Live in New York, but leave before it makes you hard

After an annoyingly unproductive day at work (I hate my computer), you can imagine my excitement when I walked up to the top of the subway stairs to catch the N train, only to realize that the line (mass) of people reached all the way to the OPPOSITE platform. With calmness I only dreamed possible, I waited my turn for the train. However, as I edged ever closer to the front of the platform, I found myself thinking thoughts. Horrible thoughts. Thoughts involving noticing the closeness of my fellow passengers to the edge of the platform and thinking, "Wow, I hope that person doesn't fall because then my train would be delayed."

I'm admitting this mostly as online absolution for thoughts that I deem unimaginable, but I have to accept that it is New York that has made me this way. As a fresh faced Pennsylvanian, I would have worried about those surrounding me for their proximity to danger, not their (annoying) ability to delay my commute. The Sunscreen Song man was right, I have definitely crossed over to the dark side.

Will I be leaving New York anytime soon? Nope. I'm well past saving anyway. I'm going to law school.

Happy Birthday America: You're fat.

I don't usually soap-box about these things, but I find it completely unacceptable that I live in a state that is ranked 37th in adult obesity (not great, but not horrible) but 18th in overweight and obese children. We as a society can continue to create and watch shows such as "The Biggest Loser," "Dance Your Ass Off," and "More to Love," we can continue to poke fun at the dangerous direction our nation is heading, but we CANNOT ignore the health threat this poses to those who can't make educated choices. If an adult wants to have an extra piece of cake or an extra bucket of fried chicken, that is their prerogative. But the idea that these habits are being passed on to children without the OPTION of fresh fruits and vegetables is, I believe, a national tragedy.

This is not an aesthetic issue, it's a health issue. It's not just that future generations will look like the human beings in Wall-E...it's that those people attached to their motorized chairs will also have heart disease and type II diabetes by the time they are 20. It's not a future that I want to imagine.

I realize that I am either preaching to the crowd or to those who won't have to worry about teaching their children proper dietary habits for many years to come, but I just needed to vent. Sadly, beyond teaching our own children (or children with whom we have regular contact) healthy habits, there doesn't seem like there is much we can do individually to solve this problem. Unless someone wants to help me green light a "Dance Your Ass Off: Children's Edition." Something makes me think that Fox would pick it up.

Every New Yorker's Dream (or nightmare?)

Well, you know you've made it big when a party you helped put together is kind of mentioned on Page 6. I now feel like I, vicariously, have also adorned the pages meant for Madonna and the Real Housewives of NYC.

How's that for Odd Day?

Fight or flight

This weekend I took a trip back in time. I spent two lovely days in Lewisburg, doing all of the things I loved to do in college -- walking to the Freez, enjoying a few beers at the Bull Run, and wandering aimlessly around Arts Fest while soaking in a beautiful Pennsylvania day. Absolutely zero stress.

Fine, I'm remembering college with rose colored glasses (it's finals time, right?). But New York punished me for letting my guard down just the same.

The worst part is, it led me into a false sense of security. I had a delightful walk through the park and a picnic dinner when I returned home after my lazy Pennsylvania weekend. "Maybe New York can offer me the same relaxation as Central PA," I foolishly thought.

Nope. First off, I wake up to find (forgive me, I've been ignoring the news this weekend) that I have willingly returned to the scene of a Stephen King novel. We all know how well I deal with any sort of medical scare, and at the height of allergy season, my crazy is on high alert.

Couple this with the fact that someone thought it would be an excellent idea to pilot a low flying jet plane around lower Manhattan this morning. Without informing anyone. This may seem odd to those outside the city, but we are a paranoid people. The last time Will Smith filmed a movie in New York, half the town was calling 911 over helicopters surrounding the Brooklyn Bridge. We will go "War of the Worlds" on your ass if we aren't informed of these things several times, with many well posted signs. Needless to say, the building across the street from mine was evacuated this morning. All because someone wanted a photo op of an Obama-less Air Force One.

So thank you, New York, for returning my adrenal glands to their previous gigantic size. I don't know what I would have done if I had to survive one more day of being completely relaxed.

Send in your resumes now...

I noticed something odd on Tuesday, and I'm trying to wrap my head around what this scenario means. Basically, as I was leaving my office and walking to the subway, I saw a police officer....on horseback.

