Compliment?

Last week, my wittiest little student complimented and then zinged me in a matter of seconds.  We greeted each other at the beginning of our session.  He said, “You look beautiful today.” 

“Thank you,” I responded.  “That’s a very nice compliment.”

“I hope my future wife will be as beautiful as you…” he continued.

My smiled brightened as I threw back my shoulders and sat up a little straighter, ready to bask in more niceties. 

“Except, I hope that my future wife will be 20 years younger,” he concluded.

My body (and ego) deflated instantly.

Smells

I encounter a variety of smells in New York City on a daily basis. Today, I passed through five different smells on my two block walk from the subway to our apartment. Some good, some not so good.

I stepped out of the subway and waited for the light to change next to a sewer grate. I held my breath as a cloud of, literally, sewage engulfed me. I bounded across the street as soon as the light changed and dived headfirst into the sweet aroma of roasted nuts from the vendor on the corner.

I continued down the block and my mouth watered as I passed the Super Taco burrito truck. Warm tortillas and steak filled my nostrils and made my stomach growl in anticipation of dinner. The smell of black beans and rice lasted for only 30 seconds before a wave of fresh laundry placated the need to stuff my face with street meat.

I walked to the corner where I caught whiffs of rotten fruit from the garbage bags lining the sidewalk.  Laundry/rotten fruit/laundry/rotten fruit. I alternated nostrils and inhaled quickly depending on which way the wind blew. I focused so intently on my breathing that I almost missed my light. Luckily, the next half block was void of pungent fumes.

My short jaunt to and from the subway is a smorgasbord of smells. I've learned to inhale when appropriate, and I've learned to hold my breath and risk passing out from a lack of oxygen as well. I thought living for so long with my dad and my brother would have better prepared for a variety of foul odors, but I guess not.

Smells, both good and bad, are just a part of the city that I have to accept.

Hot Commodities

A girlfriend and I walked to "happy hour" last Friday to meet our co-workers to celebrate a week of completed work.  As we crossed the street, a minivan drove by and the middle-aged man driving catcalled to us.  My girlfriend and I looked at each other in disbelief.

Are we now in the age bracket where this is the type of men that we attract?  Men in minivans?  Yikes.

It Wasn't Me

On Friday night, we ate dinner at a nearby Greek restaurant.  I excused myself from the table to use the restroom.  I walked into the single-stall ladies room to discover that the person before me had thrown a wad of paper towels into the toilet.

I didn’t want to flush the toilet because (thanks to several years in the restaurant industry) I knew that the toilet would clog or overflow.  So, I headed toward the kitchen and caught our waiter.  I explained that someone – but not me –threw paper towels into the toilet and I didn’t want to flush it.  The waiter shook his head and said, “Okay, one moment.”

He then turned to the kitchen of five male cooks and waiters and loudly explained the problem in Greek, a language that I don’t understand.  I awkwardly stood near the door.  I thought I had clearly stated that I was not at fault, but I somehow think that was lost in translation because the entire kitchen staff stopped and looked at me and shook their heads when my waiter finished explaining the situation. 

A cook then stepped around the corner of the counter and said, “Don’t worry.  I fix the problem.”  I again declared my innocence.  “It wasn’t me!"  But, somehow, that claim fell on deaf (or Greek) ears.

The cook took a few steps toward a door in the floor that led to a cellar.  He repeatedly yelled, “Jesus”, into the darkened hole.  Jesus, another restaurant employee, climbed out of the cellar.  The cook explained the situation again, but this time in Spanish, another language that I don’t understand.  Mid-conversation I hear the word, “caca,” one of the few Spanish words that I do know.  “Caca” was definitely a word I did NOT use! 

“No!  No!  I know that word.  Not caca,” I said, dumbstruck that I said the word to strangers and in an attempt to defend myself.  “Paper towels.  Paper towels in the toilet.”

The men just looked at me.  I then waved my arms and proclaimed, “I DIDN’T DO IT!” 

