tiny slices of life we’d worked so hard to create! Yes, we all needed a little vacation and a cannoli from Mike's. Yes, we were pleased to be back in our respective boroughs at 
the trip's end.

But no, I’m afraid our love affair with Boston is far from over. 

(Editor’s Note to Future Husband: I will never define you as something so mundane as confining, but Ivy’s analogy was all too perfect ;)



Mad Men, Mad World


“Welcome!”
Our perfectly coiffed hostess opens the gate to her apartment. As she swings the metal barricade closed and locks it with a small key, her dress spins about into a bell shape any 1960s housewife would envy.

We climb the carpeted stairs in slingbacks and loafers to a 2nd floor apartment. Sounds of the McGuire Sisters and Ella lazily crooning in the background embellish our tangible imaginations. Because tonight, you see, it’s 1960 – or maybe 1963?

The porch lights are on, smiling over our patch of New York, and the conversation is fitting. Oh how I needed another bobby pin! Doesn’t your hair look fabulous? What a lovely shade of lipstick you’re wearing. Such darling pearls. Don’t the men look dapper?

Trudy shouted from the living room that “The Twist” was about to play. Well, we simply had to join! Isn’t the culmination of every memorable cocktail party on the dance floor, pivoting to and fro? Gin and tonics were tossed aside like secretaries in an ad agency and we danced, danced, danced…

In my mind’s eye, there are scenes of Donald Draper walking smugly down Madison Avenue to the Sterling-Cooper building. But I also see E.B. White typing away columns for magazines, and Bob Dylan just beginning to make his mark. Can’t you envision Edie Sedgwick stumbling through the Village with Andy and her posse in tow? Or maybe you imagine Robert Gottlieb and Korda pouring over Catch-22. How glamorous we can make a turbulent decade appear in hindsight, through the eyes of fake Ray Bands from the corner store.

Even still, I love this time period and its juxtaposition of contrasting American ideals. Pretending if only for an evening, that we took part in 1960’s New York City is all too enjoyable for the current inhabitants of this ever-changing town. Movements, riots, literature, music – many of these cultural contributions began within blocks of our homes.

But when the night was through, I slipped off my heels and changed into Toms. I let out a few pins from my hair to curtail the squeezing of my scalp. Then I walked into the night air with an encouraging thought that many of my 1960s idols may have been without: I, hopefully, will be remembered for more than my red dress, my silky pearls… my fake, plastic pearls.

So let us play. Let us flippantly play in the past for a moment or more.
And then we move on.
Happy Mad Men my friends. 








"I can't believe it now, that the city opened before us like some land of dreams, but it did." -- Mary Cantwell, in "Manhattan, When I Was Young" circa 1950-1960.

"My Mother Punched Your Mother"

"My mother punched your mother in the face. What color was da blood?" "Red!" "R-E-D, that spells the color red and you are not it." 

Have you ever heard the rhyme, Eenie-meenie-miney-mo?
Yeah, it's like that. 
Except not. 

"My mother punched your mother in the face. What color was the blood?" This time a girl with braided pigtails shouts out "blue!" B-L-U-E, blue. Phew. I’m not "it" for our impending game of freeze tag. Thank goodness. I could never keep up with these balls of neglected energy, much less be the instigator of giggly sprinting. 

Newark, NJ has its fine moments and I never enjoy the city more than when I'm bounding around like an 8-year-old on a blacktop (except maybe when I'm bounding around on a rooftop). There is an inherent carefree perspective to the city when you’re running in parking lots with its most innocent inhabitants. Though like the children themselves, a worriless existence is often marred by the sharp pangs of reality - their reality, mind you, not mine. 

The people who work at Safe Haven, a nonprofit after-school program in Newark, sometimes come into the city on weekends. They need an outlet to see others their own age and to escape what can be a highly uplifting or horribly depressing lifestyle.

But the opposite is true for me.

There are days I need to leave the city in order to half grasp my own existence, much less remember why I relocated to New York in the first place. I'd be lying if I told you my connections in Newark weren’t one of those reasons. 

