The Real Miracle on 34th Street

In my life, I have seen many movies. For the most part, they have not been what are commonly known as "quality" movies. Many have been rather obscure/poorly-made/flat-out lame. However, of all of these, there have been very few that I have truly disliked. One of those? Miracle on 34th Street.

Now, say what you will, I'm not a bad person in general. I think it's nice that kids can believe in Santa, even though I never really did (one of my earliest memories is of me telling my mother that Santa Claus's handwriting looked remarkably like hers. She spun me some story about Santa not having time to address the gifts himself, and I was just like "Yeah, Mom. I was born four years ago, not yesterday.") And Maureen O'Hara is, in general, fantastic. And most movies set in mid-century New York have thriled me. But this one left me, if you'll pardon the pun, considering it's December in the Mid-Atlantic, cold.

I just didn't care. Whine, whine, whine, Santa Claus must be real. Whine, whine, whine some more. I do believe, I do believe. The USPS believes, so it must be true (because the USPS never gets anything wrong. For example, they have not been delivering my upstairs neighbors' mail to me for the last 5 months or anything. They are infallible!) Whatever, little girl. Whatever, happy holiday spirit. Whatever.

And now I find myself emerging from the subway station on 34th Street outside Macy's every morning. At 8 am, I emerge from the ground into the just-spreading light of another cold, cold day, and I think, "You know what the real Miracle on 34th Street is? The real miracle on 34th Street is that so far (knock on wood) I have managed to make it the 5 blocks from the subway to the office every day without being trampled, pick-pocketed, or reduced to yelling at the tourists to get OUT OF THE WAY!" It's just Macy's for crying out loud. You can see one in your local mall back in Des Moines or Tulsa or whatever fly-over state you came from. Look, it's the Empire State Building. Yes, it's tall. And yes, it's lit up for the holidays. Whoopee! Now get your nose out of your Fodor's Guide to NYC and KEEP MOVING. Or I will not be responsible for what I do.

Silver Bells, Silver Bells...

It's Christmas Time in the city! I've been looking forward to this since the day I first dreamed about moving her. Christmas is a magic time in New York City, I was convinced. People rush around with carrier bags from all the best stores, wearing darling, brightly-colored, matching hat and scarf sets with their lovely double-breasted 3/4 length coats and supple leather knee-high boots with heels that never made anyone take a nose dive into a snow bank after slipping on a patch of ice. No matter how many times I found this happening to me back in the midwest, I was certain that New York had some sort of magical force field around it which kept everyone upright no matter how horrendous the weather and the slippery the sidewalks.

Then I moved here and learned that the magical force field had a name. That name? Hollywood.

Sure, it's easy to stay upright when your filming on a soundstage in sunny LA. Oh, wow, yes, I am freezing, but my darling little pink peacoat is plenty warm enough (Don't fall for that one. Some girl in my office showed up convinced that she was going to make it through the winter with just such a coat, because that was what she'd seen on TV. Oh, honey. Much as I'm generally not a good person and don't mind seeing idiots get what's coming to them, she was so earnest, I couldn't let her go. I just pointed her in the direction of the Century 21 winter wear department and tried not to laugh.) Oh gee, look at all this slush on the sidewalk that will never be shoveled or removed, but that won't ruin my shoes or soak the bottom third of my trousers because I have Production Assistants pretty much carrying me around this soundstage to keep me looking just as pretty as a picture!

In real life? I soak my foot in a puddle just leaving my apartment buidling. Great, now my socks are wet, despite the winter-guard I sprayed on my boots (waste of $8.50, right there. Thanks a lot, Duane Reade.) I nearly slip and have to grab the handrail for dear life climbing wet, slushy stairs out of the subway. I walk underneath the ONE tree on Seventh Avenue just as it decides to let loose all of the water droplets that have been building up on its leaves. I stop short to avoid narrowly trampling a group of asian tourists giving the peace sign in front of the Empire State building, and wind up wearing a lovely splash of my morning coffee on the front of my coat (thank goodness it's black! No pretty colors for the smart midwesterner!) By the time I get to the office, I look like I've trudged through Opposite-Day Hell (you know, where everything is reversed and Hell is cold and snowy and full of slushy sidewalks, and fire and brimstone are actually starting to sound pretty nice by comparison.)

