the day i hated new york

Its 9 am on a Sunday.

Let me set the scene for you. Two friends of mine are staying at the Waldorf. I go visit them on Saturday night, and we end up drinking wine. A lot. Of wine. Its late. I don't feel like catching a cab home, much less taking the six train up four stops, so I decide I'm going to spend the night with them.

The next morning is Sunday. Yes, THE Sunday in question. Now I hate Sundays anyways, with their promise of the Monday to follow, but I knew this one was going to be real hell from the second I woke up. I wake up with said hangover to the Waldorf wake-up call, which happens to be across the room from me and has rang at least 67 times. There is nothing, I repeat, nothing, like waking up to a hotel wake-up call. I mean, do they purposely choose the most loud and obnoxious ring, or is it law-required?

I get up and put my clothes from the night before back on, something I positively despise, which has certainly kept any slutty instinct I may have had at bay thus far in life. My contacts are all but stuck to my eyeballs and my hair is best described as a tangle of bleach.

"Hey," Justin yells from the bedroom. "Do you want to take all those bottles of wine with you? Cause we can't take them on the plane."

So while it is confirmed that we drank copious amounts of wine the night before, apparently we did not drink enough. I grab a paper bag that's laying on the floor, throw in the four bottles of wine plus a bottle of water from the mini-bar (they're staying at the Waldorf for heaven sake), give Justin and Christy hugs and kisses and wishings of a safe flight, and head out the door.

First of all, I kind of get lost leaving the Waldorf. I'm sorry, if you've never been I'm sure you're laughing, but this hotel is like, BIG. And we're in some private elevator entrance that leads to Lord knows where. Luckily this gives me time to kill 1/3 of my hangover by downing 5/6 of my 7 3/4 dollar bottle of water.

I arrive at the subway and, of course, it takes its merry time coming to pick me and my fellow uptown commuters up. And its full. Really, really full. I stand trying to balance myself, my huge purse, my bag of four full bottles of wine and 1/6 bottle of water, between a 12-year-old who has apparently already taken up smoking and an old woman of sorts. Side note: If you are a man and you do not offer your seat to the old woman, you have serious things coming to you dude.

So the subway gets stuck. I kid you not. It sits motionless and quiet on the track for at least five full minutes. Now I am aware that five minutes does not sound like a long time, but imagine sitting stuffed in a hot subway car with nowhere to move, carrying at least 25 pounds worth of materials and inhaling fresh cigarette stench. I can't decide which is going to happen to me first, a shoulder break or death by inhalation. My contacts are dry. My feet hurt from the heels I was in last night, and subsequently, am in this morning. There's a possibility I'm coming down with some sort of throat disease.

I finally make it past 68th street, Hunter College, and up to 77th. I anxiously push my way out of the subway and begin walking rapidly towards daylight before I have some sort of panic attack.

And that's when it happens.

Remember that 1/6 bottle of water I had left? That I so carelessly threw in the paper bag, filled with four bottles of wine?

It leaked.

It leaked on the paper bag.

Do you know what happens when paper bags get wet?

They break.

They break, and three out of four bottles of wine break with it. Right in the middle of the subway station. All over my silver dress from the night before, and my patent heels, and the floor, and some splashes on a a child, and there are four bottles worth of sharp glass strewn about, and I'm in the middle of it, and its all red wine so its not like it camouflages, and my bag is broken and I almost drop my purse and tears well up in my eyes and I think Oh My God I'm going to start crying in the subway and I stand there stunned because I have no idea what to do.

Deep breath.

I decide there is nothing I can do about the broken bottles. I don't generally carry a broom and mop with me on my journeys, so I look to the subway counter to signal someone that I need help and of course no one is present. I chalk one up to bad timing, decide my mental health is more important than waiting around for help, pick up my unbroken bottle, stick it in my purse, and take a step forward.

"Oh my God, are you okay?"

I whip around and find a young man gazing concernedly at me. Now then. I knew not everyone in New York was selfish.

"Yeah," I say with a feeble attempt at a laugh. "I don't think there's anything else I can do."

