NYC blunders

About a week ago, I rolled my eyes watching a young guy in slacks and a button down, clearly heading to work, bump into the turnstiles on his way into the subway- having forgotten to swipe. "Worth a shot," I snickered silently. The station was empty and the abrupt stop did not seem to return his mind to the present.  I don't think he even saw me catch his awkward moment.

But, it seems, karma strikes even for sarcasm not vocalized, eye-rolling not seen.

As I pondered tonight's dinner, conjuring up an image of my fridge and seriously debating all the alternatives (all two alternatives), I, too, neglected to swipe my Metrocard. However, I was walking into a large station at rush hour, and in a massive crowd of purposeful commuters, professional New Yorkers, preparers of the Metrocard in advance. 

The line doesn't stop for you; the next person swipes before you've even cleared the turnstile.

Therefore, the eager home-bound gentleman behind me inadvertently humped me (intentional humps are a different, sweet nuance of traveling the NYC subway system) just as we both realized my mistake, and as an insult to the non-physical but very real injury of marching into a turnstile that wasn't given the signal to turn.  

I recovered gracefully, as anyone would do in my situation, and: (1) frantically rummaged through my Mary Poppins purse to find my card amid lunch containers, candy, socks, and mail, (2) swiped my card, and (3) proceeded onto the platform head down, weaving into the crowd to lose the humper and all witnesses - who, I'm sure, had no interest in following me.

Haircut, hold the sass

I decided to go for a spontaneous haircut yesterday, and told the lady to cut off a lot.  I’ve come a long way from the time I cried after a haircut, before I even got out of the chair, and traumatized the relatively innocent hairdresser who was just following my parents’ instructions (I believe they were: “make her look like a boy” – maybe not verbatim).  My resulting fear of haircuts was marked by years of infrequent and unnoticeable trims until, oddly, I just stopped caring.  I can’t even blame it on post-baby carelessness, although imperfect bangs are just not going to break things for me at this point.  It happened before, when I must have realized that (a) if I tell them to make sure I can still put my hair up for the gym (it’s ok…they don’t know me, and it makes me feel good to say that), ponytail-able hair can’t be atrocious and (b) what’s that thing about hair?  Oh yeah, it grows.  So now I don’t think too much before going.  I get fed up with my hair, schedule a cut, and go to enjoy the wash/head massage, make small talk with the staff, and strut around with my blown out hair for a few days afterwards.  And, this time, rant to my friends about the judgmental B that cut my hair.

Yes lady, it’s been 6 months since I last got a haircut.  Actually, closer to 8 but I told you 6.  And I do, in fact, want you to cut off more than you keep suggesting, but that’s because it’s the style I want now, and not in order to “go another 6 months.”  When you ask how often I blow dry my hair and then sympathetically offer a cut to accommodate my “busy lifestyle” without knowing anything about my lifestyle, you make me want to give you $4.65 as a tip.  If I wasn't leading a “busy lifestyle” that just barely explains (but does not excuse) my less-than-daily straight hair, what are you saying your low maintenance cut will accommodate?  For some reason, you seem to have pegged me as a lazy lesbian that accidentally stumbled into your upper west side venue.  

P.S.  Your roots are grown out, and I think we stopped wearing sunglasses as headbands all day, indoors, at work. It's not even summer yet.

And the haircut was decent, thanks.

Professional Pumper: Going Back to Work

I was a newly minted lawyer, employed at a great firm and returning to work after maternity leave.  I felt prepared.  Purse, pump, picture frames, and photos in hand, I was excited to interact with adults, look presentable, and to pretend that I sleep at night.  On my first day back, I joked about the elevator going “local,” made small talk about the weather, and asked about my colleagues’ weekend plans.  I wore a clean suit, and dug up a shirt that lacked both wrinkles and spit-up.  Most importantly, I inquired about use of the pumping room (politely called the “Quiet Room”).  Back to work was easy.  Until I actually went to pump. 

