Bonds

Wedding season has started. We attended our first of four, potentially six, weddings this past weekend. With each glass of wine or champagne I, naturally, became a better conversationalist and blabbed about the surprises and charm of married life.

I think Ben appreciated what I shared. If I recall, it went a little like this…

The first few weeks, months actually, felt like we were still dating. The ring was on my finger, we both crawled under the same sheets, but it felt like we were just enjoying an extended weekend visit.

Lately, I’ve noticed a gradual change. It’s a bond of stability and trust that continually grows stronger. No matter what, I always have a partner in life, someone that will always be there. If I lose my job, sleep with a side ponytail, forget to trim my toenails and pluck my eyebrows, or wake up with the folds of our bed sheets imprinted on my face, … he’s still there (not that any of those things would ever happen to me). We’re allies. Buddies. Partners.

I have someone to meet after work, hold hands with on Saturdays, and share every (and I mean every single, minute detail) with for the rest of my life. With every wedding we attend this summer, the ceremony and vows they make mean more and excite me for our future.

Anonymous

In grad school, I got a pink and white canvas bag with my name stitched in hot pink and job title printed in neon green on the side. Cute, girlie, monogrammed – definitely, a southern thing.

People complimented the bag back home. But, then again, people at home exude southern warmth and charm. Chances are slim that they’ll mug me during my morning commute, steal my bag, and then use the monogrammed information to steal my identity.

The bag, I finally decided, is not for New York City. I’ve realized that announcing my name and occupation to random strangers on my trek to work is not good.

I used it for the first time on Monday. I slung it over my shoulder as I walked out the door. I fiddled with the volume on my IPod and walked past a group of men. One whistled and then loudly said, “Good morning, sweet _________ (insert my first name here along with several other descriptive, yet moderately sensual adjectives).” Not so good.

On Tuesday, I squished onto the bus in Harlem. The bag sat on my lap, my name and occupation boldly faced outward. The hot pink print sparkled in the morning sun amid the sea of black and brown bags. A female voice a couple of seats down, apparently not dazzled, grumbled “What the #!@$ is an SLP?” Not so good again.

On Thursday, I swiped my metro card at the subway turnstile and jetted down the stairs to catch the train. As I hopped down the last step, I dodged a homeless man on the corner who personalized his request. “Money, money… I need money, ___________ (once again, my first name).”

Everyone from pervy construction workers to grumpy women to homeless men knew me by name. So much for anonymity in the city.

Work Out

As I brushed my teeth in front of the bathroom mirror, an odd noise came from the other end of the apartment, grunts and heavy breathing. Even the hum of my electric Sonacare toothbrush couldn’t drown out the sound.

I poked my head around the corner to find my husband pumping iron. He stood and puffed out his chest like a glistening statue of bulging biceps and steel pecs. Kinda, sort of… well, almost.

He rooted himself in front of the mirror, strategically under the recessed lighting, and watched his muscles grow with each rep of the 20lb dumbbells. A recent purchase from Kmart. I never knew a mini Hulk Hogan loomed behind that slender 6’3 frame.

He caught my eye, winked, and laughed. I rolled my eyes and spit out the remaining toothpaste that I managed not to choke on. Fifteen seconds later I heard footsteps. He squeezed behind me in the bathroom and flipped the extra light switch. Because it’s all about the lighting.

He turned side to side, flexed his muscles, rolled his shoulders, tightened his stomach, and then dabbed his forehead with the washcloth.

“Babe, look at my muscles. Just look at them! They’re huge. Woo!”

“You just bought those weights and you lifted them for almost 45 seconds,” I reminded him. Honestly, did he think that 12 reps would do that much? Apparently, yes. Yes, he did.

“Babe, please. I’m huge, and I’m only going to get bigger.”

And, after only being married for nine and half months, I’ve learned what to say in a situation like this…

“Of course.”