Now, one might argue: It was St. Patrick's Day. They probably had police officers on horseback at the parade. And that's what I thought at first -- until I remembered that I work about 70 blocks from the START of the parade. And I don't think there are any stables in the financial district, so unless that cop was getting on the Staten Island ferry with his equine companion, I'm still at a loss.

Perhaps its because I work two blocks from Wall Street, but this unusual sighting got me to thinking about what having cops on horseback actually means in these tough economic times. Is this a reflection of the recession (cops can no longer afford cars?) or a sign that we are rebounding (I mean, if HORSES aren't getting laid off, that has to be good, right?)? Is this particular police officer being rewarded, or is March horseback duty some sort of punishment? Are there any real perks and/or REASONS to ride a horse while protecting our fair city from anything other than Jesse James somehow coming back from the dead?

Does anyone have any thoughts on the issue? Or at least more creative ideas as to why a horse would be fighting heavy traffic on Broadway on a Tuesday afternoon?

Subway Performer Quote of the Day

Guy (with a surprisingly good voice) after singing a one man 3 part harmony of "Under the Boardwalk" on the subway:

Enjoy your stay in New York City
Where all the girls are very pretty
And they've all got jobs.


Loves it. If he would have thrown a bird in my face, I probably would have given him a dollar.

Hey kids, I'm a writer!

Some of you, my loyal fans (ha), may be wondering when I am actually going to talk about what I did in Spain, rather than random musings about screensavers and strange pictures of cathedrals and hard hats. Well, fear not, my minions (too far?) -- this will happen. But not on this blog.

You see, for the past few weeks I've been working on a project in which I ghostwrite a blog for the president of my organization. There have been a few roadblocks, but it is finally up and running. Starting next week, I will be discussing all of the beautiful places and wonderful people that we met in the Basque Country, as well as keeping readers up to date as to what is happening at the Tribute Center. But just so you know -- I'll be writing as a retired firefighter. For a non-profit organization. About 9/11. So my snarky commentary will be regulated to this site, and this site alone.

Anyway, I'm pretty excited that my job description now involves being a writer, which is kind of my goal in life. So if you love my life commentary and want to check out one of my multiple writing personalities, please do so here.

You're in the wrong place, my friend. You'd better leave.

This past weekend, I ventured into the city of Philadelphia for the first time in about 4 years. Without getting into too much detail, the summer I spent living in North Philly was one of the absolute worst times in my life, and I had never felt the strength or desire to go back. Philadelphia, despite being part of the greatest commonwealth on earth, was the one place that I swore I would never go again. And then I had to go and fall for a guy from just that particular area. Karma is an ironic bitch.

I will say, however, that I had a very lovely time and at no point found myself fearing for my life or being inappropriately touched by drunk strangers. This is a feat in and of itself. I enjoyed my time in Philadelphia and will probably return, but this kind of healing involves baby steps, and I am in no way ready to discuss how wonderful the city is with, oh, I don't know, say a camera crew. Which brings us to Monday morning.

I was minding my own business at Reading Terminal, standing in (not on, you crazy New Yorkers) line for your run of the mill bagel with cream cheese. I noticed a film crew filming a Food Network-esque segment, talking about the diversity and wonder of this particular food court. Having lived in New York since that fateful day that I left Philadelphia oh-those-many-years ago, I don't pay much attention to film crews or their purposes. Which also means that I don't notice when they sneak up behind me.

I grabbed my bagel from the counter and turned around quickly, blissfully unaware of the camera that was only inches from my face. Suddenly, I was hit with a barrage of questions: How often do you come here? Who told you about Reading Terminal? Have you heard it is the best place to eat in Philadelphia? Is that going to be the greatest bagel you have ever tasted?

My mind began to reel. TELL THEM! it screamed. Tell them that Primanti Bros., pierogies and gobs will always beat anything that Philadelphia can produce! Tell them that a New York bagel far outshines a bagel made from anywhere else on earth, even if it IS the best bagel place in Philadelphia (which assuredly, this was not)! But then I took stock of my situation, realized that Philly had been good to me the past few days, and that I couldn't let former prejudices flow back just because there was a random camera in my face. I calmly stated that I was from New York, that my boyfriend had suggested the place, and it was conveniently located because we were meeting a friend.