My first realization was that I needed more pumping gear to avoid washing supplies at work.  Frequenting the kitchen area 3+ times a day, with plastic contraptions dripping milk, added a time consuming and uncomfortable element to water-cooler conversation (“Just washing the breast pump.  And yourself?”).  After several attempts to check my phone while pumping, I made my second frantic purchase of the day: a pumping bra as incredibly useful as it is thoroughly hideous.  A white sports bra with two holes and a zipper down the middle, it was the kind of contraption that made me triple check that the pumping room door was locked.

Two months later and with daily adjustments to my routine, I was a seasoned professional.  I assembled 3 pairs of pumping parts into 3 Ziplock bags every morning to avoid shuffling around in my office, matching bottle to connector to shield while my male officemate stared intensely at his computer screen and nowhere else.  My work space featured post-it note reminders of approximate pumping times, and an assortment of supplements and teas that probably stunk up my office - but I wouldn’t ask questions to which I didn’t want to hear answers.  I felt like some sort of pill-popping chemist, soaking fenugreek seeds, shuffling pill bottles full of brewers yeast and vitamins, and steeping raspberry leaf tea at my desk.  I also became acutely aware of the volume of food I consumed throughout the day, especially in contrast to my officemate who, it seemed, bothered to eat lunch maybe once or twice a week.  I hoped he thought to himself, “where does she put it all?!” but I doubt it was much of a mystery.

I became accustomed to the nuances of the pumping-at-work life.  Constantly struggling with milk supply, I never faced leaky nipples (in fact, I dreamed of them –oddly), but I still managed to stain every shirt, and every other skirt, that I wore.  I learned to ignore the fact that coworkers, especially men, waved suspicious goodbyes when I walked toward the elevators, with my square black bag, at 4 p.m. (far too early to call it a day).  I was actually going up to the pumping room, unwilling to climb 4 flights of stairs.  I became an expert at unzipping and zipping up my own dress, and in almost always remembering to do the latter.
Googling ways to increase my milk supply between pumping sessions, I came to measure the day’s success in ounces.  I learned to make the most of pumping room visits, using them to read the news, gaze at photos of my baby, and mentally escape the office.  And now that the pumping days for my first baby are behind me, the days of rushing home because the baby’s on the last bottle, of multitasking in the Quiet Room to a degree that would make my coworkers uncomfortable, and of complaining about the weight of the pumping bag that now stands by my desk, gathering dust in it’s “just in case” role for late nights at the office (as I transition to nighttime-only nursing), I realize how much I miss the devoted craziness and neurotic persistence, but perhaps not the stress, of it all.

Shameful snacking

I had to get a Snickers bar.  I usually get Twix (there were none left) and feel less ashamed about it.  First of all, I thoroughly dislike the taste of Snickers, whereas I truly enjoy consumption of both Twix bars, usually within 10 minutes of purchase.  Second, Snickers is the epitome of instant gratification, lack of self control, embarrassing behavior (particularly because of #1- I hate Snickers).  

“Hungry, why wait?”  Well, because if you wait you can get yourself a healthy snack.  Perhaps an apple or some peanuts not drenched in chemically processed caramel, nougat and low quality chocolate.  Maybe a granola bar or cup of yogurt.  Something that doesn't fall out of a brightly lit machine that stands arrogantly in the empty cafeteria, still stinky from the lunch break.  Or at least a Twix.  Getting a Snickers is a statement, a statement I hid up my suit sleeve during the walk of shame back from the vending machine to my office, where I immediately unwrapped the bar and discarded the wrapper, instantly classing up my lapse in judgment.  I devoured the Snickers before my office mate could return to his desk, and discarded a small piece for my homies.

On Baby Laughter

There are few things more deliciously satisfying than making your baby laugh. Make a funny sound after a few monotonous ones, or kiss the side of her stomach in just the right place and mood, and you are rewarded with an eruption of giggles. Every sound and smile creates bubbles of happiness that seem to define the joy of youth, the weightlessness of parenting.