And yet I'm supposed to relate to pretty little Carrie Bradshaw in her weird pink tutu and feel camaraderie as she gets splashed by the bus in the opening of SATC? No thanks. I know the truth about those Production Assistants there to help her stay cute. And until I get my own PAs, I'll just continue to say "No thanks, Hollywood, you lying, lying liar."

To Universe, with Love

It's probably a really good thing that I've got nothing against crass consumerism.

I braved the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade this weekend. If I did have anything against crass consumerism, I'd probably have dropped dead. Wave after wave after wave of product placement, advertising characters disguised as children's entertainment, and floats bearing the likes of Dolly Parton. Nothing like kicking the holiday season off with it's true meaning: warbling Christmas carols sung by half-drunk has-beens (seriously, has any singer in their prime ever put out a Christmas CD? Answer: no. Not that this diminishes my love for the Barry Manilow, Jessica Simpson, or most especially, Amy Grant Christmas CDs. I'm just stating the facts) and massive consumer debt brought on by product placement and children's entertainment.

Sounds like the hap-hap-happiest holiday since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny [bleep!] Kaye!

But did any of this dim my enjoyment? Not really. Not even the crowds and the tourists could dampen my spirits (and it was especially entertaining to watch this one extremely loud, obnoxious tourist woman being escorted away from the parade by the police after pushing one of them in an effort to secure a better viewing location for the two sniveling brats she was hauling along. The good officer did not take kindly to this. Myself and my fellow parade watchers clapped. The rude woman spit. Yes, honey, clearly that is going to help your case. Enjoy your time in the tank! See you next Thanksgiving!)

I can't explain why I liked it. Is it that no amount of viewing on the old black and white TV in my grandparents' basemetn can prepare one for the real life spectacle of this parade? Is it that barring the above mentioned crazy woman, there's a feeling of camraderie so rarely felt between New Yorkers and out-of-towners, as for a brief few hours we share sidewalk space without rancor? Is it simply that after years and years of being so far from all of it, but knowing how badly I wanted to be in the thick of it, I finally was? That feeling that maybe my seven-year-old self had not been crazy when I told my grandfather that someday I'd be in that crowd waving at the camera, and suddenly, it was true? It was one of those hit-me-in-the-face, hey-I-really-live-in-the-city, whoa-this-pretty-cool moments.

So for that moment, that opportunity, for all the triumphs and obstacles, pain and joy, and for every bittersweet, ambiguous, exciting, life-defining moment that led to that one, today, I am giving thanks.

The Brita Pitcher Runneth Over...

When living with roommates in this day and age, the Brita pitcher is the new toilet seat. Wow, that's a delightful image, isn't it?

Now, other than my brothers and my dad, I've only lived with other women. And my brothers and my dad are, all in all (dare I compliment them?) pretty well-mannered. So the toilet seat troubles have not been much of an issue in my life. But if I understand the controversy so many of my peers are embroiled in, I can only imagine that it must be something like the altercations of the Brita pitcher.

I mean, really, how hard is it to refill the Brita? If you drink it, fill it. It's common sense. And yet, refilling the Brita is one of those chores to be avoided at all costs. Much like trying to see how much trash you can balance on top of the already full trash bag and daring your roommates to chicken out first and change the bin liner, the Brita pitcher game begins as soon as the water is cold enough to start drinking. You want to catch the Brita pitcher about 2 hours after someone else went to the trouble of refilling it. Any sooner than that, and the water isn't cold and therefore, isn't good, especially if you and your roommates are also engaging in a game of chicken over who will actually replace the filter in the pitcher, which really just means that the filter hasn't been replaced in 6 months and is really not doing anything to improve the taste or quality of the water anymore, but you continue to believe that it is and it's entirely psycho-pseumatic. But if you can happen upon the pitcher in that magical full and cold state, it's like nirvana. The next trick is to pour just enough of the water into your water bottle that you get as much as possible added to your personal stash (no one's going to open your used water bottle and steal the water from there) but still leave enough in the pitcher that you're not "That bitch who left 2 tablespoons of water in the pitcher so she didn't have to refill it." It's like that game your little sister used to play with the orange juice so that she didn't have to be the one to rinse out the carton and take it to the recycling bin. You want to look like you are far above the Macchiavellian mind games of the Brita pitcher.