And then I ran like hell. Mostly because I was 5 seconds from yelling, "Six superbowl rings, bitches!!"

Life justifies my previously unfounded fear of birds

I was apparently very wrong to question the severity of an airplane/bird collision. It is a terrifyingly dangerous situation indeed.

However, because all passengers had been safely rescued and because my job has made me somewhat of a "disaster seeker" (as my CEO calls it), I felt it necessary to spend an hour outside, in the freezing cold, taking pictures of a fireboat pulling an airplane into a harbor (how often in my life will I see this happen, really?). Besides, I am the Keeper of the Tribute Camera, so I feel as though this is my duty.

Low light, frigid temperatures, and police tape made this a more difficult job than usual. However, these are the fruits of my frostbitten labor:

The fireboat letting off all of the smoke is the one pulling the plane








This one is just me, trying to figure out how to work with my low light, no flash shutter speed. Hey, if you want a real photographer, leave that to Jacki









And finally, here is a picture of what I originally thought was the tail, but ended up (after looking at the picture on the Times website) being the wing of the plane








Now, one may ask why it is that I risk losing my fingers and toes to see something that I could see perfectly well on a television or computer screen? It's clearly not the Pulitzer prize winning pictures. Well, kids, sorry to disappoint, but I'm not quite sure either. But I promise that I'll let you know my thoughts on this issue when I am standing on the Mall this Tuesday morning, in my thermal underwear, hoping to get a glimpse of President Obama's limo-tank.

Adventures in flying and why the Steelers conquer all

So, this post is a bit late, but well worth noting the week the Steelers will embark on the quest for the Superbowl (Here we go!).

This story begins in the Greatest Airport of All Time, Pittsburgh International. It was a late December afternoon (I said this post was late!) and I was heading back to NYC after a relaxing week in my home town. As a side note here, it is not possible for me to travel without at least one, but most times several, weird things happening. What has two thumbs and has slept on a bench in the Montreal airport, gotten trapped on a train in England, and has never in the history of flying abroad arrived with luggage in tow? This guy. But I digress.

It all began when my plane was delayed because of electrical problems. Fine. You know what, I don't want to fly on a broken airplane, so take all the time in the world for this one. Apparently its bad enough that we need to commandeer the next plane. Again, fine, unless that plane happens to have hit a bird midflight (does this not happen often?) and needs to be fully inspected. This I don't understand, unless the plane has hit a pterodactyl, but again I am patient, as I have nowhere to be.

Now, if these things aren't odd enough, I look over at the steward announcing the delays and spot my college roommate Emily, who just happens to be on the same flight! Great, someone to talk to, delay away. Once we finally got on the plane (2 hours later), I notice a large, familiar looking man sitting down only three seats away from me. "Wait," I thought to myself, "it can't be, I'm sitting in coach on a tiny prop plane!" But yes, three seats away from me on my tiny prop plane in coach was The Bus, the great Jerome Bettis. This day can't get any weirder.

Until we are about 40 miles outside of New York, when the pilot announces that the plane is "too heavy to land" (what??) and we have to fly around aimlessly until we burn off fuel. At this point, I've given up on ever getting home and have resigned myself to remaining 3 seats away from one of the greatest Steelers of all time for the rest of my life.

Yet, obviously, we did finally land and Bettis caught me staring at him in the baggage claim. He winked and smiled, and despite playing it cool on the outside I was as giddy as a 5 year old girl.

So what did I learn from this experience? Mostly that the Steelers are the greatest team in the league because even one of their greatest players ever will rock coach from time to time. No wonder we got rid of Plaxico. Oh, and that the 9 hour train ride to NY is probably more equivelent to the one hour plane ride than originally thought.

Bollywood, here I come!

Usually when I walk onto the elevator to leave work at the end of the day, I am stuffed into a corner amongst many other busy New Yorkers who just can't wait to get out of the office. So, imagine my surprise when there was only one other person on the elevator. That is, until, this particular elevator dweller decided to share his thoughts.

Out of the blue, he turned to me and said:
"You look exactly like this actress we have in India. Everything about you looks like her, her name is Charmy. I have even told my wife about you."