"Hmm. Well I'm glad you're alright." He says.

"Thanks. Have a nice day."

At this point I expect the young man to wander off into city oblivion, never to be seen or heard from by me again. But apparently he has other plans.

"Do you think this may have been a blessing?" He asks, as he follows me outside and east. "Do you think that maybe you're an alcoholic and this was your wake-up call?"

"Um, NO I definitely do not think that." Dirty look. Keep walking.

"Maybe you're pregnant and this was a higher power warning you."

"Um, NO definitely not that either." Scathing look. Keep walking.

"Don't you think you should consider, even for one second, that this is all a little part in God's master plan of telling you not to drink?"

"Nope."

"Why's that?"

I spin around and reach into my purse.

"Cause he left me with one bottle."

the day i loved new york

The moon is eclipsing tonight.

I creep out of trivia night, hoping my absence will go unnoticed by my peers. The night is clear and black, and its late enough so that the cabs have silenced their horns and a certain tranquility exudes from First Avenue. Away from the smell of beer and bourbon, my breath escapes from the scarf that seconds as a face muffle; my fingertips burn from the Atlantic wind. Faint strains of James Taylor and Janis Joplin can be heard from bars down the street. And there it is. A soft, burnt sienna blanket embracing all but the top of the doe-eyed moon. And though its New York, and I can’t see the stars, I know they’re there.

far left corner

Everyday that I leave my apartment to do some writing at my favorite haunt, I see the same couple. They never bring computers or studying material. All they do is make-out and take pictures of each other on their camera phones. Then they make out some more. At first it made me uncomfortable to be in their line of vision, but now I am semi-fascinated.

I wonder about them, this ebony-haired, bad-skinned, skinny-jeaned duo. What is it that they do? They don’t bring work material. They don’t appear to be talking about anything serious. In fact, they rarely talk at all.

I imagine their names are Daniel and Hillary. They work nights, but not in a dirty way. They like to go to the Park on weekends with their adopted pit-bull mix. They split most finances. It is Daniel’s first serious relationship but not Hillary’s. She had an affair with a 56-year-old investment banker when she was 17, but, of course, will never reveal this to Daniel.

more aptly titled "not" meeting cathie black

It’s a wet Monday in New York City. I’m dressed in a snug navy woolen dress with an attached polka-dotted bow across the collar, covered by an orange military jacket from the 1940s. I’m a firm believer clothes just aren’t what they used to be. My blond hair is straightened, my teeth recently whitened. My heels are high and my tights are new.

I’m going to meet Cathie Black.

She’s giving an interview accompanied by a question and answer session at the 92nd Street Y, and I have been preparing my question’s wording, hand gestures, and meticulous placement of my hair for several weeks now. I feel with this question, the next step of my career is going to take off. I just feel it. I just know. Because I’m going to get advice about how to break back into the journalism world from Cathie Black, president of Hearst publishing.

I walk through the security gate at the Y, set off a small and apparently insignificant beep, and head to the counter to pick up my ticket. I bypass the elevator and walk the flight of stairs. I enter a medium sized room that is half-filled with older women and half-filled with younger journalist-types, and make my way as close to the stage as I can get. I sit. I wait. I think on my question and the hand gestures. The hair is already meticulous.

She walks into the room. She is dressed in a black skirt and shirt and a maroon blazer with textured gray-black tights and it’s somehow the perfect outfit for her. Her blond shag resembles my mother’s. I feel an immediate affinity towards her.

As she speaks, I sit silently practicing my speech and chewing a nail. I’m completely sure that the next few minutes are going to dictate my future. Will CB give me her card? Will she refer me to someone in the industry? Will she become my mentor? Will I become the cool older friend to her children? Will I one day be invited to her summer house in the Hamptons and attend polo matches where she will ask me to fetch her a bottled water and I will do so?

The question and answer session arrives. My big break.

As hands raise and women begin waxing poetic about husbands who don’t support career women, the job field, and the right dish soap to use in winter months, I sit and gain nerve until I finally raise my hand along with a myriad of other women.

