Category: New York Story

Find Your Run

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I told the kids we didn’t have to stay out long. We only had to take a walk. But I brought the sleds.

The secret is to finding a good sledding run, we discovered, is to head  to the Hudson River. It’s a mistake to stay up on Riverside Park by Riverside Drive. It gets crowded there. (Although it’s great for little kids.)

Down near the floating ice chunks of the Hudson, you can pound down your own awesome run. It does take time. And you may be distracted by the beauty of the scenery and so you chat with the cross country skier. (She was disappointed  that the Parks Department had done too good a job of clearing the pathways. She needed more snow for skiing.)

And the sun was melting the sidewalks too. Too much efficiency and too much sunshine — not good for the skier.  

The sledding was way fun. Almost as fun as the snowman (or snow woman) the kids made. I stamped my feet, watched the ice float down the Hudson. It had been my idea on this Snow Day when we were all off from school and work to go on this walk. But soon enough, I was ready to head back home to make hot chocolate and watch a movie. My feet were cold.

NYC and Snow

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When I walk to work through Barnard College campus in the morning, the first day the city is covered in snow, it is quiet, soft and beautiful. The next day or two, the city snow gets sooty. After that, I don’t see the snow because I am too busy Googling cheap fares to Florida.

Snow is inevitable. But lately we’ve had so much so frequently! Oy! There must be a lesson here. Perhaps we are meant to pull together as New Yorkers — zip up, meet your neighbors, share the icy chill at the bus stop! Maybe the lesson is to hunker down with family and friends. Or seize the opportunity to beautify the home and clean the linen closet!

Maybe we are supposed to feel the aliveness of the moment when we step into the frozen wind of Riverside Drive.

Whatever the lesson is, I’m looking for it. My eyes are open. Yet my head is down and I am watching my steps. I am avoiding the ice. New Yorkers are intrepid in all kinds of weather. I wrote about New York, a walker’s town, in the rain. http://mybeautifulnewyork.wordpress.com/2010/03/29/new-yorkers-and-the-rain/

Now I am looking forward to the rain. I am waiting for the Spring. I will love New York in the Springtime. They write songs about that. That and Autumn in New York. The Winter though? I am not singing the love song.

Making Beauty

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A home should be a nest, a cocoon, a snuggly sanctuary. But beauty, creativity, comfort takes time. Three-day weekends are perfect for making the crib cozy.

Late Saturday afternoon, I was staring at our newly painted walls, thinking, “I should put some art up.” Several of my friends who are very good at decorating have offered to help. So I called one of them, my friend, J.

I hedged, “Hey, someday, could you come over and help me hang some art?”

“I think I can come tonite,” she said. Wow. I was in luck but I didn’t know if I was ready. I got H. to help me dig a bunch of paintings out of the top shelf of my cluttered dining room closet. J. mentioned she loves my art collection. But like a lot of my life, I find it embarassing and eclectic.

Another friend, L., redecorated my bedroom and H.’s room a few years ago. They look awesome. I’m incredibly lucky to have such lovely, talented friends!

After this Saturday night decorating session, the room looked great. But it took some time. That’s the thing. I usually slap things up on the wall but I’ve learned a lesson from my friends. You have to measure. You have to add and divide fractions. That is not easy for me. But it’s worth it. The room feels artsy Bohemian now.

I have one theory that travel begets travel — Like, when you’re on one trip, you should always plan your next. But I have a theory about art too. Beauty creates more beauty. Creativity inspires creativity. And art encourages art. And we should all beautify, create and indulge in art. The world would be a better place if we did.

Tonite the kids and I spent hours making art at the dining room table.

The Zodiac

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The zodiac changed. In 2009, an earthquake realigned the stars and bumped our astrological charts, according to some expert in Minnesota. This was the talk of Happy Hour tonite. I didn’t pay much attention until someone said everyone’s sign had changed. Not me, I thought. I’m sure mine didn’t change. I’m such an Aries. But what? Someone said, “You’re a Pisces now.”

“That’s not me. That’s my Dad’s sign. I’m fire. I’m not water!”

We were out at Havana Central, a fun place for our big group. We were saying good bye to our beloved Matt Morgan who’s moving on to another, better job in Connecticut. Why would anyone want to leave NYC? It was the first Happy Hour I’d been to in a while ($3 for a beer).

Back to the astrological signs. Everyone seemed a bit queasy about losing their signs. Someone said, “It feels like I’ve just discovered I’m adopted. I’m not who I thought I was.”

I tried to embrace my new identity. I would be more placid, more like a fish than a ram.