The truth is, I need to be pulled in multiple directions. I need to get holes in my clothes, and scratches on my knees. I need to fall down and run fast on a playground and have hair in my eyes and let a fraction of my "adult" life die - because if I don’t? If I do not escape my everyday world, I will surely loose touch with a more truthful version of reality. 

And that can’t be found in an office. Or a club in the Lower East Side. Or even at a bible study in the Village. My realities are always found when I'm most uninhibited, and yet heavily burdened by something that has nothing to do with myself. 

“Tag! I gotcha!”

A smaller girl with big brown eyes laughs around my “frozen” self. As she skips in a giddy circle, a group of children run past us, mowing her down in a matter of seconds. WHAM. Tearfully she looks up at me from the concrete, with a rip in her tights and dirt on her white blouse.

Ah, the pangs of reality.

But I wasn’t worried about her. I knew in a matter of minutes she’d be smiling again, probably trying to play tag by pulling on my green sweater and perpetuating an unsightly hole in the right sleeve.

If there is anything I’ve learned about the children of Newark, it is that they are a special type of brave we can only strive to be within our own worlds. Their resilience shines through every bump, cut, and bruise.    




Hawkins Street playground battles, and a little dose of reality.

Driving Through the Night

There’s a clicking noise to my left.
Someone’s phone is unabashedly interrupting the non-silence.
They talk.
It’s a different language, with perhaps a handful of English words jumbled into the overall prattle.
And all the while, a line of red lights is stretched before me, dotting the darkness like a landing strip for arriving planes.

Despite being surrounded by strangers, there is a familiarity to this. The crooked positioning of my neck, the gentle to sudden force of an unknown foot tapping overworked breaks – even the lighting. Shades of yellow and green leave playful sepia tones on the quiet faces of the resting and restless.

I feel both very old and very young when traveling on the road at night.

Forgotten moments of childhood creep into my mind with the passing miles. There are memories of cassette tapes and CD players, or bumpy highways that made your nose itch while napping on the seat of a bus. The oncoming wave of white headlights brings an oncoming wave of longings you’d hoped for as 14-year-old sitting in the backseat of your parent's SUV. “Where are you going to go?”

Some of these dreams have undeniably already been dashed, while other ideas are only just blossoming into full-fledged possibilities, as countless as the white lights on the opposite stretch of highway.

And maybe I only feel old because I so acutely remember being young. Late night drives and summer evenings with the windows down take me back to something previously enjoyed – though in fact, this phenomenon is still quite relevant! I can still smile at the darkness with breezy curls wrapped mercilessly around my head, laughing at God only knows what. I can still obtain that feeling of being infinite, stretching myself over the open road, eager as a shadow at dusk.

We drive through the night for a reason.
We travel through obscurity for a cause.
We are determined.

To get somewhere, to do something, to be near someone – whatever your reason, we are determined to accomplish a task. Whether that goal is to beat boredom or to complete a far nobler mission, there is a purpose non-the-less.

I like having a purpose, or at least an objective. I like chasing taillights and watching for the oncoming headlights of something great. I even enjoy spotting resurfaced ideas once lost on the road long ago. 

And most importantly... I like driving through the night to touch both the present and past in one accelerated motion towards what’s to come and what might be.



My Lunchtime Side Job

“Can you please watch my cart? Five…  may-be 10 minutes?”

I’m standing on the corner of 53rd Street and Madison, taking in the glorious mid-day sun from a freak heat wave that has engulfed our city. Quickly flipping through the emails on my phone, I don’t at first realize this plead is directed at me.

“Miss? Please? Can you watch my fruit cart?”

“Oh… uh. Sure,” I say with a shrug. It didn’t really occur to me until after I’d accepted this request that it was, in fact, an odd one.

New York is full of street vendors, food carts, and traveling salesmen (usually of the illegal variety). But never have I been asked to participate in this culture from the selling perspective. Laughing at the situation, I plopped down onto the leather stool and began to twirl back and forth, catching my high heel on the subway grate underneath me.

Well this was fun.