Cathie Black thanks us all for coming. And its over before it began. I leave.

Since I spent my cab fare for the week on my ticket and copy of “Basic Black,” I begin my walk home, 17 blocks down and across the park. My heels are still high and my hair is now frizzy, but a depressing walk seems a far better option than public transit at this point. I follow the sign that points toward the West Side and wonder if I will be mugged. I decide no.

I eventually make it home with my purse, being, and belongings intact, and I sit down to pout. I do some dishes. I watch an old episode of Friends and I repaint my nail.

The end. But hopefully not.

nanny

On a balmy July night in 1982, her left knee gave out. She fell, more from shock than from anything else. She rose, unharmed to her knowledge.

Now generally speaking, the knee is not the most vital of all body parts. A lung going out, for example, would cause pandemonium of sorts. But a knee? Simply a doctor's visit, an "Apple a Day" speech, and a $10 bill to the smiling receptionist named Sue.

After all, a knee's just a knee.

*****

Her eyes began having problems focusing. She had a cataract in her left eye and her perfect 20/20 vision was suddenly not so. For the first time in 82 years, she would have to rest blue plastic-rimmed frames on the tip of her nose.

She didn't mind. They went perfectly with her short white hair, favorite blue pantsuit and pearls.

*****

Born in Germany in the early 1900's, Esther moved to California when she was six, accompanied by mother, father, brother and sister. Upon arriving in America and facing financial struggle, her mother turned to sewing for a living and her minister father turned to alcohol. He died several years later, they would joke, of severe alcoholism and weak liver.

She went to school and excelled, fascinated but limited. She met her future husband Benjamin Prather there, became a registered nurse in Des Moines, and gave birth to three children, Robert, Dee and Kay. As their lives progressed, Esther learned a little something extra about her husband. He, like her father, was a raging alcoholic. She filed for divorce, something almost unheard of at the time, and neither she nor her three children ever spoke to Benjamin again. He was rumored to have died from cirrhosis of the liver two years later.

*****

After all three of her children moved to California, Esther decided it was for the best if she made the move out west too. She settled into a house on Peach Street, where, unbeknownst to her at the time, she would spend the rest of her life. Friends, family and nurses would come and go from that little house, but she would never live in a retirement or nursing home. Before her death, she would joke that this was simply for the fact that she couldn't drive herself there. She had never learned how.

*****

The best description of Esther was vivacious until the end. She would talk about current events and politics till the sun rose. She would feed her great-grandchildren gummy bears when their parents weren't looking, and dress-up Barbies and set up obstacles for G.I Joes. She would joke with the adults about her age and about the day that she would need a wheelchair to roll through airport terminals.

*****

At first it had just been her left knee. Then the pain spread up and down her left leg like tar, slowly and slickly maneuvering itself so that her leg would never feel quite the same. It moved on to her right leg. It wasn't easy to get out of bed anymore. What used to be a day -to-day routine had suddenly become a day-to-day struggle. Where it might have taken five minutes to stretch and reach for her glasses, it was now taking forty-five.

*****

Once the doctors diagnosed her with a failing circulatory system, she understood why, ever since that fateful July day, her legs had been bothering her. Blood simply wasn't being distributed where it needed to be. The doctors warned her this would be a hurdle she could never completely overcome. A major blood vessel in her leg would need to be replaced, and even then walking would never be the same. She would never want to shop again. She would have a hard time strolling the block for exercise. She would need a wheelchair to roll through terminals.

*****

The replaced blood vessel didn't help much. She hired a nurse who came by twice a week to monitor her, grocery shop for her, and make sure she had everything she needed.

Kay spoke with the nurse one afternoon while Esther was napping. The nurse informed her that she had found Esther in the bathroom on this particular morning, sitting on the toilet seat. She had gone to the restroom two hours earlier, and had never been able to get up following. She was stunned Kay didn't know just how bad Esther had been feeling.

Kay hired the nurse full-time to stay with her mother. She and her husband Bob paid for the expensive nurse, partly because they would have anyways, and partly because of those Reader's Digest assholes.