Winding down from a good laugh, she gazes directly into your eyes, appreciative and expectant and with such pure love your heart literally skips a beat and I swear, you can feel it, the air in the narrow space between your face and hers is thick with love and you inhale, digging your nose into the little folds of her neck because in those moments that you wish would last forever, where else would you go for air.

Kids of the Subway

One of my favorite NYC subway moments is children stripper-dancing on the train.

I guess I’ll take a step back.

The poles in the middle of the train cars seem to be irresistible to restless young commuters, and there’s not much one can do with a pole except slide down it. Creatively.

Last week, a tourist family laughed hysterically as their little girl took center stage in a relatively empty car. The fact that their amusement encouraged her to keep dancing made it only slightly more awkward. The young father I saw this morning was less amused. He stood there with another father-son pair, talking to the adult as his son gracefully slid down the pole they were all gathered around. He pulled the boy up and told him to stop, with visibly dwindling patience as it happened a few more times.

Maybe I’d find it less funny if it was my own 7 year old boy with his hands wrapped tightly around the subway pole, lowering himself to the ground. Either way, it’s not the innocent behavior of active kids that’s amusing; its the reactions of their less pure-minded guardians that forces me to pretend I read something funny while accidentally glancing over and noticing their pole-dancing youth.

On embarrassing moments

It turns out, embarrassing moments do not end in high school. I thought they would; I thought I resolved them away. In an enlightened moment, following a particularly ungraceful one, I resolved not to dwell embarrassing moments hours after they occurred.



The first bell rang, announcing the end of the period. I was heading to my locker, located in the basement. The lunchroom was also in the basement, and students were rushing out en masse. It was bad enough that I was moving against the flow of traffic, my hands fully occupied with books and snacks. (This makes me sound like a nerdy fatty. I can clarify that I was holding my bookbag, a textbook, and a bag of pretzels but go ahead and imagine me loaded up with history books and donuts falling out of my pockets). Then my heel misses the stair on my way down and suddenly the throngs of noisy 15-18 year olds disappear and it’s just me, my inability to grab on to a handrail, and the boy with deer-in-headlights eyes standing directly below me, in the middle of the flight of stairs I was about to descend untraditionally, with elbows and knees. Whether he meant to or not, he broke my fall. Luckily, he didn’t fall himself, and the crowds slowed for just a moment before continuing to race against the second bell. I saw myself plummeting in slow motion, imagining ahead of time exactly what would happen as my fingertips tingled with the loss of balance.

But it just wasn’t that mortifying.

So, when I stumbled backwards off the last step of the physics lecture hall (those long, short steps), ridiculously slowly, onto the hottest guy in the room (and a senior, at that), my normally eager-to-flush-beet-red face smiled it off despite the fact that it seemed like I was slowly, obnoxiously, and with increasing force leaning against him.

Now, it looks like the workplace is the new high school. Will elaborate after I dry off.

Repice: Spaghetti Squash Salad

It’s weird for me to consider a salad “recipe.” I have a hard time following recipes in general, and especially not a salad one. To me, salads are about the vegetables in your fridge and the dressing category you’re in the mood for (mayo-y or olive oil-y, sweet or salty). I tend to approximate, ignore ingredients that I don’t have, make often-inaccurate substitutions, and “fix” the recipe to accommodate my culinary preferences. I’ve had some success in doing so, but not enough to keep me from resolving to follow recipes more conscientiously. In that spirit, here’s my formal recipe. I got into spaghetti squash just recently and stumbled upon this idea while throwing together ingredients from my fridge. In the structured, measured way of “handfuls,” “pinches” and “bunches,” of course. Occasional cups and spoons, but no “ounces” involved.