I must have looked a little odd. The typical outfit for a desk job is not quite what most fruit salesmen would wear. I don a dress… they go more for the tee. These street sellers also are not usually women. Nor do they often wear heels. (Please note: While the last two irregularities would often be considered redundant, that is not the case in New York City.)

“Can I buy an apple?” a man asked.
“Oh! Uh… sure. What do they usually go for?”
“I donno. Aren’t you selling the fruit?” he says with a bit of a laugh.
“Well, kind of. You see this isn’t really my fruit cart.” I stop twirling on the leather stool and stand up. Business transactions should be conducted eye-to-eye.

“You mean, someone just left you in charge of the fruit?”
“Eh… more or less.”
“I’ll give ya a quarter.”
“That’s fine with me. I’m not really trying to turn a profit here.”

As the man walked away, I began to truly grasp the humor in my circumstance. Was I actually selling fruit on a street corner during lunch? How did this even happen? What if an old boss saw me? Now that would have been just too enjoyable... 


“Uh yes, I’d like to buy some bananas,” says a voice to my right. I look over to see where the British accent is coming from as a middle-aged man stares at me quizzically. 

“Are you always out here?” he said in royal-like enunciation.
“No… actually the man who sells this stuff had to step away for a few minutes.”
“So he just asked you to watch his fruit??”
“Yes, pretty much,” I respond.
“Oh my God. Alright, well I’ll take 3 bananas.”
“Okay, but I’m not sure what he sells them for…”
We look for a sign. “Ah, 3 for a dollar! That will be one dollar, please.”

The guy straight up laughed at me  (I was laughing at me too) as I handed him a plastic bag. Next I took his money, just like you would at any old grocery store.

But as he turned to leave, disaster struck my fruit cart!

Somehow his coat became entangled in a small container of blueberries. The plastic box bounced to the ground and exploded onto the cement.

“Dammit to hell!” the Brit said. “I’m so sorry!” He bent down and began to place the berries back into the container (which looking back, was rather odd considering I couldn’t sell them anymore anyways - have to be honest with my costumers!).

I peered around for a moment, looking for the original owner of the cart.  He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Phew.

“Oh it's okay. It’s not really my fruit.” I say with a small smile, rolling the blueberries with my foot into the subway grate.  The fruit plummeted to its death, never to be seen again.

I mean, what would you have done?

The British man stands up and chuckles. “Good point.” We then began to roll all the blueberries into the subway grate, looking a bit foolish, but satisfied with the cover-up of our fruit murder.

Overall, I sold about $4 in food. The salesman came back and let me keep 50 cents plus a banana for my efforts. I told him maybe we’d do it again sometime soon. He laughed. He didn’t understand me… but he laughed.

And that was the time I sold fruit in New York City. 


Ode to New York's Winter Nights

It really is such a pity
if you’ve never seen the lights of the city.
Sometimes I feel the most awake
when the sun’s gone down, and night escapes.

The shadows crawl over the walls,
and the light of daytime slowly falls.
A certain thrill attacks the night air
maybe because, you never know what’s truly there.

Walking down the darkened streets,
My heart takes on entirely new beats.
The pulse of the city drums in my ears
And quickly vanquishes any unsettling fears. 

Our town’s lights flicker, twinkle, and flash
And somewhere, a late commuter does a dash.
He’s only trying to “make it” home…
The one place in the city you can almost call your own.

But our collective spirit is alive,
and while individualistic, concurrently we thrive.
There’s a web of intricate pieces and tales
And only simultaneously our story prevails.

Don’t forget that cold, deceptive night breeze.
Take in this place; take it all in please.
A city too blasé certainly dies.
So WAKE UP, and open your disenchanted eyes.

The contrasting dark night
with the harsh, bright light
may certainly bestow quite a great fright.
But for me (and for you)… oh what sheer delight.

For the city’s energy fills our weary appetite. 

While this post is intended to speak to the hearts of New Yorkers, I'm sure these words could be applied to any city with that unstoppable sort of rhythm and addicting nighttime air. 

First Day at HarperCollins


“So when I release the elevator doors, you guys are gonna have to run outta there. Uh… pretty quickly.”