Jesus nodded at me and snapped a pair of rubber gloves over his hands.  The cook laughed and said, “Don’t worry.  We fix it.  He’s toilet doctor.”  Jesus then strode by me.

Next time, I will just use the men’s room.  

Save My Seat

Today, I played with one of my little four-year-old clients in the back gym at work. We busily drilled plastic screws in and out of a PLAYSKOOL workbench. We were the only ones in the room.

Then, a lady walked in and out of the room.  She left the door ajar and noise filtered in from the hallway. I asked my little client if he could shut the door so that we could continue to play and talk in a quiet atmosphere. He jumped up and excitedly said, "Yes, but please save my seat!"

I looked around the empty room and smiled. "No problem!" I yelled.

Buddies. That's what I'd call us.  Buddies.

City Love

My brother visited us for the first time since I moved to New York City. New visitors are nice because I once again get to experience the city with fresh eyes. Old, everyday routine things become interesting again.

My brother noticed details that used to fascinate me, but I now overlook. He marveled at the size of skyscrapers and the construction that went into building them. Each time we went into the subway he noted the arched ceilings, the girth of the steel beams, and the speed of the trains.  He liked the number of people always on the street, no matter the time.  All things that I love about the city, but take for granted.

Sometimes it takes a new perspective to reinvigorate my appreciation of what's around me.

Full House

On Superbowl Sunday, eighteen friends watched the game at our place.  Eighteen! Talk about a full house.

Our apartment, though roomier than the first two places, still lacks lots of space. Fortunately, our friends didn't mind and they happily squeezed into any available spot. Four nudged onto the loveseat. Two plopped on the floor. Eight settled into chairs. One hopped on a barstool. One rested on a big pillow. One sat on a step stool. And, one stood.

I never doubted that everyone would fit into our 11x19 ft room. But, Ben... he stressed just a little about everyone's comfort level. Despite limited space, the party was a success and felt very "New York". Nowhere else in the U.S. would it be normal for that many adults to be in the same room of this size.

Hopefully, everyone had a great time. If needed, we'll lure them back next year with the chili cheese dip. Here's to Superbowl XLVI in 2012.

Spring Is Coming

Yesterday, the sky wrapped New York City in a beautiful shade of blue.  The temperature reached 60 degrees.  That combination meant perfect weather for happy hour with the girls at work.

At happy hour, we noticed how the signs of spring were bringing pleasant changes to the city.  People traded apartments for parks. Strangers laughed and smiled, their faces visible when no longer hidden behind scarves and hats. People sat outside to eat at restaurants. A man at our restaurant actually held the door open for me.  Held the door open!

Of course, the niceties will be short lived.  It’s supposed to be 40 degrees tomorrow with a chance of snow sometime this week.  But, the good weather definitely whetted a few New York appetites for the coming of spring.

My New Schtick

I’ve learned a lot of new words since moving to New York, specifically a lot of Yiddish words.  I’ve expanded my vocabulary. Added a little flavor to what I say.

I hear words like kvetch, chutzpah, yenta, oy vey, and mensch quite a bit.  Although, I feel I lack the pizzazz and authority to pull them off in normal conversation.  I have incorporated a few into my daily speech. 

Like the word schlep, which I use at least several times a week.  In New York, we use the word schlep to refer to our grueling commutes around the city.  For example, “I schlepped home from work in the rain with three bags of groceries.”  Schlep really gets the point across to people.  We don’t walk or stroll, we schlep.  I also like to throw in a jubilant mazel tov when appropriate, which isn’t too often, but often enough for me to include in this post.

Since moving to New York, I’ve munched on bagels with lox, eaten latkes, schmoozed at parties, and shook my tukhus on the dance floor.  I’ve dealt with a schmuck or two on the street and have participated in Shabbat on several occasions.  I’ve listened to people spiel about things, and once saw a stranger’s schlong (totally by accident on the way to the subway).

