NY State of Mind

It’s a blustery, Novemberish day here on the outskirts of Lovetown. I’m kind of down on country life after an all too brief weekend in NYC. Coco and I left the boys at home and headed to the big city for robust couple of days, which included a swanky wedding in midtown, a baby’s birthday party in Astoria, and a laid back Sunday morning in Caroll Gardens. I’m totally into CG where my glamorous friend Manon put us up. I didn’t get to spend enough time there when I lived in the city. I was a committed Williamsburger back then. It was already a trendy spot back at the turn of the millennium but not so insufferably, self-consciously hip as it has become. Unbelievably, I paid less than $800 a month for my unattractive but remarkably spacious 1 BR in a quiet neighborhood at the Lorimer Street stop. From what I encountered last time I visited, Wburg is a little bit over the top these days. If I could convince Christian to move to Brooklyn (yeah right), I think I’d settle in CG. It’s charming, low-key, and they have a gorgeous Trader Joe’s on Atlantic Ave. in an old bank building. Imagine being able to walk to TJs…Such a romantic notion to this frustrated exurbanite. I got all nostalgic seeing people with those pull-along grocery carts (the kind usually associated with old ladies). Oh man, I used to use mine all the time.

Manon watched the babe while I got gussied up and went into Manhattan for the wedding of a dear friend. Great to see so many acquaintances from the old days in the wine biz. Had hoped to attend with my darling spouse but extenuating circumstances made it more expedient to leave him at home. In the end, going solo turned out to be kind of pleasant. I am always so exhilarated to be able to spend some time in my own head. And how can I describe the sheer joy going to the bathroom by myself for an entire afternoon! Oh and I got to sit next to the bride’s cute twenty-something cousin who let me check out his iPhone.

Got an interesting question from a couple of fellow wedding guests: do you feel like a tourist when you visit New York now? The answer is yes and no. I definitely don’t feel like I live there anymore, and I don’t know my way around the subway system like I used to. On the other hand, when I’m in town, I spend most of my time experiencing life in neighborhoods. Henry did ask me to bring him a model of the Statue of Liberty (he had apparently seen one at show and tell). My plan was to grab one at Grand Central on my way to the wedding. But after the longest subway ride ever from Brooklyn, I was running late for the ceremony and didn’t have a minute to spare. Had I succeeded in my mission, I guess that would have placed me squarely in the tourist camp. Since I didn’t, I guess I’d prefer to call myself a “returning visitor.”

Anyway, sweet little Coco traveled like a champ and enjoyed her afternoon with Auntie Manon. Must admit, I found driving in the city a little unnerving this time. We got a little lost in Queens at one point, and again trying to get out of Brooklyn to head home (they had closed my usual ramp onto the BQE). Asking for directions, I totally felt like a tourist (but an adventurous tourist who spends her time driving around in the outer boroughs). I was once again (as I always was when I lived there) grateful for the kindness of the natives. They got me back on track and I was on my way--it was a beautiful Monday morning and I sank my teeth into a fresh poppyseed bagel as I drove over the Verrazano heading home.

Thinking Thin

Got a surprisingly warm (if characteristically cheeky) email from a long lost, world traveling misanthrope friend the other day (from the New Orleans days--found me on facebook) congratulating me on not getting fat. That, apparently, has been the fate of many of the women he knew in his former life back in the States. Yes, I’m delighted to say that the last of the baby weight seems to have come off—and then some. This presents the unexpected negative that most of my trousers (word choice carefully introduced to avoid offending my UK readership) look like shit on me. I suppose there are worse problems to have. I should note, however, that my failure to incorporate purposeful exercise into my routine has left me pretty flabby. This, along with proliferating varicose veins, cadaver-like skin tone on the lower half of my body and infrequent waxing, has left me rather bikini-phobic despite being back in a size eight.

Like most of us gals, I’ve spent a lot of time preoccupied with my weight, from the freshman twenty to a borderline eating disorder in my early twenties, until finally arriving at something approaching healthy moderation. Lately, my approach has been just not to think about it, which seems to be working. There's also the fact that(although I sometimes feel it’s gonna drive me to drinking) parenthood has, in fact, cut down on my alcohol consumption big time.