Returning to New York

It was different this time when I left home and flew back to New York after Spring Break. I sort of felt it in the airplane as we landed, just a little. Then, I felt it again in the taxi on the ride home from the airport. It was a feeling, an emotion that I hadn’t felt before in New York City… relief and happiness, a kind of happiness to be back in New York.

For me, that’s huge. A big step toward considering New York more of a home as opposed to just some huge, overly crowded, expensive city that I must survive for the next few years. The transition from home to the city proved more difficult than anticipated, and finally a sense of relief and belonging welcomed me.

I slumped in the backseat of the taxi, weighted down by my 51.75 pound suitcase, and watched the trees in Central Park melt into one green blur. Some of the streets, some of the buildings looked familiar. The incessant car honks and people yelling oddly comforted me. The bright lights of restaurants and store windows cast shadows on the sidewalks that danced and excited me. For one second, I understood, I got why people fall in love with New York. For a brief instant, I finally felt connected to a place that had left me yearning for home since August.

The feeling didn’t last long. Or, it lasted until another car cut off my taxi which prompted my driver to let out a three sentence slew of cuss words in a foreign language. He then retaliated and swerved so violently to the right that a biker was forced to jump the curb and nearly sail into a metal street lamp.

I don’t consider New York my home… yet. But, I can sort of feel it growing on me. I can see it coming. Like the longer I stay the harder it may actually be to leave one day. For the first time, New York and I are seeing eye-to-eye. We are working out our differences and, like springtime, ready to begin anew.

Sunday Afternoon

I took this picture of Ben after we ate the biggest BBQ meal ever at a restaurant called Dinosaur BBQ in Harlem. We tried to walk home, but crashed on the lawn at Columbia University. Our stomachs were so full that my back hurt from waddling and the button on my jeans left a permanent imprint on my stomach. Ben slipped into a food coma shortly after this picture.

Oh No, Not Again...

I got blood drawn last Sunday in Morehead. Of course, my mom and Aunt Dorothy accompanied me. Lord knows, I needed the support. Literally, like an extra set of arms to catch me before I hit the floor. Ugh, I hate needles.

I slid in the plastic maroon chair at St. Claire, my mom and Aunt Dorothy a few feet away, and twirled my hair into tiny knots to distract myself. This was my third time since December to have blood work done. Shouldn’t I be used to it? A little tougher? Slightly braver? The perspiration that beaded on my forehead suggested otherwise. I just thanked God that I didn’t recognize the lab technician… in a small town the likelihood that we would have been high school classmates or second cousins was dangerously high.

The lab technician swabbed my arm with an alcohol pad while I wished I had some alcohol in my system. One brewski would have hardly affected the results, my liver is young. She inserted the needle. I tried to breathe, imagine a happy place, and be a big girl. I just couldn’t.

Seconds after she finished, I saw spots. My stomach churned. I got light headed. My knees turned weak.

We walked out into the hallway and then it hit me. I slowly sank down and sprawled out like a limp starfish on the first floor in the main entrance of our town’s only hospital. My mom, a nurse there, held my hand and encouragingly whispered… “When you can stand, let’s make a run for it.”

Perspectives: Part I

I leaned against the wall at the therapy gym where I work in the evenings, and joined the other therapists in conversation. We chatted about Spring Break plans when one therapist mentioned that he will travel to Louisiana to rebuild homes destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Interested, I asked him to continue.

He had visited New Orleans in 2005 after the hurricane and witnessed the destruction Katrina wreaked on not only the city, but its people. I thought about the great perspective he will get from visiting then and now.

“I’m really looking forward to it. I mean, most people have been living in trailers for three years,” he cried incredulously. “Three years!”

The other therapists nodded in agreement, shaking their heads.

“Can you imagine living in a trailer for three years?” he asked, totally stressing the word ‘imagine’.

I stood dumbfounded and highly amused. City folk.

“Actually, yes, I can. I’m from Kentucky. Trailers… they’re pretty common.”

Roger looked at me, slightly shocked.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “Oops.”

It ain’t all skyscrapers and high rises, baby.

