Small World

On Tuesday night, we went to the Met with a group of friends to see the ballet “Swan Lake.”  The ballet was awesome.  But, this post is not about that.

I introduced myself to one of the girls in our group thinking that she looked vaguely familiar.  We talked, but just couldn’t figure out how we could possibly know each other.  Our only connection was our mutual friend that proposed going to the ballet.

Finally, we figured out that we both live on the Upper West Side.  But, we had never run into each on the Upper West Side.  I then asked the cross streets of her apartment building.  She said that she had recently moved to a new building, but told me her old cross streets.

I said, “Wait!  I live at around there.”

She then replied, “Well, my building wasn’t that nice.  It was pretty old.”

That was all I needed to hear. 

“Oh, so you lived at blah, blah, blah.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed.  “How did you know?”

“I live there now,” I said.

I discovered, with more probing, that the reason she looked so familiar was because I toured her apartment last August when looking for a new place, and I actually spoke to her!  I had asked her a few questions as I walked through her apartment.

We were flabbergasted!  In a city of eight million people, I share a mutual friend with a girl whose apartment I randomly toured and happened to talk to a year ago as she typed on her computer.  I don’t even know the odds for that happening.

It’s a small, small world.

* I just want to add that she was a really nice girl and felt bad about saying that her old apartment/our current apartment was old and not super nice.  I said that our apartment, while nice and a million times better than our old place, doesn't compare to her new apartment located in a brand-new-top-of-the-line apartment building.  So, no hurt feelings.

Perspectives: Part X

The kindergarten classes went to the Bronx zoo for a field trip.  One of my kids returned with a plastic toy that he found on the ground, a tiny battered chipmunk.  He proudly held it out for me to inspect.

“Wow,” I said.  “This animal is called a chipmunk.”

“I know,” he said excitedly.

“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.

“Take it home!” he said.

“Where will he live?” I asked.

“With me!” he exclaimed.

“Who is going to take care of him?” I asked.

“I am!” he said.

“What is he going to eat?” I asked.

“JUNK FOOD!” he cried.

Ah, spoken like a true five-year-old.

Perspectives: Part IX

The first grade has been learning about our national symbols.  One week they learned about the Statue of Liberty and then took a field trip there (because that’s possible in New York City).  The next week they learned about the bald eagle.  And, this week they studied Mount Rushmore (an impossible field trip).

On Wednesday, their teachers held a trivia contest. The teams- the purple table, red table, blue table, yellow table, and green table- battled against each other for points.  I sat at one table with some of my kids and didn’t help them, per se, just nudged them in the right direction.

One of the trivia questions was, “Can you name the four presidents on Mount Rushmore?”

The class did pretty well.  One table seemingly knew the presidents a little better than us.  They wrote “George, Teddy, Thomas, and Abraham” on their post-it note.

“Apparently,” their teacher said, “some people are on a first name basis only with the presidents.”

Nickname

For some reason, New Yorkers LOVE to shorten my name.  At least, about 75% of them do.   It’s so interesting.

And, coincidently, they all call me the same name… Liz. 

Liz?

I’ve never been a Libby or Liza.  Not a Beth or a Bess.  And, no, I’ve never been a Liz.  In fact, I’ve never had a nickname.  My dad wouldn’t let me.  He said that Elizabeth is too beautiful to be shortened.  Yeah, you read that right.  My name is too beau-ti-ful.

Still, introductory conversations in New York often go like this…

“Hi.”

“Hi”

“What’s your name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Hi, Liz.”

“Oh, no, no.  (Laughing politely.)  It’s E-liz-a-beth.”

“Ha, sorry about that.  No problem, Liz.”

Shoulders deflate.  I surrender and from then on respond to “Liz”.

Like everything in New York, Liz is shorter, faster.  More efficient.  I guess that time is of the essence.

Easy Shopping

There's not much room in New York, so stores often build up and not out.  The Bed Bath & Beyond about 30 blocks south of us is multiple floors with escalators for people and shopping carts.  I had never seen an escalator for just carts until moving to New York. So clever.