Ingredients:

Salad:

1 spaghetti squash, halved and seeded
2 handfuls (or 1 ½ cups) of cherry tomatoes (or 2 stem tomatoes, diced)
1 medium red onion, diced
2 handfuls arugula
1 avocado, cubed

Dressing:

Juice from ½ small lime
1 tbsp garlic powder
1 tbsp salt
¼ cup olive oil (or to taste)

Directions

1. Cut spaghetti squash lengthwise. (First, eat your wheaties, ‘cause this can be tough). Remove seeds and pulp. Be thorough about the pulp removal. I wasn’t, the first time around, and it led to a bunch of the strands still being connected to the pulp after cooking. It’s not chewable and looks gross.

2. Bake, rind side up for 30-40 minutes at 375 F.

3. Once the squash is tender, remove from oven and let cool. Then separate the strands by running a fork through the flesh. It’s pretty cool the first time you do it.

The rest is easy (it is salad, after all). Combine the spaghetti squash with the rest of the salad ingredients. Add the dressing ingredients. You can prepare the dressing separately and add later, but I find this just gets more dishes dirty.

Playing around with it (other options):

Dressing:

• Add 2 tbsp balsamic vinegar
• Add ½ tbsp maple syrup or agave nectar
• Replace the 1 tbsp of salt with 1 tbsp soy sauce

Salad:

• Add diced cucumbers, 3 tbsp feta cheese (or as much as you prefer- can’t go wrong with feta), ½ cup pitted kalamata olives. Don’t replace salt with soy sauce if you do this, though, and get rid of the salt in the dressing altogether if the olives are salty enough.
• Add 2 cloves finely chopped garlic
• Remove arugula. Add baby spinach. Or no greens at all. I made this last week and wanted greens, but had neither spinach nor arugula nor green gummy worms. I did have broccoli sitting in my fridge for an almost unacceptably long period of time. I removed a few florets, chopped finely, and it added some green and some crunch. Delicious.

Spaghetti Squash/Salad: Tips

• At the grocery store: Choose an even light yellow squash; no bruises.
• Making its way home: Store whole at room temperature for up to 3 weeks.
• Making it: Spaghetti squash can also be prepared by steaming (after cutting it lengthwise, and in quarters if you want shorter strands or to fit it in the pot, and steaming until tender- about 10 to 15 min), boiling or even microwaving. Can be baked whole by piercing it with a fork a few times throughout, and leaving it in the oven for a bit longer (about an hour).
• FYI: the lime in the dressing keeps the avocado from going dark, which keeps the salad looking scrumptious, as they say, even as leftovers or next-day lunch.

Top o' the morning

What kind of morning is it? It's the kind of summer morning that starts out deceptively cool.  A moment too long getting dressed, and I end up running for the train, clutching papers and bags, hoping not to lose a shoe. Stumbling onto the platform, nauseous and out of breath, I take a look at my watch, then at the train schedule. I'm 10 minutes early. I'm sweating in the most attractive manner, and the sun persists in its heavy-handed application of heat to my forehead.  I send a quick text to my husband, thanking him for his morning meeting, and for his resulting inability to drive me to the train.  I don't recall whether it was polite.

On my morning coffee run, which is not a daily occurrence but a necessary one today, I stop at the pharmacy. Return teething pills, pick up Pedialyte. Until now, Pedialyte was the liquid that my friend gives her Yorkie after the beach. My sleepless night with a feverish infant, and Google, taught me otherwise. As I reach for my wallet, my arm brushes against the dry cleaning instructions attached to the seam of my shirt. Most wear that tag on the other side.

An Affair (9/16/09)

I decided to cheat on my dentist. I am confessing this to relieve my guilt, at the cost of some judgment. I expect that few have such loose morals, so my confession also serves as a rare glance into the feeling of another dentist's chair.