Urban Breeze

On Thursday evening, Ben and I celebrated the warm weather with dessert... fruit smoothies. Ben geared up for a mission and grabbed his apron, blender, and cleaver. He moved around the kitchen with a certain, um, finesse, and threw random fruits from the fridge in the blender.

Meanwhile, I relaxed on the couch with my feet propped up on the stepstool and daydreamed of myself with a great tan as Ben sweated above the blender and furiously googled smoothie ingredient ratios, determined to make his first two smoothies a success.

Upon completion of his edible masterpiece, Ben served two strawberry and banana smoothies in frosted pint glasses. We sipped and savored our drinks as the fresh (my standards have changed) city air cleansed our apartment. With our hands wrapped around two neon orange koozies, we decided that summer can’t come soon enough.

Bedtime

I was unemployed for three months and semi-unemployed for four months. During those seven months, I didn’t have a bedtime. I flitted around the apartment with the lights on and radio cranked up to the highest volume. I coaxed Ben into 8pm movies, 9pm infomercials, and 10pm television shows. I flipped through magazines under the bedside lamp until midnight and annoyed Ben as I hid under the covers and text messaged friends, played Tetris. When asked what the beeping noises were, I always responded with, “Beeping noises? What beeping noises? I don’t hear anything.” Ben complained that my erratic night schedule made it difficult for him to fall sleep and even more difficult for him to wake up in the morning for work. Pfff, I thought.

But, oh, how the times have changed since getting a job at two schools and a sensory gym. I follow a strict nighttime routine. Clock work. Pajamas on and teeth brushed by 9:30pm, comfortably nestled in bed by 9:45pm, and lights turned off by 10pm. I settled into this routine while Ben was away on business in London. He left a night owl and returned to a sergeant of bedtime boot camp.

Last night, at 10pm, the TV still blared in the background. I rolled over and gently, kindly reminded Ben that it was time for bed. He acted surprised and timidly asked if he could continue to watch his show. I shook my head. I can’t bring home the bacon without a little shuteye.

Ben sighed, defeated. He turned off the TV and tossed the remote on the nightstand.

Times have changed. I’m a working woman now.

Spring Is Here

This photo makes me smile. I took it one evening at a flower stand just a short walk from our apartment. Enjoy.

Paging Dr. Ben

My throat itched, my body ached, my arm hairs hurt, and my head pounded. It felt like the beginnings of the flu. Ugh.

I lay in bed, buried beneath a mountain of blankets as Ben googled the warning signs of deadly diseases. He yelled my name every ten seconds and raced across the apartment in fear that my symptoms resembled cholera, Scarlet Fever, or some strange disease contracted through the dirty hands of public school children.

(He exaggerates situations… just a teeny bit. but I secretly love it.)

He fretted and fussed over me, brought me Crystal Light lemonade and repeatedly tucked the blanket under my feet. I told him that eased the pain.

I whimpered that my mom and dad used to check the back of my throat with a flashlight to rule out strep. Ben grabbed the next best light source available – the TV remote control. He pressed the remote, lit up the buttons, and had me say “ah”. Somehow, he hypothesized, the red glow from the buttons would illuminate any white patches in my throat.

I definitely married the best.

What other man could demonstrate such empathy, impromptu preparedness, and MacGyver-esque thinking? No one that I know.

Sweet Kicks

Last night, I interviewed for a third job to work in the evenings after my school job. As I walked home, I crossed paths with a homeless man who casually cleaned his fingernails and tossed the clippings on the ground. He leaned against his shopping cart, a cart so large and densely packed it nearly barricaded the sidewalk. His biceps have to be huge from pushing that mammoth, strapped mound of junk around the neighborhood.

I surveyed his treasures as I walked by when suddenly the sweetest pair of retro Reeboks caught my eye. I did a double take. Where did he finagle those? A pair in mint condition that begged to be worn with a chic outfit from my closet.