Boom Boom

Sometimes, I experience very “New York” moments.  They’re just crazy, weird, or totally random moments.  Things that would and could only happen here.  

A girlfriend and I went to the Boom Boom Room, a bar in The Standard Hotel on the 18^th floor in the Meatpacking District.  I know, I know.  What a name.

The coolest thing about the place was that the walls were floor-to-ceiling windows, so the view of Manhattan was incredible.  Even the bathroom walls were glass!  Thankfully, the bathroom was high enough up that no one got an unwanted eyeful of… well, you know.  But, I couldn’t help wonder about the few weirdoes out there with binoculars and easy access to You Tube.  Oh well, too late now.

I snapped a picture of the view from the bathroom with my iPhone.  Only in New York City could you sip a $20 (yes, you read that correctly) martini and enjoy that view.  Very New York.

* Someone informed me, after our visit to the Boom Boom Room, that supposedly women from Russia like to frequent the Boom Boom Room because they find “rich” husbands there.  I can only imagine how many times we were mistaken for being on the prowl. Grrr.

We Heart Italians

My great aunt had never met Ben.  She and my great uncle were unable to travel to our wedding because of their age and health.  So, our visit to Texas was Ben's big unveiling.

Last Saturday morning, around 9:30am, we rang the doorbell at her house.  My great aunt shuffled to the door and warmly invited us in her home.

She and my parents exchanged hugs.  Then I hugged her and introduced Ben.  The top of her white hair barely brushed his shoulder.  She stepped back slowly to look him over.

"You know..." She said, with wink in her eye and a deadpan look on her face, "I've always had a thing for Italians."

Please, God, let me be that awesome when I'm 90 years old.

More Room

Ben and I stayed in a hotel the first night we got to Texas.  Our plane landed really late, and we didn't want to show up at my great aunt's house in the wee hours of the morning.  So, we schlepped over to the Red Roof Inn around 1:30 in the morning.

Our love for Texas grew tremendously when we opened the door to our hotel room and saw TWO full size beds.  In NYC, we share one full size bed.  A pretty tight squeeze at times.

Imagine our joy!  We immediately sensed a good night's sleep was upon us.  Our excitement continued to grow.

I threw my bag down and leapt into one bed while Ben dove onto the other.  We giggled and kicked the covers into the air.  Our own beds!  It was a dream come true.

There was so much room, so many beds.  Ah, we loved it.

Don't get me wrong.  I love to sleep in the same bed with my husband and vice versa.  But, when the opportunity to sleep uninhibited comes around - stretch out, sleep diagonal, lay like a starfish, and roll up in the covers like a burrito - we're gonna take it.

Differences

Ben and I went to Texas this past weekend to visit friends and family.  On Thursday night, I carefully packed my duffel bag so that my morning would be as stress free as possible.  Smart, I thought.

Except, Ben didn’t think the morning through like me.

I woke up before my alarm to ensure that I had extra time for any last minute adjustments to my bag.  I roused Ben pretty early because I had noticed that his half-empty bag was still sitting in the middle of the room.  He shrugged me off.

While Ben slept late, I prepped the apartment for our vacation.  I bagged the trash and put the dishes away.  I heard Ben’s alarm go off as I shoved loose food into the fridge.  About two seconds later, I heard the panicked patter of feet running across the hardwood floor.

From there I was basically…

Kicked out of the bathroom for 15 minutes.  Run over at least twice in his frenzy to pack clothes.  And, then forced to pack some of his stuff in my bag.

While frantically throwing things and running around, Ben managed to yell every few minutes, “Where’s a plastic bag for my toiletries?  Where are clean socks?  Do I need a razor to shave?  Heeeeeeeeelp me!” 

Because, that was exactly how I planned to spend my extra few minutes.   

But, I kept my mouth shut.  Didn’t say anything, even though I wanted to.  Wanted to say something like… “Shouldn’t you have taken care of this last night?” 

But, I didn’t. 