But let's face it, you're not. I'm not. And I'm above most things, so if I'm not above it, than you are definitely not above it. And so, like the eternal toilet seat battle between husbands and wives, roommates since the dawn of time have been engaged in political battles of wills over the Brita pitcher, bitter enough to make the most hardened game theorist wince. And until we all finally achieve the Upper West Side doorman one-bedroom that we've been dreaming of (and the corresponding salary, which will enable us to spring for one of those nice Brita filters that attach directly to the faucet, thereby rendering any pitcher politics moot, not that there would be any pitcher politics, unless maybe you had a friend over to stay on your sofabed, because there would be NO roommates in the dream pad on the Central Park West) we will continue to ponder the unanswerable question: just how much water left in the pitcher is enough win the game?

It's Times Like These, a Girl Could Use a Dog...

In a city of eight million people, how is it possible that I feel this alone?

Am I living my life in an M. Night Shyamalan movie? Does no one see or hear me because I'm actually dead? Because I'm an alien? Because it's actually the year 3092 and I'm living in a weird, Disney-theme-park-like version of the year 2007, just like in that teen fiction novel that Lili and I both read on vacation that one year when we were like 12 and that old M. Night totally ripped off in the making of the very dull "The Village?" (the name of which he also totally stole from my frequent musings on my hometown... Mr. S, I'm still waiting for my royalty check!)

There's a severe lack of human interaction in my days. My work involves staring silently at a computer for 16-18 hours a day, broken up only by conference calls, which generally revolve around meaningless questions that make no difference in my life or work, so I take the opportunity as an authorized chance to nap for 45 minutes, rather than participate. I am surrounded, 24/7, day in and day out, by this teeming mass of people, but there's no one, no one in this city who would notice if one day, I just weren't there. We don't see each other here, not as individuals. We see each other as competitors, jockeying for sidewalk space, subway seats, restaurant tables, rent-stabilized apartments, the last cranberry cheesecake muffin, and a million other vital or not so vital pieces of our lives. We don't know our neighbors (although we know if they have a better apartment.) We don't know our co-workers (although we're happy to spread any gossip we might overhear.)

I'm okay with that. New York has always been a city of strivers. Ambitious, scheming people come here to make their way in the world, from John Jacob Astor to Kermit the Frog, and by nature, that precludes a lot of what Midwesterners would consider "being nice." But how do you meet people in an environment like that? Where do friends come from, if there's no free time, no common gathering point, and no energy to go out of your way to engage others? Is this why they say New Yorkers are unfriendly? I don't really think we are. I think we're just overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the possibilities, the choices, and the sheer volume of people we face every day. How do you choose? Where do you start? And at the end of a long day, why risk spending time with new people you're not sure you'll like? I get precious little time to myself each day, and I know that a martini and a good book in my apartment will not let me down. The same can't be said for someone I met last week in a bar. Do I risk those few and fleeting moments to the chance that I might find someone whose company I just can't live without, or just selfishly grab that time and make the best of it on my own? Do I risk the ultimate high (having a fabulous time with a new friend), the ultimate low (wasting my free time sitting in a lame comedy club, not laughing, with some complete nutjob) or just meander along the comfortable path of a quiet night, a mixed drink, and an episode of Grey's Anatomy? It's a question to ponder... alone, in my few free minutes.

Halloween: A Horror Story

I don't really get Halloween. I mean, I enjoy a good masquerade ball as much as the next girl (actually, I've never been to a masquerade ball, but I have no doubt that I would enjoy it very much, should I ever achieve my dream of travelling back to 1868 and actually getting to attend one.) And of course, I like candy far more than I probably should.

What don't I like? Any day that exhorts the vast majority of the world's children to act even more like spoiled, entitled little brats than they normally do any day of the week. Any day where I am encouraged, nay, expected to dress up like Donatella Versace and squeeze into a subway car shared with a gorilla, 6 women wearing pointy black hats, and a fat guy in an orange sweatsuit who I think is supposed to be a pumpkin, but might just be a fat guy with very little fashion sense. Any day where the grocery store cashier ringing up my loaf of bread and 12-pack of Diet Coke is likely to be wearing any of the above costumes.