Someone showed a picture of Ophiucus, the new symbol in the stars. He wore a phallic snake around his waist. I kinda liked that, but I didn’t like that the new sign was a man. Why not a woman?

I asked them to look up my daughters’ new sign. They were Virgos now. Comforting.

Then, after 15 minutes of stressing out about our new signs, someone said, “I just got a text. It says these new signs only apply if you’re born after 2009.”

Thank God. We leaned back in our chairs, returned to eating our Cuban sandwiches, our rice and beans. We could all go back to being who we were. (Except Matt, of course, who’s leaving.) But, phew, crisis averted.

Simon and Garfunkel in the Park

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While writing at work, I was listening to Pandora on my headphones, Simon and Garfunkel’s Mrs. Robinson Live in Central Park  came on. It vaulted me back to being in the park that night.

A handful of friends from NYU and I had camped out early in the day and had good sight lines (still, we were probably a football field away). Central Park was seedy then. There were no lush green swaths of grass as there are now. We had spread our blanket in a tawny dry dirt field. The crowd swelled around us. Simon and Garfunkel’s vocals were unbelievable, so casual and so poetic.

Listening to that song yesterday, I felt a surge of nostalgia for that time in my life, for having just arrived in NYC, for having no commitments but to study hard my first year at NYU.

I remember that when the concert ended, we all walked out of the park together, shoulder to shoulder. At the park exits, it was very crowded. But we were so happy. We were smiling, humming, singing. We knew it had been a special night.

Yesterday afternoon, after the song played, I got back to work, back to writing about Dr. Martin Luther King’s legacy of advocating for poor people. I stared out my window towards Riverside Church.

Following Flylady

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I was one of Flylady’s first 10,000 followers and now she has well over 100,000. Flylady is a system of house cleaning (or home blessing as she says). I am not a religious follower of Flylady, but totally agree with her basic tenets:

1. Keep your kitchen sink clean and shiny.

2. When you wake up, get dressed to your shoes.

3. Follow morning and evening routines.

You can shine the kitchen sink any way you want. The point is that if the sink is clean and shiny, the cleanliness radiates out. The table, the counters, the appliances get clean too.

The sink is literal and metaphorical. Every room has a kitchen sink.  In the kids’ bedrooms, it’s a made bed. In the family room, it’s a picked up floor. In the bathrooms, it’s a hung-up towel.

I do not have CHAOS (Can’t Have Anyone Over Syndrome). And BTW, I love Flylady’s acronyms. FLY stands for Finally Loving Yourself and I think Marla Ciley, flylady, used to be a flyfisher. You can read her daily prompts and encouragement at:  http://www.flylady.com/

Another productivity tip I learned from Flylady is to set the timer for 15 minutes and just go until the timer dings. You can accomplish a ton in 15 minutes. Even 10 minutes. It’s the Swiss Cheese method and I use it for writing http://gettingmyessayspublished.wordpress.com/2010/09/01/10-minutes-a-day/

Central Park Skating

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There may be a few places in the world as magical as Wollman Rink in Central Park right after a snowfall, but I’m not sure where they are. The last time I skated it was October — tee shirt weather. The Willow Tree was still full of long, green leaves.

Tonite the Willow Tree branches were yellow and bare, better to see the snowy hills of Central Park. It’s dreamy skating under the Willow Tree. If you look up at the branches as you glide beneath, you can have an out-of-body experience.

The thumping music really moves you at Wollman. The DJ plays mash ups, oldies and hip hop. He will take your request. At least, he always takes mine.

I knocked on the DJ’s glass door tonite (as I did in October) to ask, “Could you play, ‘We No Speak Americano!'” I love that song and it’s perfect for skating around and around while holding your friend’s or your child’s hand.

I don’t want to brag (too much) but I have yet to see any adult skate as much as me — not counting the real professional-type skaters who make skating look like dancing.

I’m not particularly good at skating, but in the words of Valerie Plame from the movie “Fair Game,” “I have no breaking point.” I never tire.

I never tire of New York City’s beauty either, especially the parks. Here’s an example. This was my view around 5 pm as I waited for the downtown M5 bus on Riverside Park. 

Every night on Riverside Drive there is a show. It is the sunset. I just have to remember to look West to catch it. Sometimes I do remember to stop and notice the show. I make my kids come outside to see the sunset too. Sometimes they thank me.