Instead, I was very, oh-so helpful.  I was such a good wife, such a good wife.  I let Ben run out of the door that morning… and then wrote this blog post for my revenge!

Birthday Party

Several weekends ago, we celebrated the birthday of our friends' son. He turned one... meaning he celebrated b-i-g.  I totally caught him pounding a bottle of baby formula and partying past nap time.  

Other tiny revelers in attendance also enjoyed the nice weather, good food, and company that Central Park offered on his special day. 

Perspectives: Part VIII

On Monday, I worked with a group of students on the rug in the back of the classroom.  We’ve developed a pretty good relationship over the past two years, and have gotten to know each other pretty well.  They always seem to enjoy stories about my small town, rural upbringing.

One of the boys pointed to me, completely unrelated to the assignment, and said, “She has an iPhone.”

“Really?” asked the other boy.

Although we were venturing off task, I decided to take the opportunity to teach an important life lesson.

“Yes, I worked really hard to save my money and buy it.  Now, my dad has one too.  We like to text each other to stay in touch.” I said, proud of my ability to slip in the importance of saving and using money wisely.

 “Wait,” the first boy said pretty surprised.  “Your dad has one, too?”

“Yes,” I replied, wanting to redirect his thinking back to financial awareness, but still confused by his shocked expression.  “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“I didn’t know country people had phones and could text!” he said.

Oh, city people have so much to learn about us.

Scenes From Home

My mom drove me around town to take pictures when I was home for spring break.  Our excursion was also an excuse for us to "girl talk" with NO men getting in the way or eavesdropping.  Here's a couple of photos from our photo shoot of the Kentucky countryside.

School Subjects

Yesterday, I walked down the hallway with two kindergarteners.  We clapped the syllables of words as we walked.  “El-e-phant… 3 syllables!”  “Hallway… 2 syllables!”

One boy kept dragging his hand along the wall. 

“Ms. Natalie will not be happy if you knock someone’s artwork off the wall,” I said.

The other little guy perked up and said, “Natalie?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Like Natalie from the Bad Girls Club?” he asked.

“You mean the wild TV show on Oxygen?” I asked, incredulously.

“Yeah,” he said.  "The Bad Girls Club."

It can takes weeks to learn new sounds or language concepts, but just one hour to learn something from cable television.  Amazing.

Milestone

Thank you to everyone who reads the blog!  This is my 300th post!  Hard to believe, I know.

I have come a long way since my first post on September 30, 2007.  I am NOW a real New Yorker with a New York state license, employed, married for almost three years, and, most importantly, still alive.  Thank goodness for the last one.

Life has turned out pretty, pretty good.

Thank you for checking out Itty Bitty and (hopefully) enjoying it.

Safety

People ask, “Is living in New York City scary?”

No.

Truthfully, it’s not.  Sometimes, I feel safer living in a city of 11.7 million people than living in a slightly less populated place.  Crazy, I know.

New York City feels safe for many reasons.  One, I live in an area of Manhattan that has lots of young people and families.  Those people tend to be pretty harmless. 

Two, the police are highly visible in the city.  They patrol the subways, the streets, touristy destinations – they’re everywhere.  I like that.  Supposedly, it was not like this before Giuliani, but now, thankfully, it is.

And, third, there are always so many people everywhere I go.  I probably pass thirty people just walking one block to the grocery store.  People in my apartment building, people on the sidewalk, people on the corner, people at the bus stop.  I pass several hundred in the morning on my way to work.

I can’t ever recall walking down the street and not passing or seeing someone.  It’s a comfort to know that.  Someone is always somewhere.

Just because I feel safe doesn’t mean that I ‘m stupid.  I take the same precautions here that I take at home.  I don’t walk alone late at night.  I avoid poorly lit areas.  I don’t take to strangers.  I don’t go to unfamiliar places.  I let people know where I am. 

I mean, duh, that’s just called common sense.

So, ultimately, when out-of-towners ask “Do you feel safe in New York?”  I can honestly answer… yes.