*****

She loved Reader's Digest. With every donation she made to them, she asked that they write her back to tell her where her money was being applied. For fifteen years she wrote once a month and everytime she sent a five-dollar donation. The checks were cashed. No reply letter was ever sent.

After she died, Kay found copies of her letters and donations under Esther's bed, like a little girl keeps old copies of love-letters. She called the Reader's Digest National Office and informed them that her completely broke, elderly mother had continued to send them money and letters for fifteen years with no reply. They said they were sorry and sent her a year's subscription.

Reader's Digest doesn't seem to be on the stands much these days. Hopefully they filed for bankruptcy and then went to hell.

*****

No one was sure whether or not she knew she was dying. She would wake up from time to time, feebly gaze around, and offer a weak smile. "My goodness!" she would say. "You're all here! What a surprise!"

They all played along. Proud as she was, knowing or otherwise, they knew she would never want to see them acknowledge the ending of her life or feel an ounce of pity for her.

After several days of holding onto a last shred of life, she took a deep, shaky breath. It would be her last. The nurse came in. Everyone already knew. Esther Prather was pronounced dead at 4 p.m. on June 22nd, 1997. The beginning of a new season, the end of an old life.

*****

Shortly after the funeral, my great-grandmother's belongings were divided amongst the family. Grammy wanted only the sentimental things. So did Uncle Buzz. My mom took her beautiful old-fashioned German birth certificate and framed it above our mantle. The rest of the grandchildren took what they remembered her best for, and Aunt Dee wanted everything else. She was always a bitch.

And I myself have been fortunate enough to take away the memory of her smell, her touch, herself. Never having seen death firsthand, I have still learned this from my great-grandmother's: No one loves the shell of a body. You love traits, like "vivacious." You love memories of blue glasses and pearls and gummy bears. But above all, you love a soul. Hopefully you pick up pieces of that soul along the way, and adopt them as your own. And this somewhat cancels the concept of death-because it is through this that people live eternally.

roman numerals are tricky

I have an obsession with odd numbers. Everything must be odd in my mind. If I have two drinks, I need one more. If I have written four blogs, I will immediately compose another lame one about numbers. The only exception to this rule is the number "9", in which case I always want to make it 10.

vodka and dr. zchivago

Viola is Russian. Her lips are dark, her nails and clothing exclusively black. She has warm blonde hair and a small frame. Her teeth are not perfect. The incisors overlap the laterals and they retain a warm yellow color, due mostly to the coffee and cigarettes she ingests daily. But Viola does not see her teeth as a flaw. In fact, she barely notices them.

This is because Viola is obsessed with her eyebrows.

Everyday, Viola wakes up two hours before work. She showers. She dries her hair. She eats a Nutri-grain bar. She brushes her teeth. She gargles. She applies her mahogany lipstick. She walks naked toward the mirror to check for patches of cellulite. Still dimple-free. Depending on her mood, she may make her bed. She dresses. And she sits.

She lights a cigarette, turns on Bette Midler's Greatest Hits and flips the switch to employ the 150 watt bulbs above her mirror. She takes in the moment with a deep inhale and a puff outward. She often inches her face so close to the mirror that her nose bumps into it and she has to angle slightly sideways. With the hand that isn't clutching the Pall Mall, she picks up her 200 dollar pair of Shu Uemura tweezers, and she removes them from their plastic case. (They originally came in a metal one, but Viola worried that the metal would dull the tip). And everyday, she spends an hour and thirteen minutes looking for non-existent eyebrows to pluck.

She knew it was getting bad when her eyebrows started resembling Whoopi Goldberg's, but she couldn't stop. She would pull a single one out, then tap the mirror with the blade of the tweezer, leaving a remnant brow behind, clinging to the mirror by its root. Instead of satisfaction at having removed a stray, she felt she needed to remove another. And another. And another. Until, of course, the point came when there were none to remove.

So now Viola has had to invest in a very expensive eyebrow pencil. While very expensive, Viola has not quite mastered the art of the color-in, so usually one of her eyebrows looks slightly more arched than the other. Her appearance is rather off-kilter.