Subway Stories

Processing a flood of fond memories of my straphanging days after an old friend (and 15+ year Manhattanite) announced that she recently took her first ever ride on the G Train (that would be the only subway line in New York City that doesn’t go into Manhattan).

I’m not sure I realized how good I had it back in my Brooklyn days. I was 2 blocks away from a double subway station: Lorimer Street/Metropolitan Ave, where the G and L lines meet. Now that I think about it, it was quite possibly the nexus of urban civilization. The L train, that fabled hipster shuttle, and the gritty, outer-borough G Train: they both spit you out into one of the most glorious neighborhoods on the planet. At the time, the hipster scene was spilling over from nearby Bedford Avenue, but the neighborhood still retained its old school Italian charm. There were several good bars and upscale bodegas but lots of nosy old lady neighbors at the same time. And it was safe. I never felt the slightest bit nervous walking home at night. There was even an NYPD outpost right there in the subway station.

The L Train took me into Manhattan, a direct shot to the East Village, West Village or Union Square. But the G took me straight to friends in Carroll Gardens, Fort Greene, Astoria. The G was quirky, unreliable and plagued by weird service interruptions on weekends. The announcements were always unintelligible so you were taking your chances if you happened to be trying to take the G home from Queens on a Sunday evening. But when I complained about how crowded the L Train always got during the AM rush hour, a friend suggested I try using the G to commute into midtown (you get off at Court Square in Queens and takes the E into Manhattan). It turned out to be a piece of cake. I always used the L Train to come home though. I was unwilling to forgo the opportunity for social interaction. I was forever running into people I knew on the L train and once (briefly) dated a Vincent Gallo look-alike I met on there. It was that kind of scene. There wasn’t any of that kind of funny business going down on the plodding old G Train. But it usually got the job done.

That, I would say, was certainly the case on 9/11 when I walked (a little dazed) across the Queensboro Bridge, with hundreds of other stranded office workers, on that brilliant late summer day. There was the G Train like a beacon, and it took me safe and sound to the haven that was Williamsburg, where we watched the smoke rising all the next day from across the East River.

Anyway, I found the car-free lifestyle very liberating. And driving is a total drag in my book. Now, of course, I drive everywhere. Even when I want to take a walk, I usually have to drive to wherever it is that I’m going to be walking. I suppose, though, that most of my nostalgia is a little misplaced. After 9/11 and the ensuing anthrax scare, I became convinced something terrible was going to happen in the subway and often felt like I was going to have a panic attack while riding. The same NYC friend who recently delved into the uncharted territory of the G Train also posted that her mother had suggested that, in light of the swine flu outbreak, she buy some surgical masks to wear to work. Must admit I don’t really miss the teeming throngs all that much.

Mooooving On

Well, I’m officially no longer a nursing mother. This has brought on waves of relief, sadness and, for some reason, a little bit of guilt. There’s this current among the overeducated, slightly crunchy 35 + mom set which has nursing as a badge of honor, a reflection of one’s commitment to her offspring. I’m always a little intimidated by women who proudly announce that they are nursing their children at 2 and beyond. Of course, I’m absolutely supportive of all that. But I think most of us would agree that 16 months is plenty. And in the end, it was really Coco’s decision. She was, quite simply, over it. We had been gradually transitioning to goat’s milk and then regular old cow’s milk (organic or course) over the last few months until we were finally down to one feed at bedtime. In my mind, it was comforting part of our evening ritual. But I was starting to get the feeling that to my daughter it was just a drill keeping her from her literary pursuits. For the last week or two, every time I’d try to stick her on the boob, she’d just start squirming and hollering “Book! Book!” Time to give it up. And so, having dropped two bra sizes, here I am. Finding myself in a state of mammary independence, I’m envisioning a weeklong orgy of margaritas and americanos. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to happen, but it’s nice to know I could if I really wanted to. Maybe next time I get up to New York…

It’s joyful and unsettling to have a toddler again. The amount cognitive development going on is pretty amazing. Coco seems to learn a couple of new words every day and has an impressive (and expanding) repertoire of animal sounds. She’s crazy about the Old McDonald song (which she calls EiEi). She’s also perfected a very authentic growl, which I think she picked up from one of Henry’s battery operated dinosaur toys. She refers to her faux cellphone as “Hi” and to her purse as “Bye” which strikes me as a perfect distillation of the way of things. Loves the slide at the playground but not a fan of the swings. Oh and she seems to be developing into a serious harmonica player to the delight of her blues-singer father.