My exercise routine, which in the past has varied from running five miles a day to stimulants and techno, now consists mostly of chasing after my preschooler and the occasional home yoga practice. I just started a once a week pilates class (my first ever) in hopes of overcoming my weakling status. And then there’s tennis…

L’Oeuf Story

Got my butt kicked by some old ladies the other day (on the tennis court, that is). I was invited to play in a round robin by a local club at which I’d taken some lessons a year or so ago only to find that the ladies at my skill level were all in the AARP set. The fact that I’ve barely picked up a racket in the past year only goes so far as an excuse. More to blame for my decided mediocrity would be a general lack of coordination, bad eyesight and an old prescription, and a complete inability to focus. Yup, the odds are definitely stacked against me. Plus I’m a total chicken at the net. While I haven’t yet given into my inclination to cover my head and duck, I sometimes come pretty close. My only saving grace is being a tall chick, but that will only get me so far. It was fun as hell though, the ladies were gracious, and having a chance to leave the kids in the nursery for an hour and a half was worth the humiliation. You know I’ll be back out there. So look out, Grandma, this hapless housewife is back in action.

Ex Libris

Still haven't returned the Billy Collins book. They'll be coming after me soon, I'm afraid. Not ready to give it up, but I suppose I'll do the considerate thing: turn it over to the next (clearly very enlightened) person and get back in line...Wonder if Billy has a facebook page?

Mother's Little Helper #2

Here’s what every housewife needs: a good dose of poetry in the morning.

I’ve been enjoying Billy Collins’ latest collection which is entitled Ballistics. Poetry makes so much sense for the harried/befuddled set, mostly because it can be enjoyed in discrete readings. You don’t need to remember what the last one was about to enjoy the next little gem. It’s also pretty darn uplifting. BC has been a favorite of mine ever since I hung out with him at the Cedar Bar ten years ago or so with a group of fellow hangers-on after a reading. There’s a riff on Frank O’Hara (another in my pantheon) that knocked me out. The only problem is it’s a library book. You see, things are tight here at the funny farm these days. As we navigate the rough terrain of raising a family on one income, we’re cutting out a lot of the incidentals. One of my cost cutting directives has been no new books until Christmas (and then only a few…). So I’ve been patronizing the local library with the frequency of Homer hitting the Quickie Mart. We are incredibly fortunate to have a bustling little branch right here in Lovetown. Normally it works out fine: we read the work in question (up to a zillion times if it’s a kid’s book), return it and move on to the next one. But Ballistics is now overdue and it’s stressing me out. I tried to renew it online and got an irksome “failure to renew” message because some other (clearly very enlightened) local citizen has requested it. I’m feeling kind of proprietary about this one because it’s thanks to me that the library system even owns this book. They didn’t have it in their collection until I requested it. It’s mine! Of course, it’s not mine, and I’ll be handing it over (maybe a few days (weeks?) late). Some books you don’t want to borrow. Some books you just want to have…

Fall Ramblings

We’re enjoying a run of perfect fall days here in our little corner of the Blue Ridge. The light at the farm in the morning and late afternoon is painfully beautiful. We’ve got some picturesque hay bales, too. I’ve got the blues though. Not sure what that’s about…Maybe the shortening days, the chill in the air. The end of farm stand peaches. The last of the local village fêtes has come and gone. And then there’s this cold that Hank and I seem to be passing back and forth.

Add a little nostalgia to the mix—there’s something about fall that brings me back my former life. I moved to Paris and New York in the fall and that’s when I miss them most. I’m sure most of you urbanites will agree that there’s nothing like fall in the big city, when everything comes back to life after the sleepy summer. Fall always meant good hair days, a new sweater, a new pair of boots. I’d love to be walking along the sidewalk among the colored leaves in my old neighborhood in Brooklyn with a hot cup of coffee in my hand and a swing in my step. I miss that feeling of self contained-ness.

In an attempt to shake it off, I’m taking a cue from Henry’s preschool class and focus on apples and pumpkins. I’m after the perfect apple (unlike my crazy mother who likes to go to a local orchard and pick up half-price “grounders” and bring me bags of mushy, bruised fruit). I’ve already had some pretty sublime ones, crisp and tart and am ready for more.

Today it was the pumpkin patch with Henry’s class. We found a couple good ones. I’ll leave the carving to papa. I’m not so proficient with the scalpel…