What’s so great about New York —
is that all the strangers you see everyday,
don’t nearly make your heart beat as fast
(and who can even recall all of those lost subway moments now??)
as when you get a few seconds alone
in the elevator of your building
with the guy on the 18th floor.
October 29, 2008
October 22, 2008
scissor sister.
Sitting on the crosstown bus on my way home I was tired. The days are long now that the weather has turned cold making the trip back from the west side to the east side happen in the dark. I was hardly concentrating on this week New York Magazine (The Manic Depressive Economy) when I stared to hear the woman behind me talking into her cell phone.
Hello? Yes can you connect me with the Aveda Salon on 72nd and Columbus? Thanks, I’ll hold.
It caught my attention because at that exact moment I noticed that the bus we were on was just passing the Aveda Salon on 72nd and Columbus.
Hi, yes, is this the main number at the salon, because I know you have other numbers but I just wanted to make...oh, it is? Thanks, well I just wanted to call because I just had my hair cut with Celia and she cut it too short, but I just wanted to make sure she knows it’s OK. I mean it’s just way too short, but I mean it’s not a big deal, I don’t want to make her feel bad or anything. It’s just hair, it’ll grow back. So that’s it, I just wanted to call and say it’s not a big deal. Ok. Yes. Thanks.
The woman’s voice was very soft and she sounded like a ten year old apologizing to their mom for having spoiled their appetite for dinner by having too many candy bars. Most all people in small and cramped spaces in New York like to talk on their cell phones blatantly and loudly. We are, it seems, a city full of those who don’t notice or care about anyone around them other than themselves. Yet, as my luck would have it, this one woman’s story which was so intriguing (any good writer will tell you that overhearing great conversations is the best practice) had the decency to talk in a low and quiet voice.
I was struggling to hear, back flush against the seat, using all available willpower to not turn around to catch a glimpse of said disastrous hair cut (too short!) and tell her really, it’s not so bad (we've all been there).
The woman proceeded to call her friend to tell her the events of the day.
Did you get my message? Oh dear it’s awful. It’s just too short and I just called to tell her it’s OK because I felt bad I got so upset in front of her. I said that it’s just hair and that it will grow back...but God Meredith....too short. She took too much off the sides and I was sitting there.....couldn’t tell....I felt bad....how am I ever going to...
It was more difficult to hear everything as we passed more traffic on Central Park West, but I was piecing it all together. She had a big date. Her friend Meredith was being supportive. What good is it to make a big deal out of nothing? Men don’t usually like her anyway. But of all the salons in the city this had never happened to her before. Why does everything have to be so hard? New York isn’t all she thought it was going to be.
All I do is take the bus from one end to the other. I get up in the morning and take the bus from the east side to the west side. After work I take it from the west to the east, crossing through the park is my only real adventure.
When we reached 1st avenue she was still sitting there as I got up. Looking (how could I not?!) at her I could tell that it was short, a chocolate brown mop cut close to the sides of her face and head. She was pale with chubby red cheeks but the only bad thing about her hair was that it made her lonely and sad eyes more distinct.
It’s not bad at all. I told her. Really, you look lovely.
I left before she could say anything, the phone still paused at the side of her face, Meredith still talking on the other end. But as I walked by her I swear I saw a bit of a smile.
Sometimes all you need in this frustrating and lonely city and this frustrating and lonely life, is a little bit of hope.
Hello? Yes can you connect me with the Aveda Salon on 72nd and Columbus? Thanks, I’ll hold.
It caught my attention because at that exact moment I noticed that the bus we were on was just passing the Aveda Salon on 72nd and Columbus.
Hi, yes, is this the main number at the salon, because I know you have other numbers but I just wanted to make...oh, it is? Thanks, well I just wanted to call because I just had my hair cut with Celia and she cut it too short, but I just wanted to make sure she knows it’s OK. I mean it’s just way too short, but I mean it’s not a big deal, I don’t want to make her feel bad or anything. It’s just hair, it’ll grow back. So that’s it, I just wanted to call and say it’s not a big deal. Ok. Yes. Thanks.
The woman’s voice was very soft and she sounded like a ten year old apologizing to their mom for having spoiled their appetite for dinner by having too many candy bars. Most all people in small and cramped spaces in New York like to talk on their cell phones blatantly and loudly. We are, it seems, a city full of those who don’t notice or care about anyone around them other than themselves. Yet, as my luck would have it, this one woman’s story which was so intriguing (any good writer will tell you that overhearing great conversations is the best practice) had the decency to talk in a low and quiet voice.
I was struggling to hear, back flush against the seat, using all available willpower to not turn around to catch a glimpse of said disastrous hair cut (too short!) and tell her really, it’s not so bad (we've all been there).
The woman proceeded to call her friend to tell her the events of the day.
Did you get my message? Oh dear it’s awful. It’s just too short and I just called to tell her it’s OK because I felt bad I got so upset in front of her. I said that it’s just hair and that it will grow back...but God Meredith....too short. She took too much off the sides and I was sitting there.....couldn’t tell....I felt bad....how am I ever going to...
It was more difficult to hear everything as we passed more traffic on Central Park West, but I was piecing it all together. She had a big date. Her friend Meredith was being supportive. What good is it to make a big deal out of nothing? Men don’t usually like her anyway. But of all the salons in the city this had never happened to her before. Why does everything have to be so hard? New York isn’t all she thought it was going to be.