Let us take, for example, the ridiculous concept of trick-or-treating. In what universe is it "adorable," "darling," or "so cute" for children to march up to the houses of total strangers and demand candy just because they want it? I would like to institute a holiday where I can march up to Tiffany or Cartier or even my (at this point non-existent, which is possibly why I'm so crabby) boyfriend and demand jewelry just because I want it. Now that is a holiday I could support. Does the fact that the child is dressed in some bizarre costume that is probably far too hyper-sexualized for his/her age (no little girl needs to march around in short-shorts and a bald cap and declare herself Britney Spears, that is just wrong) and probably cost more than my last purchase at Ann Taylor make it okay to rudely demand candy in exchange for NOT damaging my property? If I answered the door by informing the children that they should give me candy (or jewelry) in exchange for me not kicking them in the pants, no one would call me cute except maybe the nice women I'd meet IN PRISON.

And the older kids! I'm sorry, if you're taller than me, you should go get a job, not knock on my door demanding sweets. If you can drive yourself and your high-school classmates to my neighborhood, than you do not deserve anything from me unless you are the sweet neighborhood kid who I hired to water my plants, and then you already got your $3 an hour which was far more than I made when I was just a neighborhood kid, and I had to baby-sit, and let me tell you, punk-ass 4-year-olds are a lit bigger pain in the neck than my gardenias. If you look like you're in a gang and could kill me if I don't answer my door, than surely you have more important scores to settle on the streets of the 'hood, right?

So I beg of you all, stop the madness! I never thought I'd say this, but take a cue from my parents and the Halloweens of my youth: Rent a movie, order a pizza, lock the door, turn out the lights, and sit in the basement. Then the next day you can drive to Rite-Aid and buy all the leftover candy for half price, and it will be good candy that you picked out, not some junk that the cheap neighbor at the end of the block gives out, not tofu bars from the creepy vegan couple in the poop colored house, not religious tracts from the weird old lady who attends the church of Gonzo's innards at the top of the street. Am I the only one who sees the logic in this? People, unite! Together we can prevail over this ludicrous day!!!

(This post brought to you by the cranky 80-year-old woman I am on the inside. Anyone want to go shopping at Talbots for new babushkas?)

Just Another Tequila Sunrise...

There's a reason I'm not an alcoholic, and it's nothing to do with strength or genetics or disease. The reason I'm not an alcoholic is simple: I'm a pessimist.

For me, the champagne flute is always half-empty.

I sometimes think about how very, very easy it would be for me to fall into the arms of my dear old friend gin, especially these days. With a job like mine, where I work minimum 80 hour weeks, plus weekends, who could blame me for using alcohol to help make the most of my precious few leisure hours? I don't much of a social life. What weekend nights I don't spend at the office, I more often spend with my sofa and my Dawson's Creek DVDs and sometimes a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Sure my salary holds me back somewhat (that cabernet sauvignon more likely than not cost $3.99 at Trader Joe's.) But when I look at my life, I realize how easy it would be to succumb to the sweet succor of hard liquor.

But I don't. I won't let myself. And the reason is this: I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know that rock-bottom is never rock-bottom. I know that my life will probably get worse in the future. Once I succumb to alcoholism, eventually, I'll have to get sober. And when that happens, I'll lose alcohol as a coping mechanism. I won't be able to ever drink again, no matter how awful my life gets.

Post-alcoholism, I'd have to actually face life. It's not that I avoid life now. I'm actually pretty good at facing my problems head on and eyes open. It's just that I know, in the back of my mind, I can drink alcohol, it will help me forget for a little while, and I might just get a few minutes of blissful ignorance. And I know that, should I ever find myself in a situation where even my cynical and pessimistic self believes that I cannot fall any lower, I can turn to alcohol to avoid my life. But you only get that option once, and I choose to be strategic in how I use it. I'm keepng it in my pocket, a backup for a moment in life that I hope I never come to.

No matter how bad it is, it can always, always get worse.

Love (actually, Hate) in an Elevator

I spend a lot of time in elevators. I suppose that's to be expected. Forget San Francisco, this is the real vertical city. When a 22-square-mile island has the priciest real estate in the country, well, there's nowhere to build but up.