Now, even though, as noted by Hailey's friend Sari, "that conversation went from nice to creepy REALLY quickly," I'm trying to figure out if this guy was right. So I (ok, Tom) looked this actress up, and I'd like to get everyone's opinion. Should I move to India and start my acting career, or was this guy smoking a little too much hookah?

Here she is --- what do you guys think?

It's an illusion Michael. Tricks are what whores do for money.

If you've ever ridden on any form of public transportation, especially in NYC, you learn very quickly to ignore those who try to "entertain" you. 99% of the time they are awful (mariachi band at 8:45am on a crowded train? no thank you), and panhandling in any form is against the law. The rare performer who captures your attention is a special event indeed.

At first, I didn't think that my subway ride would include such an event. Especially after Act 1, aka "The worst rappers on the face of the earth." The mumbled something about New York, but I couldn't tell you one other word that was uttered. The eye rolling and grumbling as they walked through the car spoke for themselves. We are tired, it's after work, please leave us alone.

Not more than 10 seconds after the rappers du jour left the number 5 train, a man walked through the automatic door and started banging on what sounded like a pot. Now, I was frustrated. I just had to listen to the inane rhyming of two very poor "musicians," and now I was going to have to suffer through some crazy man banging on aluminum? It was almost too much.

However, as I looked up, much to my amusement, our newest subway companion just happened to be a magician. Always fascinated by magic, I was compelled to watch this particular show. To everyone's surprise, after about 30 seconds this random man had his whole audience laughing and engaged. The crowd almost lost it when he made a thong appear out of thin air after dipping a closed container briefly near a young woman's skirt.

After a few tricks, I was ready to be embarrassed when this man placed and "empty" container in front of my face and asked me to tap it, as hard as I could, with a magic wand. What I WASN'T expecting, however, was for a live dove to instantaneously appear in front of my face, flapping its wings furiously, as soon as I tapped the container. Now, one of my biggest fears, ironically (?), is that a bird will some day peck my eyes out. Don't ask why...we're all afraid of something completely ridiculous. Unfortunately the (cute) guy sitting next to me didn't have time to prepare for my debilitating fear, as he immediately had a random stranger bury her face into his shoulder, for a full 30 seconds or more. Luckily (for me), he found this incredibly amusing.

So, as our magician friend was getting ready to leave, I pulled out a dollar and placed it in his cup. Hell, I'll pay someone for amusement. Or, at least, I'll pay someone to keep his trained dove at bay.

O Tannenbaum

Anyone who knows me knows how much I adore the Holiday Season. There is nothing better than cozying up by a fireplace, drinking hot chocolate and basking in the smell of a brightly lit evergreen tree. And this is made all the more beautiful when surrounded by friends and family.

Imagine my joy, then, when my parents offered to drive me home from my Mom Mom's (where we enjoyed our annual Lombardo family Thanksgiving feast, along with our newest addition, my cousin's new daughter Mia :-)) and, along the way, help me transport a lovely little 6 ft. Douglass Fir. Although it wasn't like decorating the family tree at our snowy home in Western PA, it was lovely to have my entire family (little bro included) help me set up my most beloved Christmas tradition.

After my parents and brother left for their journey to Western PA and the West Village, respectively, I engaged in the time honored ritual of blasting Christmas music (oh, how I've longed to hear "My Only Wish" by Britney Spears and "This Gift" by 98 degrees since circa July!), placing lights, organizing ornaments, and enjoying the crackle and pops of my New York fireplace (aka a DVD entitled "Cozy Fireplace"). Sure, the ornaments may not have all of the memories of a little plaster star with my kindergarten picture or the box set of Disney characters that I've had since childhood, but my ornaments will always remind me of my first New York roommate, and that's definitely a start. It's nice to know that your adult memories don't have to be so different from your childhood ones. And it's also nice to know that its true -- you can take the girl out of Western PA, but you can't take the Western PA out of the girl.

My life and the game beyond

A few truths from a morning in which our interweb was down at the office and we all filtered over to the museum for the Jim Fassel Foundation Press Conference:

Truth #1: Tiki Barber is an impeccable dresser and the most photogenic person that I have ever seen in real life.

Truth #2: Curt Menefee's voice IS that awesome. And he told me my sweater was soft, so it will ONLY be Fox NFL Sunday for me from now on. As if Bradshaw wasn't enough of a pull.