My mother recently gave her a second-hand Dora doll, complete with beret and bare midriff. She loves it of course (I think it’s those insane gigantic eyes), but mama’s so not ready for the advent of all the little girl stuff. Totally dreading the onslaught of ponies and princesses. Good lord. Must admit, I’m hoping for a little tomboy in the manner of Scout from To Kill a Mockingbird and am encouraged that she’s into the myriad trains, trucks, tractors etc. one can usually find lying around in our living room.

As I may have mentioned previously, our little Colette has been, until recently, about as low maintenance as a kid could possibly be. Until a month or two ago, I could take her anywhere--to the hair salon, to the doctor/dentist, wherever. I could count on her to keep it mellow. No longer. She has very specific ideas about what she wants to be doing at any given moment and usually sitting still is not on the list. If she’s anything like her brother, she’ll be jumping out of her crib in the near future. Better get the old man to fix the hole in the floor in the corner of her room.

Wanderlust Untreated

Spring is in the air and a winter-weary housewife’s thoughts turn to… getting the hell out of town. The past few years have been pretty bleak on the travel front, and I’m dying to get away. What I wouldn’t give to be in Paris with a grand crème and an almond croissant. Or taking a stroll in the Luxembourg Gardens. Keep finding myself reminiscing about my years in NYC when I flew to France 3 or 4 times a year. Things were pretty heady in those days--Euros were cheap and wine was plentiful. I could navigate Charles de Gaulle airport and the French rail system like a pro. I really felt like quite the cosmopolite back then…I was a regular at the Air France waiting area at CDG and used to run into people I knew there all the time. Not that I’d really describe myself as well-traveled. Pretty much all of my international wanderings have involved the same continent, if not the same country. I’ve got a bunch of jetsetting friends who put my paltry collection of passport stamps to shame. Kathy and Neal just got back from another month-long jaunt to Argentina. A college pal and her hubby are living in east Africa and racking up adventures on that continent. And don’t even get me started about my old friend Michi who works for a high-end travel agency and flits across the globe, routinely staying in unbelievable five star joints from Morocco to Bora Bora. Her facebook page is enough to make one absolutely green. Once again, these folks have one thing in common: no kids. But I certainly know lots of people with kids who take great vacations. We haven’t managed to work it out yet, so I’ll have to forget about the Riviera this year. Even the redneck Riviera isn’t in the cards, I’m afraid. We had a nice trip to the gulf coast of Florida with my sister and her crew last spring. Weren’t able to join them this year as the penny pinching is being implemented in full force here at the funny farm. The economy doesn’t seem to be affecting our neighbors, however. Half the people in Hank’s preschool class went to Disneyworld for spring break while we were stuck in drizzly old Lovetown. Not that Disney’s on my list or anything-- I totally fail to understand the mystique. In fact, I’m proud to say that we are pretty much Disney-free around here (although I have promised Henry he can watch Cars one of these days), and I intend to do whatever I can to avoid the Magic Kingdom altogether. Wouldn’t have minded a week at the beach though.

As for summer travel plans, I’d say they’re definitely…indefinite. I have a feeling whatever we do is going to involve a tent. My mother has rented a beach house on Virginia’s eastern shore in August and has invited us to come down. Sounds nice…as long as I can handle a week with my extended family.

Other than that, I suppose I’ll be hanging out at our local public pool…and in the garden. We’re a little more on the ball this year on the food production front: have several types of lettuce in, in addition to spinach, arugula and chard so far. I’m reminded of Voltaire’s Candide, which I read in high school (I think), and its well-known exhortation to cultivate one’s garden. That is, not to worry about the grand scheme of things but focus on the day to day. It’s actually very yogic and reminds me of some wisdom I encountered some time ago on a bag of herbal tea: approach whatever you’re doing as if it were the most important thing. Words to live by, no doubt. But I can’t help pining for Paris.