I generally don't mind elevators. They're, for the most part, efficient and speedy. They keep me from having to trudge up stairs, especially when wearing heels. They provide a moment to calm and compose oneself before entering the office, or facing the roommates, or joining the throngs on the streets of the city. That is, of course, if one is lucky enough to have the elevator all to herself.

And as seems to be a theme in my life, I am never that lucky.

I end up sharing elevator cars with people yakking on their cell phones (And incidentally, why are the conversations I overhear always so banal? Does the person on the other end really need a minute by minute play-by-play of your activities? Is that person edified to hear that "Ok, I just got on the elevator. I should be there in 2 minutes. Oh, wait, we're stopping on the fourth floor, better make that 2.5 minutes.") or listening to MP3 players set nice and loud so we can all enjoy the misogynistic rap music emanating from the headphones (I cannot even begin to imagine how people can listen to "music" at this decibel level. Do we as a culture value our hearing so little?) Then there are those who insist on carrying on a highly personal conversation with someone else on the elevator. But those people are never actually standing next to each other. Oh no, they let themselves get pushed to opposite sides of the crowded elevator cars so that rather than speak in hushed tones amongst themselves, we all get treated to the details of Cheryl's recent visit to the podiatrist.

But the ones who make me the craziest are the ones whose crimes actually seem the most innocuous. It's the people who don't pay attention! You know what I mean. The person who absentmindedly wanders off the elevator on the fifth floor thinking that he's reached the lobby. The person who stands fully in the doorway and then looks startled, like you've deeply disturbed them, when you try to get on the elevator on another floor, like they never realized that elevators might make a few stops in between their embarkation and departure points. The same goes for the people who crowd up in front of an escalator in a lobby and then act surprised and annoyed when the elevator finally arrives and a crowd of people would actually like to get off of it before they can get on.

Seriously, people, get a grip! It's truly not that difficult. For heaven's sake, the floor numbers are displayed above the door! Is it that hard to sneak a glance before you wander off and then back on on the wrong floor? To step to the side or the back of the elevator, just in case someone dares to try to enter the car on another floor? To let the people exit before you shove your way on? I daresay no, no it is not that hard.

And for the record, whatever happened to elevator music? There's a reason it's called elevator music... because it should be played in an elevator! I like a little something to hum along to (actually, that's a lie. I like a little something to hum along to in my head. I give disapproving glares to people who hum (or, horror of horrors, sing) in close public quarters.) Stick a Barry Manilow tape on continuous loop in those things (this would have the added benefit of decreasing elevator crowding, as not everyone shares my love for Barry.) I beg of you, oh masters of the almighty elevator, to give me something to focus on besides the appalling behavior of my fellow passengers, and you would earn my eternal gratitude.

Coffeehouse-Hunting

I just wanted a coffee shop. A cute, quaint little shop where I can get a mocha and waste a rainy afternoon with a good book. And I'd like it not to be a Starbucks.

I don't really have anything against Starbucks. As a quick break from work, it's nice to have one just around the corner. When I'm out walking and it's cold, it's nice to know that I'm never more than 3 blocks from a hot drink/hand warmer. And every Christmas, I get really, really excited when Peppermint Hot Chocolate reappears on the menu and they start handing out red cups (Yes, I am aware that one can order peppermint hot chocolate at any point throughout the year, but I don't because it's way more special at holiday time.) But for a rainy Saturday afternoon when I just can't spend another minute in the apartment, Starbucks just doesn't cut it.

As soon as I moved here, I asked a good friend who lives in my neighborhood to recommend a good coffee shop. Her response was to rank the local Starbucks's according to service, comfort, and crowdedness. I said, no, I was really looking for a nice independent coffee shop. She looked at me like I'd grown a second head and said "They've been gone for years. They're all Starbucks now."

How sad! Where's my Central Perk? I want a couch in a coffee shop with my permanent butt-print on it, just like Chandler must have had. I want the same guy to serve me coffee for 10 years (although if he were slightly less odd than Gunther, I would not be opposed.) Where do people have first dates in this city? "Let's meet for coffee at Starbucks" sounds a lot less romantic and unique than "Let's meet for coffee at Lois's Coffee Shop." Heck, someone could tell you meet them at the Starbucks at 48th and 3rd, and when you got to that corner, you'd have 3 choices. How tragic if someone missed out on the love of his or her life because each person was waiting in a different Starbucks. This could happen people! If Starbucks' over-expansion keeps me from meeting my soul mate, I will never, ever, ever forgive. Even if they offered me Peppermint Hot Chocolate with extra whipped cream.

