The Big Apple

Over the weekend we journeyed to The Big Apple to visit my sister. Bridge is an editorial assistant for a fancy schmancy publishing house and recently moved into her first New York apartment! We traveled up with furniture and important living essentials in tow and proceeded to haul them up to her fifth floor walk up apartment. Let me tell you...one summer weekend of living in an unairconditioned, unelevatored building and I'm ready to kiss Mr. Carrier and Mr. Otis, who were, ironically, both New Yorkers (a little tidbit I picked up when I decided I needed to mention the inventors by name for some unfathomable reason). But overall, the apartment is tres cute, with a lot more space than I expected for a Manhattan zip code.

Having been born in New York I never actually made it into the city for the first twenty-two years of my life. Then my venturous sister took the plunge and chose to attend Fordham University. I went from having never stepped foot in the Big Apple to visiting at least two or three times a year. Bridget originally moved home after college and this was my first trip back up in the fourteen months since her graduation.

I have to say in the the multitude of trips I have now made, New York has never left that great of an impression on me. It seems to me the streets are crowed, both with cars and pedestrians, there is a perpetual odor of garbage and everyone is always in an incredible hurry. Don't get me wrong, I am one of very little patience. So the hustle and bustle and constant motion isn't all a bad thing. It's the hustling and bustling into one another, honking, cutting everyone off, fearing for your life as you dart across the street whether you have the right of way or not, and overall vibe of chaos that leaves me utterly exhausted. I crave a day of never leaving my couch or pajamas after every visit.

And I have a huge dislike for Times Square. The lights and billboards are cool. The theatres a NY staple. But it seems to me the congestion is completely uncalled for. Maybe it is because the majority of my visits to the city have found me funneled into this area. My Dad and sister being avid Broadway fans we often ended up wandering around looking for a place to dine prior to a show. And wandering in Times Square is incredibly frustrating. It is packed with sticky smelly pushy people. You look up, you see dancing lights and billboards. You look left or right there's a sea of people or yellow cabs. To the front is the back of some stranger's head, invariably only two inches from your face. And don't even bother trying to look back. You'll be trampled.

So, it is with great pleasure, that I say I made it and entire weekend in New York City without ever seeing a Times Square billboard or light. I never made it to Broadway south of 178th street. I successfully avoided the entire area for the first trip ever. Which is why this was my favorite trip to NYC ever! In exploring other neighborhoods I began to see some of the city's charm. I could almost visualize buying a little street side SoHo flower shop, with a snazzy apartment around the corner. I could drool over the town homes on the 'loveliest street' in the city...even being home to one of the most haunted residences, the tree-lined avenue had a specific je ne sais quoi.

Friday we lazed around the apartment for a while recuperating from the drive and the furniture hall. By the time we got dolled up and made the 30 minute subway trek it was almost 9pm. We dined at SoHo Park. And by dined I mean had some pretty good grub of burgers and finger-licking fries. The atmosphere was super cute with the indoors decorated with trees, twinkle lights and park "bench" tables. We opted to sit at a sidewalk table which was quite lovely as well. I ordered a Sixpoint “Sweet Action” cream ale which has the coolest name ever, but was sorely lacking on flavor.

Next we headed across the street to the Delicatessen. The atmosphere upstairs was pretty lacking, but after some miscommunication with the hostess we were able to order drinks and take them downstairs. Downstairs was cool. There was a loungy area at the base of the stairway with padded benches along the three walls. And the ceiling was glass! It was a rare area of NY with nothing in the space above it, so you could look up and out of the ceiling and see the buildings surrounding you. Plus there was a super cool prohibition style room. Behind two black curtains the tiny room had about three tables and a small bar. No windows, no doors, and the walls were lined with empty apothecary type bottles which was a neat effect. Drinks were expensive, about $45 a round and the bathrooms were like airplane ones, but smelled horribly.

So after two rounds we headed down the street to an Aussie pub! I love Aussies! And pubs! Bridge had described it as a authentic 'bush pub' (which I understood having been to a pub or two in the Australian outback). It ended up having a bit more of a normal bar feel, with club music playing. We ran into this dude who was schmoozing the patrons. I wouldn't have even recognized him, but Mike did. I kinda wanted to ask if he was for real, or just taking advantage of being a look-a-like. But then a big guy dressed all in black hustled him out of the bar. So I figured he was probably legit. Or has enough moolah to hire a fake bodyguard just for shits and giggles and, as a result, is kind of pathetic. I'm gonna say he was authentic and my first NYC celeb siting! Even though celeb is kind of pushing it, I had to look up his name, and I have already forgotten it.

All in all, great night! Our adventures kept us out until 2am at which point Andrew got the giggles, fell to the sidewalk in a fit of hysteria, bringing Mike along with him, while Bridget frantically snapped pictures and I berated them for getting city grub all over themselves. I don't even remember what was so funny...

We hopped in a cab. "207th street please.

"270th street?"
"No, 207th street."
"270th?"
"No. Two-ZERO-seven."Great our cabby doesn't speak English. Seriously, never get in a cab with me. I always get the driver who doesn't know where he's going or what's going on. Asks me for directions in a foreign country, gets mad, kicks me out...it's never an easy process.

It's a Skink!

WARNING: Not for the faint of heart. Do NOT click on the links if you are squeamish about crawling creatures. Your skin will tickle and you will have nightmares. Don't say I didn't warn you.