Par-don? Did you say run?

I am now staring in horror at the man next to me, who is staring at the man next to him, who is staring at the intercom. “Um. Okay…?” He said as calmly as one can in a situation like this.

I should have seen it coming.
I should have known the day would not go as planned.
Because, let’s be honest – it never does.
(Insert flashback music.)

The morning hadn’t started out great. Bad hair day. Lost sock. One piece of bread. But despite all these little annoyances, I’d managed to make it to my new place of employment by 9AM sharp. I walked into the HarperCollins building on 53rd, and boarded the elevator headed towards Human Resources.

It was my first day! I was going to smile, and be on time, and be triumphant! And I was going to… scrrreeetch.

I was not going to do anything for about 20 minutes.

We had made it to the 23rd floor (or at least close to it) before our metal cage stopped. The elevator now hung in the air, silent and unmoving. Nervous glances ensued. Surely we weren’t stuck. I mean who gets stuck in an elevator on their first day of work? What are the chances? No, no… we were going to move momentarily.

“Say, is it getting a bit stuffy in here?” I thought to myself. There are seven of us. We aren’t that heavy. Why are we stuck? Are we actually stuck!? It’s been about 3 minutes. What’s the deal? Suddenly I’m very warm. I feel a little claustrophobic.

Scarf must…come…off…now.
Off my neck with you!
Are you trying to CHOKE me, scarf!?

Hum. Okay. Chill. Stare at a spot on the wall and don’t think about anything else but the spot. It’s been about 5 minutes. We’ve now pushed the alarm button, and are waiting for instructions. At least I’d taken off that freaking scarf.

“So when I release the elevator doors, you guys are gonna have to run outta there. Uh… pretty quickly.”

I am the only girl. I am the only one under 35. I am the only one who will die on her first day!

Okay, okay maybe that’s a tad dramatic. But this thought might have crossed my mind (and if you are living in New York, you know why…). With recent elevator accidents, the last place I want to be is trapped inside of one, 23 floors up, with six slightly sweaty men.

“Okay. So it looks like the doors are jammed. I can’t open them. So we’re going to try and reset the elevator and bring it down to the first floor.”

I’m staring at spot on the wall.
No one could distract me now. 

But after another 5 minutes or so passes, we simply aren’t moving. I relinquish the spot and glance at my counterparts. We are an eclectic bunch. Never the less, we all currently wear the same pinched expression.

“You know after what happened with that lady a few weeks ago…” says one man. “Ehhh.” “Oh come on.” “Heeey now.” The rest of us simultaneously grumble our disagreement with his choice of words.

Rule Number One of being stuck in an elevator: You don’t talk about being stuck in an elevator… particularly because of several unfortunate events in the not so distant past. The jerk shut his mouth, and we all went back to an uncomfortable silence.

“So. We can’t reset the elevator,” our faceless narrator says over the intercom. “Don’t worry; just hang tight. We’ve called the mechanic, and he’s on his way up there now.”

Hang tight. 
Hannng tight!?
I hope no pun was intended. 

Meanwhile, I’m trying to email the HR woman from my phone, apologizing for such an odd absence. She knows I’m in the building because I was buzzed up through security. She probably also believes I’m lost and have been wondering around for 20 minutes. 

Dangit. 
At least first impressions aren’t everything…?

Finally a thin metal bar separates the elevator doors. The mechanic then pushes them apart with his hands, revealing we are about 3 inches from the 23rd floor. Everyone hopped out quickly, breathing a sigh of relief.

To wrap this tale up properly: The nice HR lady knew I was stuck in the elevator. My first day was an interesting dive into ebooks, and I loved seeing the behind-the-scenes process of creating this type of technology. I’ll be working in HarperCollins ebook department for the next several months, and so far everything is going well.

Although… I should mention a fire drill occurred immediately after I got settled into my area. And can you guess whose desk is the meeting spot for an emergency? Yes. You are correct. I sat down, and was suddenly surrounded by nameless employees.

Well. That, my friends, is when you just look up and smile.