Gee, Officer Krupke...

Fact: (TM Dwight Schrute) When Leonard Bernstein first took it into his head to create West Side Story (and what a wonderful idea that was, too. Who'd have ever thought that Shakespeare's most ridiculous tragedy could be so vastly improved with just a few crappy haircuts, bad Puerto Rican accents, and references to "rumbles" in the alley?) he was thinking of my neighborhood. That's right. In fact, he was thinking of the public housing project next door to my building, and over which my bedroom window looks. I don't really think much has changed in the intervening 50 years.

Sure, I've never seen a knife fight out my window, but there remains a sense of quiet foreboding mixed with desperation. In a city where no one stands still, lanes and alleys of this project always have at least a few stationary figures, no matter what time of the day or night. Just standing. Staring. Sometimes whistling, sometimes talking, but always waiting. And I don't know for what. For "something's coming I don't know what it is but I'll know soon as it shows?" For "Tonight, tonight, I'll see my love tonight?" For something slightly more ominous, like "A boy like that, who'd kill your brother?"

I see thousands of people a day, on the streets, on the subway, at the store, in the office, but they're always, constantly, inexorably moving, and there's something shockingly foreign about these people who just stand still. I watch them out of the corner of my eye as I stride confidently through the alley back to my apartment, my apartment which is literally 200 feet, but might as well be 200 light years away. My world is not their world, and when I take that short path, I know that I am nothing more than a guest in their strange and immobile world. I wonder what they're world is like, but in the end, I wonder if perhaps, I don't really want to know.

This is not quite what I had in mind...

This is not quite what I had in mind.

See, I arrived in the city not all that long ago, full of big plans and big dreams (Let's face it. Is there any other way to arrive in this city? I defy you to find me someone arriving in JFK or LaGuardia or (God forbid) Newark for the first time who isn't bursting with hopes for a fabulous future.) Right now, all I've got is big debt, tiny apartment, and big problems.

In a city full of big dreamers, how do you keep your feet on the ground (and do you even want to, considering you'll probably step in something gross before you'be walked 10 steps?) And in a city full of cynics, how do you remember what it feels like to fly (without paying a visit to the 420 lounge on a Saturday evening?)

Start at the beginning. This is one story out of millions-- 8 million just in this city. My attempt to make sense of a foreign world. My failures and triumphs and ultimate disillusionment-- everything I learned from the movies is wrong. At the end of the day, there's only one conclusion: my life is not a movie!

Hollywood lied to me...

I'm the first to admit that most of my ideas about life come from the movies. Or TV. Which is ironic when you consider that for the vast majority of my 20-odd years, I have been without a television set. In fact, even now as I write this, settling into my new apartment in this grand city, I find myself too poor to afford cable TV, reducing me to a steady diet of whatever the networks are offering online and whatever was on sale at Best Buy last week (at least if I buy it, I get to keep it forever.) My parents' early efforts to prevent the rotting of my brain were rewarded by my love of literature, but offset by the fact that since becoming (ostensibly) an adult, I have yielded to a long-supressed voracious apetite for all things on the screen, big and small, and not even the good stuff. I'm way more likely to enjoy the cheesy rom-coms, Lifetime Original Movies, and teen dramas than anything that approaches cerebral, intellectually stimulating, or even, let's face it, of high production values.

And yet, as I venture out into the great unknown, I've learned nothing with more certainty than the fact that Hollywood has lied to me. My life is not glamourous like the Sex and the City girls, or entertaining like the Friends. I don't have a bar like Cheers, a butler like the Nanny, or even a shrink like Frasier. And that's just the small screen. I also don't have neighborhood like in You've Got Mail, a gay editor to solve my problems like in My Best Friend's Wedding, or a hot boss like in Working Girl (although to be fair, I also don't have a horrible boss, like The Devil Wears Prada.)

So thanks are due to you, Hollywood, for the lies, the laughable inaccuracies, and the unrealistic expectations about life, love, and city living. You have made me so wise.