So I have been told it is not a good idea to advertise slimy creature problems. But, I am beginning to believe my backyard is a refuge for all things yucky. When I first moved in I found a few wood spiders in the house, and watched one wiggle its way under my kitchen door. The largest I came across looked a bit like this. Except it was dead. In the bottom of my dishwasher. Tongs a wad of paper towels and some serious sterilization took place following that ordeal. I like to think I am somewhat of a big girl when it comes to critters. But this house has been seriously testing that theory. I think it's the woods. And the farms. What was I thinking moving back to farm land? Recently, I have had two baby brown toads, and one lard ass green frog stuck to my back door on three different occasions. I did yard work and now have the worst case of poison ivy known to man kind. I stepped on a nasty black lizard while assembling patio furniture, and (I am rather ashamed to admit this, but) I emitted the girliest shriek of my life when it came scrambling back out from under the table's box. I may have even jumped onto the picnic table when he darted at me. Although this can be neither confirmed nor denied. The next day I saw its spawn scrambling over the wall of my flower bed. And today I came across another of the suckers that looked a little something like this chilling in my lawn chair. It had an electric blue tail and while it sent my heart to palpating, I did dart inside to find my camera hoping to get a mug shot. I found the little creature again hiding behind a stack of firewood, but before I could focus and snap he skirted up the house and under the siding. No amount of kicking or banging could make him reappear. Or maybe it's a her. We'll find out in a short while, because as I have learned females will keep their blue tails while males turn all red and ugly. I did a little googlizing and it turns out my lizard friends are skinks. They are the second largest lizard family, following the gecko, and they are carnivorous. Which doesn't bode well for me. I got the heebie jeebies just reading about them. So, little skink family, I can share my lawn and patio furniture with you. Just please try to be courteous and stop skittering across my path or I will have a heart attack. And if you find a way through the siding and into my house, you are donezo.

The Itch

Not the figurative, but the literal variety.

I hate being itchy. It is such a nasty word and feeling. It is the worst feeling in the world. Give me pain any day. Pain I can handle. I can tolerate it. There are scientifically developed scales to indicate just how much pain you feel. There are drugs to dull it. Not that I use them. I am decidedly anti-drug. Just say no and all that jazz. There are no "itchiness" scales.

I did some yard work a week ago. Yard work I am not supposed to be responsible for. Our land lord claimed he takes care of the yard, but there were weeds taller than I am, with stalks at thick as my wrist. There was dead debris everywhere. And being the good tenant that I am (and more so not wanting the yard to look trashy for our party over the weekend), I spent a few hours filling three industrial size garbage bags full of foliage. Two days later I had three suspicious looking bumps on my right forearm. They itched incessantly, but I grinned and beared it. Now, a week later, the three bumps have doubled in size and number. They have "spread" to at least eight other areas and my arms, legs, and side itch like crazy.

I had the chicken pox when I was younger. I still remember those pesty bumps. I was horrible at not scratching, and to this day I have the scars to prove it. Now they have vaccines for those gruesome diseases. Kids today don't have to deal with mumps or measles or pox. They get merciful itch-free childhoods...the little bastards.

And even with all my practice I am horrible at withstanding the itch. I'd rather stick 20 needles in my arm. Stub my toe 10 times. Have heartburn for hours. Give birth twice. And deal with almost any sort of cramp or pain, rather than bear the non stop burning fire that are these red bumps. On second thought, maybe not the birth thing. Everyone says you forget the pain after seeing the product. But having witnessed birth (which I have) and knowing about the process (I know more than you'd care to) I'm not really sure it's such a good idea. So maybe I'll withhold judgment on that one for now. The point being the itching is driving me crazy. Over the counter remedies are not working. And when I finally broke down and asked a doctor about it the response was 'wait it out.' This is why I can't stand doctors. The never feel the same urgency you do. Prescribe me something. Amputate. Do some witch voo-doo thingamajig. I don't care. Just fix my problem!

Police

Two weeks ago there was a knock at my door. This was unusual, but expected, as our sound technician was due any minute to finish setting up the surround sound (one of our coolest wedding gifts!). Except when I got to the door there wasn't anyone there. Strange. The sound guy knows to use the back door. So I walked to the front of the house, opened the door, and found the police. I knew it was the police not by his uniform, he was in plainclothes, but by the very official looking, and quite daunting shiny badge and photo ID he waved in my face. "Hello, Ma'am I am so-and-so from the department of such-and-such," he said. I have no idea what department it was, like I said...shiny badge...police on the doorstep...daunting. All sensible thought and survival skills flew out the window as my mind scrambled to figure out what I had done. Or what my husband had done. That's right, I have a husband now. Maybe they're after him. Whew. I'm safe. What's that? Oh, he's looking for a Mr. D.B. I don't know a Mr. D.B.

"Uh...um...I'm sorry, sir. I don't know who that is."

"Well, this is [insert my address here], isn't it?" Oh crap. He knows where I live.

"Yes." But wait...!!
"There are three different tenants on this property." Maybe he's looking for one of them. Except "I know the people downstairs and they aren't D.B. There is another guy though. He comes and goes a lot and often isn't around. I've never met him. My, um, uhhh, my husband has, but he is out of town." Great I just stuttered over husband. It's a new term, but that sounded fishy. Especially since he's conveniently out of town. Oh good he's leaving, he bought it. Err, not that there was anything to buy. That was the truth. Just cause the police are questioning you, doesn't mean you did anything wrong. Must remember that in the future.

So the po po heads around back to scope things out. And runs into the sound guy. He questions him: "Are you D.B?"

"Uh, no. I'm going to see my, um, sister-in-law." Nice. We both stuttered over the new terms. We are super convincing and smooth. I half expected him to return with accusations of harboring this D.B dude. So far, police free for 15 days and counting....