Trash Piling Up

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Snuggled as I was into our Adirondack Christmas, I missed the piles of snow. But rest assured, I got the piles of garbage. What the heck! Will someone get going and clean this city up! Someone, return it to My Beautiful New York? (Bloomberg, it’s a good thing this is not an election year.) This blog is dedicated to all of the beauty of New York, but lately it’s hard to find it beyond the piles of trash.

Tuesdays and Saturdays are usually pick up days outside of our apartment building, but I’m pretty sure nothing’s being picked up around here besides bed bugs. (Kidding.)

After a juicy conversation with my pals at lunch yesterday (about Toddlers and Tiaras), I was trying to get back into the swing of writing by reading the paper (I know, I know. There’s got to be a better way.) I was reading the New York Times about garbage pickup.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/03/nyregion/03garbage.html?_r=1&ref=todayspaper

There in the paper was a photo of my work friend Judith Santiago. Funnily enough, I had just bumped into Judith the day of the photo, Sunday, at the new Trader Joe’s on 72nd Street. I had met her mother who appears in the photo too.

I messaged Judith on Facebook, “You’re such a terrific writer, I always knew you’d make it to the New York Times! (But it’s only a photo of you today! Look on page A17.)”

Judith is very pretty and this photo does not do her justice. But the picture does capture the mountains of trash and the disgust we all feel as we walk around  them. Unlike the melting snow, the  trash piles do not seem to be disappearing; instead they are piling up.

Savoring Thanksgiving

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Sometimes I feel melancholy being apart from my four siblings and my parents (and Marty) during the holidays. But then maybe I idealize our time together. Maybe I’d get sick of them if I lived closer. Or they’d get sick of me. Or someone would walk away right when we had dishes to do. (No, not my sibs!)

Chris’s family is so responsible they fight over who can jump up the fastest to clear after a holiday meal — practically elbowing each other out of the dining room door arms full of dishes, rushing to the dishwasher, while I’m still savoring that last forkful of mashed, stuffing, and turkey. Please don’t rush me. Although well, there are many kinds of pie coming — what the heck. I’m done with the turkey. Bring on dessert.

It is hard to keep up with the Joneses. I like to sit with my hands wrapped around a hot cup of something after a meal. Like a Hobbit, I like the warm drink to creep into the nooks and crannies of that last good meal. When I was little, my Dad read to us from the Hobbit on summer nights after dinner in our backyard in Skokie, even before we moved to Park Ridge.

This reminds me – while memories happen while eating big family holiday meals, memories also get impressed on us during the moments of reading or sitting together after a meal.

I’d like to write more about this right now, but I hear the laughter, pots, and pans from the kitchen. Someone’s singing. There’s the smell of pumpkin pie. The family is cooking and I should go help. I don’t want to be known as the sister-in-law who doesn’t pitch in. Not that any one of us – no, not a one of us, would walk away when there are dishes to do.

Although one person might sit a bit too long warming her hands on her coffee mug. But rest assured, dear friends and family, I’ll get up in a minute. I’ll set, I’ll clear, I’ll scour the pans and prep for the next delicious meal. I’ll do my share. I’ll be there in a minute.  

Go for the truth or a laugh?

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Hayden , my 13-year old, told me this morning that he wants to be a Yes Man!

“Yes! I like that! I want to be a Yes Woman!” I said. I want to say Yes to each and every day.

Even if I have to take my life in a totally different direction than what is offered, I want to accept every offer!  And say Yes!

Like most great life lessons, I learned this one doing improv comedy.

I was a part of the CBGB Gallery Improv company. Back in the early 90s, when CBGB existed, we performed improv every Wednesday night at the gallery next to the club. I met some of my best friends and comedy partners there.Our fearless leader –Karen Kristal  — would tell us, “Go for the truth. Don’t go for the Laff!” She would say laugh like that — like Laaaaffff, like an English person, although I’m pretty sure she was a New Yorker (New Yawka!).

We would say Yes, Yes, Yes to her. And then when the audience showed up and the lights went up, we’d go for the laugh.

That is the catch to being a Yes Person. You have to follow it up with some action.

I’ve learned this with my son, the Yes Man.

“Time for bed! Get off the computer!”

“Yes Mom!” And then, he doesn’t leave Facebook.

“Will you please help me clean this kitchen?”

“Yes Mom.” And then he never shows. Never turns off the XBox. At this point in the conversation, I would like to go for a laugh, but I have to go for the truth.

The truth is not as fun or as easy as the laugh. The truth, though, can lead to the laugh. (The laugh can lead to the truth.)

Either way, start by accepting the offer. Rule Number One in improv? Accept every offer. Say Yes!