I didn't have the courage to stray far from what I've known. This dentist, too, was a middle aged Russian man. Ignoring the implications of my visit and judging me favorably, he skipped all formalities but the basic first-visit medical questionnaire. I was the only person in the office (which should have been a sign, I later realized, but one that I ignored in my wide-eyed wonder), so I didn’t get to sit in the waiting room, or to evaluate the comfort of his waiting room seats or the relevance of his waiting room posters.

Easing myself into his chair, my arms fell into an all-too-familiar position. If he intended the experience to resemble that of, let's just call him #1, he would have turned on some classical music and started softly humming along, close to my ear (due to the nature of his task) but not to me. Instead, it was the far more unsettling Russian radio that was audible in the background. The radio must have been located in the adjacent safe room where the doctor goes to flip on the x-ray switch and hide as you lay in the chair with a lead blanket and oddly exposed head.

He held the xrays up to the light machine, shook his head deliberately and professionally, aware of my attention, and poured out flattery regarding the dismal (or splendid, whatever) condition of my teeth. I zoned out, wondering what he looked like under the mask and whether at the end of the day, his trimmed beard suffered from the "hat hair" effect. He brought me back to current events by displaying the x-rays, handing me a mirror, and briefing me on my mouth's internal affairs. I learned a little about reading teeth xrays.

Diligence and stupidity are not easily discernable when it comes to a drawn-out drilling process.

After summarizing my oral situation, he consulted me on our first course of action. I do not expect to act, so the course should not be “ours.” I expect to come, sit, have some decision made for me, and to leave with a sense of accomplishment, with one less problem, and drooling a little from my numb side.

As he started drilling, I realized I was tenser than usual- the chair was far too upright, requiring me to arch my neck awkwardly and unnaturally. C'mon doc, isn’t this the first thing you learn in school? In grade school. The chair should be comfortable. But it wasn’t, and it wasn’t long before I began reminiscing about my old dentist’s hum, his pleasing choice of music, and of course his perfectly positioned chair. I focused my energy on ignoring the Russian radio conversation in the radiation-free room. This helped keep my mind off thoughts about how bad turtlenecks would look on me if my neck stays like this forever. He partially redeemed himself by applying the water suction thing sparingly. The constant struggle to prevent one side of my mouth from drowning and the other side from dryly crumbling into sand disappeared. As did any chance of my returning to him when he accidentally drilled too far. Surprises are good, but I just wasn’t dressed for a root canal.

Bursting bubbles.

Reaching out of my shower, water dripping off my hand and creating an excess-water situation to which I will not own up when the time comes, I felt around the bathroom sink for facewash- rejecting toothpaste, soap, foot scrub (that shouldn't be on the sink, right?), and a cell phone (just in case... someone calls). My usual face wash must have run out, because I ended up with some Neutrogena/Noxema/whatever crap, now with bursting bubbles! This was likely a remnant of my sister's move back home from college.  Only college students, with their senses slowly dulled by loud music, limited cleanliness and borderline alcoholism would spread something that smells like cheap air freshener (or awesome detergent) all over their face.  I gave in to the orange-scented soap, letting it work its magic as it battled oily skin and grass stains, wondering how many shots the girls in those commercials take before pretending to enjoy this pungent dishwashing liquid routine. 

judge

After some barking persuasion, I finally went to walk my dog. It was chilly, so she was quick- she did her business, I picked it up. On our slow return home, I heard a woman across the street sneeze. A loud, juicy sneeze. She made the sound a cartoon dog with droopy facial features would make after eating something disgusting and trying to expel it, as drool flew out of its mouth along with the offending food. How ladylike, I thought, holding my little bag of shit.