The new vocabulary really suits me.   It makes me feel very “New York”.  I think a few of these words will transition into a permanent part of my vocabulary.  Yes, that’s right.  I will make it a part of my schtick.  

* Check out wikipedia for the definitions of the Yiddish words mentioned above if they elude you.  

Say That Again

I happened to walk into a classroom when the teacher was reading a book about a famous baseball player from Louisville, Kentucky. Except, she pronounced Louisville as "Looeyville."

Uh, oh.  Definite out-of-towner.  I had to interject.

I announced to the class that a true Kentuckian says "Looavul" or even "Luhvul," but not "Looeyville."  The teacher tried again, and I gave her credit.  She tried.  She bravely attempted a southern accent, but it still didn't work.  It just sounded like "LooEville."

Perhaps only those from the heart of the Bluegrass can really say it just right.

Mistaken Identity

Here is another post dedicated to the Second Avenue Select Bus Service...

On Monday, I settled into a bus seat and popped in my earbuds to relax to some good music. Unexpectedly, I felt someone tap my leg. I looked up to see an unfamiliar man in a dark hat, coat, and gloves. He mouthed something unintelligible and, what I assumed to be, unimportant.  Annoyed, I gave him a dirty look and returned to my phone.  No way was I going to interrupt my music and waste my time on a strange man.

A few minutes later I felt another tap on my leg.  I looked up to see the same man standing there. I reluctantly removed my headphones, expecting him to say something inappropriate or weird.

"I am with the MTA (Metropolitan Transportation Authority) checking valid bus tickets.  Please get out your ticket," he said.

Oops.  He wasn't a strange man on a mission to bother me or ruin my day.  Nope.  He was just an employee of the city doing his job.

That's when I realized just how hardened of a New Yorker I've become.

 

Breakdown

Last Friday, a girlfriend and I took the M15 bus down Second Avenue.  The bus was barreling toward our destination when it stopped suddenly and we heard the engine turn off while in the middle of the lane.  All of the passengers, including myself, groaned in annoyance. 

Then, a lady in the front yelled that the bus driver was sick and couldn’t drive.  Another bus would pick us up.  Everyone looked at each other in confusion.  Then, another person yelled to check out the driver as he ran into the emergency room at the hospital across the street.

I stared out the window and, sure enough, I saw him running for the double doors of the hospital.  My girlfriend, a Midwesterner, and I, a Southerner, immediately worried about the fate of the bus driver. What happened?  Was he okay?

But, a few of the rough ‘n’ tough, born and bred New Yorkers were not so worried.  One woman bellowed from her seat, “I’m not moving out of this %$#@ing seat until he gets back from the $%#ing hospital.” 

Never mess with New Yorkers during their commutes. 

* I snapped this photo with my phone as we filed out of the bus and into the street.  Some people ran down the street.  Some caught cabs.  And, some stayed on the bus.

It's All In The Pronunciation

The fifth grade class gave a presentation to the school about the U.S. government, specifically the Constitution and the Articles of Confederation.  One student excitedly reported to the school that there are three branches of the government.  He leaned into the microphone as he carefully read his note card.

It went something like this… we have the “LEG-islative” branch, the “JUDD-i-cal” branch, and the “EXECUTE-tive” branch. 

I don’t know about anyone else, but the last one, the EXECUTE-tive branch, sounds a little intimidating.

Third Time

I walked into Trader Joe's grocery store this morning, and I ran into Tina Fey.  Again!  This is the third time that our paths have miraculously crossed.

I casually run into a mega superstar more than any other person in the city.  Is it fate?  Are cosmic forces trying to bring us together? Am I destined to be her sidekick (or she mine)?

Or, as I asked once before, is Tina Fey stalking me?

I Go Walking

One more picture from our weekend away. It's hard to believe that we were only 2.5 hours outside the city in the photo below. See, it's true. We have everything in (or around) New York City - mountains, beaches, oceans, rivers...