UPDATE: Menefee just emailed me for photos and offered to buy me coffee if I'm ever in LA! CBS is definitely dead to me now (sorry Coach Cowher!)

At least they weren't wearing slips and frolicking in Central Park...

A conversation I heard this morning, briefly:

Three high school aged girls, dressed in pyjama's, about to cross the street on the Upper East Side at 7am.

Girl #1 (slightly hysterical): NO! I can't LIVE like this! I can't make it through the day without taking a shower!
Girl #2: Don't be stupid, Chelsea. You have to learn.
Girl #3: Besides, we'll ALL be gross. That's the POINT.

This was seconds after I saw two high school aged boys leave their school in pyjama's as well, commenting on how they had slept a total of 15 minutes the night before.

So my question is, WHAT? Can anyone explain this to me? Are UES schools teaching children that they have to learn how to survive on no sleep or showers, possibly due to the economic crisis? And, if so, why has this not yet been an episode of Gossip Girl??

Moldy Pastures, Stagnant Waters and a Restored Soul

I don't normally take well to being "saved" on the subway.

Like any New Yorker, I value subway time as special "me" time, where I can blast my ipod or bury my nose in a book and avoid the chaos around me. But alas, I had finished my book on an earlier ride and my ipod was not extremely appealing this afternoon. So, when the sweet, southern girl next to me, aptly named Angela, handed me a pamphlet and asked if I would like some reading material, I took it. Why not brush up on Psalm 23...it's been awhile since I've had to recite it by rote.

So, of course, Angela and I got to talking. At first the small talk niceties, where are you from, what are you doing in New York (although I could tell she was with a church group from the moment I sat down), are you enjoying your time here, etc. And then, as I knew she would, Angela asked me "Do you believe that, if you died today, you'd go to heaven?" Because I expected the question I was completely honest, "I have no idea. I don't even know if I believe in heaven. It's not that I definitely don't, but I can't be sure that I do." It's not something that comes out of my mouth often, and I can't say that it shocks me when it does, but it is interesting to hear out loud. We continued talking, and then Angela said something that I hear all the time, but for some reason held more weight than usual -- "Well, I know for sure that I am saved." I smiled, and at that moment, I realized that I was so happy for this complete stranger not because she was "saved," but because SHE KNEW she was saved. This knowledge clearly made her life all the better, which in turn made me happy as well. It's not that I envy her conviction in salvation -- it's not something I'm looking for at this point in my life -- it's that I believe that all people should be so lucky to live by what it takes to make them a good person.

As Vonnegut wrote, in what I hold as the ultimate view of tolerance: "Live by the foma* that makes you brave and kind and healthy and happy."

You meet the best people in bathrooms...

Tonight, I had two equally important yet slightly conflicting events that I needed to attend: my weekly volleyball game (yes kids, I STILL play) and the Zombie Prom at the Delancey. Because the volleyball game was at 6:30 and the prom at 8, I decided that I could make both. Yet this included changing rapidly and without modesty in an elementary school bathroom after 3 hard fought games of volleyball.

And this was what happened during this brief time:

Me, changing openly in front of the door.
Nice girl from the other team enters the room, I apologize for changing out in the open.
She says "Its ok, I have to do the same"
We both rapidly change, throw on makeup (in my case, zombie makeup) and make small talk.
Turns out, we're going 6 blocks away from each other (on the complete opposite end of the island)
We decide to share a cab
In the cab, I decide that I don't have on enough zombie make up, so I ask said random stranger to apply it for me.
She does an awesome job/Zombie Prom is saved:
















I love strangers in New York :-)

What's that thing where doctors make you feel better just by talking to you? Bedside manner? Yeah, yours sucks, dude.

I've been so wrapped up in the excitement (and horror) that has been this season's political campaign/economic crisis that I've let this slip just a bit. So back to the idiosyncrasies of living in New York.