He glanced up. I shifted my gaze downward. I almost muttered something like “nice shoes”, but didn’t want any exchange of communication to be mistaken as a request to be stuffed and buried in his cart (possibly with some other Upper West Side residents).

I shook my head and walked on. Three jobs and I can’t afford those shoes. No job and he can cram more possessions in that cart than we can shove in our tiny apartment. Something is wrong with the world when a homeless man on the corner sports cooler tennis shoes and more property than me.

Ridin' In Style

On Saturday night, we traveled from the Lower East Side to the Upper West Side in style… a black stretch limo with tinted windows and a personal driver named “Donnie”. Since getting a job, we’ve really stepped it up. Forget taxis, subways, and buses. Move over Donald Trump. We roll with the bigwigs now.

We left a restaurant and patiently waited outside for a cab despite the subzero temperatures and beginning signs of frostbite. Yet, no yellow beacons of light appeared. Finally, Ben caught sight of a “gypsy” limo and hailed it over to our corner. The driver rolled down his window, asked for our destination, and then unlocked the door to our salvation.

Everyone climbed in and stretched out on a leather seat while “after hours” mood lighting faded from purple to green to blue. Although Donnie played fun tunes that we sang along to, he failed to stock his ride with refreshments for the weary, thirsty stragglers he found on New York City streets and sidewalks.

When we arrived at our street, Donnie straddled the limo diagonally over one corner, barely missing a group of four guys. Ben and I hopped out, tickled that we rode home in a limo. Across the street, the group of guys slowed down and pointed at us.

“They think we’re famous because of the limo,” Ben said. “Shield your face.”

We covered our faces with a free hand, ran across the street, and pretended that the attention embarrassed us. I cursed myself for not having any sunglasses to shield me from the growing number of paparazzi.

The limo paid for itself.

I arrived at school Monday morning and waited in the front office on a bench just five feet from a table that overflowed with doughnuts, candy, cookies, and coffee. As I waited to meet the school's speech therapists, my stomach churned nervously... or, maybe, just in hunger from the Kristy Kreme doughnuts and chocolate bars which teased me. Clearly, the plain bagel I ate on the bus was not enough.

The little boy next to me, apparently, couldn't resist the display of enriched, deep-fried white flour and icing (a definite staple of his diet). Each time the secretary swiveled around in her chair, he darted across the room and stole a doughnut or handful of Skittles. After his fourth trip, he licked his fingers, raised his eyes, and rotated toward me.

"What are you here for?" he asked.

"I have a meeting with one of the speech teachers," I said in a teacher-like tone, one which established my credibility and authority.

He looked me up and down with an expression of pity and understanding. "I get it," he said. "You got a speech problem too."

Oh, so much to look forward to.

First Day

Tomorrow is the start of a new day, week, month, and life. I begin my first job in New York City as a speech therapist. I triumphantly pump my fists in the air and cheer, “Yes, yes, yes!”

My bank account eagerly awaits the deposit of my first check while I anticipate the first day at school as an employee. No longer do I wander the streets of New York as a jobless, slightly depressed college graduate. I now proudly march through the Upper West Side with my head a little higher, my step a little lighter, and my husband immensely relieved. No more will I sit at home and eat away our savings... literally, eating away our savings.

Originally, I secured a job at a middle and high school in the Bronx. But, I decided to look for a new job because the start date kept getting pushed back. And back. And back. Luckily, another opportunity presented itself. A local contract company found my resume online and asked me to work for them as an independent contractor. This past week I interviewed at four elementary schools throughout Manhattan (hence, the small number of blog posts).

After an exhausting week of nonstop travel, interviews, and frayed nerves – I signed a contract on Friday to work for two schools in Manhattan. I will work three days at one school and two days at the other.

Think of me tomorrow morning as I report to school armed with a newly laminated NYC Board of Education ID and booklet of instructions. I will be the employee with a very large smile on my face... the one very happy to have a job.

Tomorrow is the beginning of my new career. Yes, yes, yes!