Circadian Rhythms and Blog Block Blues

Unbelievable. A moment of calm in the afternoon. Those have been few and far between lately, mostly because of an earth-shattering shift in....nap schedules. A few months ago we reached the end of a golden era of sack time. It was truly bliss there for a while. Coco was taking two naps a day: one in the morning (usually coinciding with Hank’s preschool) and another in the afternoon, at which time the boy could generally be counted on for a snooze. This left two glorious windows of opportunity for creativity, unencumbered housework or plain old rest. Everything changed, however, when mademoiselle gave up her morning nap and moved toward a single long sleep in the middle of the day. Hank, meanwhile was getting more and more resistant to the whole idea, and eventually the carrying-on became so intense that I abandoned it all together. This has pretty much left me with no time to myself during the day. By the time everyone’s in bed at night, I’m done. I’ve tried getting up at the crack of dawn but found myself running up against Christian’s early bird surfing of sites dedicated to firearms, motor vehicles and conservative commentary.

All this is to explain my recent shameful delinquency in frivolous ranting. I have had a few interesting thoughts (honestly). There have certainly been a few subjects on which I’ve intended to post (I mean the Carla/Michelle fashion smackdown--how could I have missed that one?). I just couldn’t muster the mental energy.

Anyway, it’s been a pretty dismal spring here in our little corner of the Blue Ridge, rainy and cold. The sun has finally decided to make an appearance, and I’m praying we’ll get a few pleasant days before the temperature hits the high nineties and the deer ticks start proliferating. With only a month and a half left of preschool for this year, I’m starting to think about summer and how I’m going to get my kids out of the house for a few hours while spending as little cash as possible. Have a feeling I’ll be left with no choice but to appeal to the grandmothers. This presents another set of complications entirely, which I’ll reserve for a future post. Be sure to check back in 2-3 weeks.

Compost Wishes & Buttercream Dreams

Happy to say I’ve made it to 38 with only two gray hairs. I’ve decided to call them Henry and Coco (or maybe Henry and Christian). Not that I mind getting older…not really. I consider myself something of a late bloomer and, thankfully, seem to be aging pretty well. Despite some well-earned wrinkles, quite a few people have told me I’m looking better in my thirties than I did in my twenties (chalk that up to the clean living that has characterized the past few years). But I still have a case of the birthday blahs. The past few have been decidedly lackluster. I don’t really feel like another year in my late thirties justifies a real party, especially during a recession. Christian doesn’t really cook, so gourmet meals are not usually in the mix (although he did make eggs this morning). He’s not generally the best gift giver, and I am certainly not the best gift getter. I often have very specific ideas about what I want and get irritated when whatever it is I have in mind doesn’t materialize (whether or not this has been communicated to my spouse). This year, I’m dreaming of a state of the art composter, but as that is cost prohibitive at present, I’ll be satisfied with a pair of $15 garden shoes.

Nothing Christian could do (or fail to do), however, could ever rival my worst birthday ever--my 30th. I’ll refrain from going into great detail, but it involved a lethargic boyfriend at a dumpy cabin in the Adirondacks in the dying days of our relationship. The weather was miserable and there was a mean old junkyard dog down the lane that prevented me from enjoying even the shortest therapeutic walk (in the snow). Not long after that, I met someone else and embarked on one of those high-drama, short-term romances. He turned out to be a total cad. Oh and married. I found this out from a third party months after I took up with him (denial much?). Anyhow, it was all for the best as it paved the way for my current state of bliss…I met the ever lovin’ later that year after having washed those two New Yorkers right out of my hair, and the rest is history.

My main objective on my 38th was to do as little cooking/dishwashing as possible, so carry-out figured prominently. My old friend Kathy drove over from Baltimore to hang out for the morning. We were able to get out of the house without the kids for a few hours and went to…Tractor Supply. It was Kathy’s first visit and she was thrilled. Picked up a bunch of John Deere apparel for her hillbilly hipster friends in Charm City. We brought home a pizza for lunch, after which we decorated cupcakes with Hank. (I got the Magnolia bakery buttercream frosting recipe off the internet, but it just doesn’t taste the same). Christian brought home Thai and Champagne (perfect)and that was pretty much it. I have plans for an evening out with a friend tomorrow (yoga happy hour) and I’ll cap off the festivities with a bikini wax on Saturday morning—fun no? I’ve already decided Christian’s taking me to Paris for my 40th. They love mature women over there.