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.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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?
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?
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
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.
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.
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