All I do is take the bus from one end to the other. I get up in the morning and take the bus from the east side to the west side. After work I take it from the west to the east, crossing through the park is my only real adventure.
When we reached 1st avenue she was still sitting there as I got up. Looking (how could I not?!) at her I could tell that it was short, a chocolate brown mop cut close to the sides of her face and head. She was pale with chubby red cheeks but the only bad thing about her hair was that it made her lonely and sad eyes more distinct.
It’s not bad at all. I told her. Really, you look lovely.
I left before she could say anything, the phone still paused at the side of her face, Meredith still talking on the other end. But as I walked by her I swear I saw a bit of a smile.
Sometimes all you need in this frustrating and lonely city and this frustrating and lonely life, is a little bit of hope.
October 20, 2008
People don’t change, so it’s a good thing seasons do.
I don’t know why it always amazes me that one day we’re all out on the sidewalks complaining of the heat, sweating on the subways struggling for some amount of leftover non-smelly space as every person feels closer than usual, more suffocating, more crowded...
...and suddenly there we are, all huddled on street corners waiting for the bus with hands digging deep into pockets of coats we forgot we had.
...and suddenly there we are, all huddled on street corners waiting for the bus with hands digging deep into pockets of coats we forgot we had.
October 9, 2008
In the red.
There comes a point in every Manhattan girl’s life when the process of checking ones bank account becomes an altogether horrifying task, inducing gasps, nausea and overall denial. I am not a big spender and never have been, which is a good thing because one can’t afford to be in this city. I have clothes from high school (the classics never go out of style) and eat modestly (it’s amazing how long a jar of peanut butter can last you) and have never cared much in the way of designer handbags or fancy jewelry (how much for that silver bracelet?!?!).
But after nearly three years of living in a city that refuses to pay me what I’m owed and charges me way too much to live in what most places would refer to as a walk-in closet, it was inevitable that I would, one day, look at that dreaded bank account, despite all my efforts to be frugal, and see staring back at me not just any number, but a number in red. With a negative sign in front of it. (The horror!).
It’s a scary feeling realizing that while you are (in most regards) a grown woman capable of holding down a high stress job in a higher stress city, that you can’t always live within your already meager means.
Yes, New York is the greatest place in the world. No, I don’t have any plans to ever leave it. But there comes a point when you can’t help but ask yourself what it means to be in this financially freaked out fragment of time, and recognize that everything you’re working for, everything you have worked for, for forty-five plus hours a week for the past three years of your life, has at the end of the day, not really amounted to much of anything at all.
Oh, and donations are welcome.
But after nearly three years of living in a city that refuses to pay me what I’m owed and charges me way too much to live in what most places would refer to as a walk-in closet, it was inevitable that I would, one day, look at that dreaded bank account, despite all my efforts to be frugal, and see staring back at me not just any number, but a number in red. With a negative sign in front of it. (The horror!).
It’s a scary feeling realizing that while you are (in most regards) a grown woman capable of holding down a high stress job in a higher stress city, that you can’t always live within your already meager means.
Yes, New York is the greatest place in the world. No, I don’t have any plans to ever leave it. But there comes a point when you can’t help but ask yourself what it means to be in this financially freaked out fragment of time, and recognize that everything you’re working for, everything you have worked for, for forty-five plus hours a week for the past three years of your life, has at the end of the day, not really amounted to much of anything at all.
Oh, and donations are welcome.
October 1, 2008
“For best results, squeeze tube from the bottom and flatten as you go up.”
Why is it my best and most ridiculous thoughts upon me when I’m brushing my teeth (vertical strokes, not horizontal) and absently looking back at myself in the mirror?
Tonight was: Relationships are like toothpaste.
Ever notice that when you start off with a new tube you use significantly more than you need to? You’re liberal about it because it’s new and you figure you have a whole tube left that conceivably won’t run out of steam for a good long while (there’s comfort isn’t there, in thinking you have a lot of time left on something?).
But as the days pass you find yourself cutting back, rationing, scared at the thought that it will run out and you’ll be forced to make the effort to go out and get a new one (they’re all the same in the end anyway). The tube gets flatter regardless, causing you to sometimes skimp on your morning brush knowing that you’ll be having coffee in another hour anyway, so what difference will it make?
And then you find yourself in the final days, pushing your index finger along the thin glossy surface from the bottom up, pressing from the T-S-E-R-C all the way to the top, trying to capitalize on every last drop because you have reached what at the beginning you know would inevitably come - the end.
Followed by: I think I might have a cavity.
Tonight was: Relationships are like toothpaste.
Ever notice that when you start off with a new tube you use significantly more than you need to? You’re liberal about it because it’s new and you figure you have a whole tube left that conceivably won’t run out of steam for a good long while (there’s comfort isn’t there, in thinking you have a lot of time left on something?).
But as the days pass you find yourself cutting back, rationing, scared at the thought that it will run out and you’ll be forced to make the effort to go out and get a new one (they’re all the same in the end anyway). The tube gets flatter regardless, causing you to sometimes skimp on your morning brush knowing that you’ll be having coffee in another hour anyway, so what difference will it make?
And then you find yourself in the final days, pushing your index finger along the thin glossy surface from the bottom up, pressing from the T-S-E-R-C all the way to the top, trying to capitalize on every last drop because you have reached what at the beginning you know would inevitably come - the end.
Followed by: I think I might have a cavity.
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