So I have had this flu that just refuses to quit (I still blame Sarah Palin). I'm usually pretty anti-medication, but it took a turn for the worse this Thursday morning and I decided to bite the bullet and just go get myself some antibiotics. Yet, what for some might be a relatively routine doctor's visit, for me was all but a three ring circus. For a bit of a back story:

I just began going to this doctor's office, and I actually really like the people, but the service is *slightly* questionable. Like last time, when I tried to have my blood drawn, and two nurses took about 15 minutes to decide that I do not have one vein in my entire body. Oh, until nurse number two felt around the side of my arm and said, "oh, well, this might be a vein. I mean, it COULD be a tendon..." Needless to say, all the blood stayed in my arm that day.

Which brings me to last Thursday. I awoke with lymph nodes the size of golf balls and the inability to swallow, which I explained to the nurse who was examining me. "Let's do a rapid strep test," she suggested, which of course made sense to me. She tried to do the test once, but due to my relatively pronounced gag reflex, gave up and handed me the swab. I proceeded then, to DO MY OWN strep test. Fine, I thought, this can't be that weird, right? I'm not sure I did this right but it should be ok.

I was then called into the doctors office, and as I was walking down the hall, the nurse who had "taken" by rapid strep culture yelled/whispered down the hallway "the test is negative!" Well, that's good news, but seriously? Everyone just heard that. So much for confidentiality. Also, I began to question my ability to swab my own throat.

The doctor sat down with me, and she was a lovely woman, but I couldn't help but notice that her bedside manner was just a little too friendly. Like when she said, "ew" when she looked at my throat the first time, and "wow that's ugly" when she looked again. She then proceeded to ask "are your tonsils normally that huge?" (really? i'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I HAVE A SORE THROAT!) and acknowledged that I "can take as many aspirin as I want, at any time." She did another culture (by herself this time!) and informed me that it would take 48 hours for the results. And then, she proceeded to write me a prescription anyway, on "good faith" that I wouldn't fill it until I found the results. Even after she assured me that "the rapid strep test is almost never wrong." Thanks! Could you write me a script for Vicodin too, on the off chance that I break my leg on the walk to the subway?

However, I took the prescription happily, and filled it before I got the results. In the end, you know your body better than any doctor, and my symptoms assured me that the DIY rapid strep culture was wrong. And what do you know, as I was listening to my voicemail last night, the friendly voice of the woman who told me that ODing on advil was safe and my tonsils were ugly informed me that, "yeah, you're going to want to start taking those antibiotics about now..."

Sick days and VP candidates

So, the first sick day I've taken in years and what happens? The world's most famous hockey mom shows up at my work. Not that I'm super upset about missing the future VP runner-up (boo yeah), but it figures that it would happen the day I'm not there.

My day instead of playing paparazzi/press release aficionado because of Mrs. Lipstick? Watching over half of the first season of Lost (because I like to hit these things at the height of their popularity, obvi), coughing up what's left of my lungs, and, the best part of the day, having my comment chosen for the Gossip Girl Final Reality tally of the week by the Daily Intel (the best recap of the best show ever). All and all, I like to think I still came out on top.

UPDATE: Bff Mof J's response to today's story -- "Your body subconsciously rejected Sarah Palin! That's awesome!"

Saying goodbye to the House that Ruth Built

Anyone who calls themselves a sports fan has to admit that today was a sad, sad day in the world of professional baseball. Love them or hate them, the Yankees are a baseball institution, and Yankee Stadium has been a symbol of victory even before the man himself pointed to the outfield and indicated exactly where his home run would land.

I will always look fondly upon the stadium -- not only have I spent many birthdays and warm summer nights there, but it was also the bright spot in my morning before trudging off the subway at 161st Street and wandering up towards Grand Concourse and my first real job. And when I was there, I always recalled my collective history: Not only I, but my father and my grandfather sat in those very seats and watched the Yankees bat and pitch and field their way into baseball history.

So of course I jumped on free tickets last Monday, thrilled that I would be able to appreciate the stadium one last time before it closed for good. As I arrived (a bit late -- top of the second inning), broadcasting on the screen was the question of the day: "What Britney Spears song would you most like to hear?" Listening to Jeter, Posada, Rodriguez and Abreu request "Baby One More Time" really put everything into perspective. Never a fan of building a new stadium, I now finally realized what had taken me years to discover: without progress and change, we run the risk of losing ourselves in a certain image -- as well as shaving our heads and attacking the paparazzi with an umbrella. So bring on new Yankee Stadium. Maybe the Yankees comeback will be all we ever hoped for and more.