Honey

Chernobyl is the Russian version of "where were you on 9/11." At lunch, my parents and grandparents argued about when they found out. My dad claimed he only knew on May 10th; before that, his friend casually mentioned that "something under Kiev blew up." My mom and grandparents insisted it was common knowledge by May 1st. The Russian government was never keen on spreading news fast; not accurate news, anyway. After May 1st, or 10th, they drove instead of walking to visit my mom's grandmother. But my dad spent a lot of time outdoors that following year. They recalled the yellow rain that they tried to avoid even before knowing its source. The direction of the wind changed at some point. They then correlated the ailments of family and acquaintances to the individuals' proximity to Chernobyl and their occupations in the subsequent years. The conversation was prompted by the dismal region of Bashkiria, by the organic, raw, pesticide-free Bashkirian flower honey my grandmother served with tea. "Do you know where Bashkiria is?" I answered no. "Thank G-d" my dad responded, before my grandfather could geography-lesson me. Those assigned to taming the Chernobyl aftermath were effectively sentenced to death. Something about helicopters dropping chemicals, as the pilots felt a metallic taste in their mouth and an odd sensation on their skin. "Just like the war. Russians had to fight like ants, putting out fires with their bodies. It's funny when Russia talks about human rights."

2 year old notes, but not as cuddly

I remember fragments of daily email discussions appropriately, during case-related discussions in my boss' office. He accidentally mispronounces a word, and I recall the variations of immigrant accents and phrasings that Jose and I had gone through that morning. "Where can I find the Skyscrapers of Manhattan?"
--
I notice my straw protruding from the cup as I was refilling it with water, and wonder if I could drink the water from the cup faster than it gets filled- kind of like running down an up escalator, or vice versa, but with a progressively heavier bladder.
--
I exasperatedly update Marina on the progress of my spreadsheet dilemma, and discuss the one random row, out of the 100+, that refuses to be outlined as I would detail the personality of an uncooperative coworker. When I finally claim victory and print it out for the 11th time and 3rd tree in a row, the same problem is multiplied throughout the document, with an additional 8 pages attached to the end consisting solely of outlined boxes- just to make it clear, as if I had any doubt, that yes, both the computer and printer do have the capability to outline cells. But they don't have to if they don't want to- and when it comes to rows 19, 52 and 88, they don't want to.
--
As I stepped out of my building and approached the intersection, I heard cars honking. Not unusual for midtown traffic, but then I saw a middle aged woman crossing the street, in the middle of the road, as cars anxiously sought their opportunity with the green light. She walked slowly and dragged a garbage bag - presumably filled with possessions- across with her, cursing either the cars, those politely diverting their eyes, or her latest adventure. She looked like she was dropped down on Lexington Avenue from another dimension of existence - she was not entirely other-worldly, but was too far removed from her surroundings to make any sense being a part of them. She didn't fit in with the homeless people or those entering Bloomingdales or Subway or the subway. She was pale, with a big nose and bleached hair that was starting to show roots and brassy orange. Not distinctive, in itself. She wore a black jacket that hung down to her knees, a bubble of personal space, and an air of carelessness and self-absorption that people wonder about. Neither her bag nor her coat weighed her down, as one would expect upon seeing a static image of her. Is it a particular circumstance, whether self-inflicted or sudden and uncontrollable, after which one suddenly loses any regard for his/her social environment and assumes an indifference toward all surroundings other than those most directly and obviously of consequence. Or is it a deliberate and natural state of being, an extreme and perhaps unfortunate degree of what many seek or strive for; freedom from the imposition of external judgments, a severe alienating effect.

little pleasures

I bought Kettle chips. Sour cream, onion and chives, and I was undercharged for them. Sounds awesome, right? No. They taste like vomit. And I keep eating them, one chip at a time, hoping they'll taste better- because they must.

But they keep tasting like vomit. I am repeatedly, voluntarily eating someone else’s throw-up. And throw-up will never taste good. It just won’t. That’s why it found its way back up. It wasn’t even worth being converted into…well...excrement.

Is something I ate earlier today making this taste strange? Have I developed a tongue defect, and will all food now taste like it has been rejected by a more discerning palate? Is the bag expired? I'm not familiar with chives- is this what they taste like, garbage? Many questions ran through my mind as I finished off the bag.