A Small Town Girl's Guide to Life

New Address

2010-06-26T15:35:00.001-04:00

Small Town Girl's Guide has moved permanently to www.smalltowngirlsguide.com.

I've Moved!

2009-04-10T12:25:00.001-04:00

My blog has moved, so please adjust your blogrolls or bookmarks, and seek me out at:

www.smalltowngirlsguide.wordpress.com
(smalltowngirlsguide dot wordpress dot com)

Cheers!
smalltowngirl

Calendar

2009-04-06T15:06:00.003-04:00

Thank you, Google Calendar.

First, you auto-reverted yourself to Taipei time, even after I designed you to be set to USA Central Time.

Second, after saving all of my events, which I've spent countless hours researching and updating, in Taipei time, you kindly offered to change my calendar to Central Time.

I accepted your gracious offer.

And what did you do? You adjusted all of my calendar entries to the Central Time equivalent of Taipei Time, which has resulted in 4 am art crawls in Ste. Genevieve and midnight hikes in St. Louis.

Every last entry in my Google Calendar is now listed at the wrong time. I'm not happy with you, Google Calendar. I'm not happy with you at all.

Brauhaus Kaffee

2009-04-05T18:22:00.012-04:00

All photos by smalltowngirl

I love this coffee shop.

Still new (open for less than a month, I believe), Brauhaus Kaffee is the newest addition to quaint, downtown Farmington's collection of stores and restaurants.

The owners, who are residents of Fredericktown, Missouri, have spent the last two years renovating the space.

I'm not sure how old downtown's buildings are, but my guess is that they're from the early 1900s. The sidewalk outside is red brick, and two tables with two chairs each, sit just outside the cafe's front doors.

The cafe's two floor-to-ceiling picture windows let sunshine stream in, and offer a view of the side of the court house, around which downtown Farmington was built.

Gleaming, subtly distressed hardwood floors are offset by black granite-topped tables and contemporary black leather sofa and armchairs.

Prints of German artwork hang on the red, exposed brick, and a piano sits in the back.

Beside the piano sits an empty guitar stand - empty because someone in the cafe has inevitably picked up the instrument to pluck out acoustic melodies each time I've been in the cafe.

I like to think that by way of my Sunday afternoon latte ritual, I'm helping keep Pat, the owner's spirits high. Today we chatted about their scones being hand made from scratch each morning, and about the anticipation over the arrival of their new stove, which will accomodate homeades soups in addition to their already homemade baked goods.

Today, craving something sweet, I ordered a mocha. The taste was just as great as the presentation:

The clientelle is as diverse as one could hope for in a community as relatively homogeneous as Farmington, Missouri is.

Today, for instance, there were three q-tips (white haired folks), a woman who looked to be my age with a mod, black haircut and a large tatoo on her foot, and another late-20s/early-30s writer-type with a laptop. I couldn't help the excitement, overhearing him voice his enthusiasm about a local, independent magazine.

I hope that Brauhaus Kaffee surives. I take that back, I hope that it thrives, and I have faith that it will. Warm fuzzies will take over my belly when downtowns come fully to life again, and I think Farmington's well on it's way, thanks to places like this one.

News

2009-04-05T01:21:00.004-04:00

Having not read the news over the last two weeks, I caught up a bit tonight.

First, my prayers are going out to the families the three Pittsburgh police officers killed this week. I lived in Pittsburgh for two years, and I loved it there. I was so sad to hear this story.

Coming a bit closer to home, MO gets a big 0 points in the MO vs. NY battle for its incest and this irresponsible gun owner. MO gets no points here.

It doesn't bode well for my line of work that non-profits nationwide are struggling to pay the bills.

A big 1 point for New York that Coney Island isn't closed, afterall. I was among the masses who were mislead in 2008 and 2009 by talk of the park closing. Turns out, only part of the park closed in the fall...Ladies and gentleman, line up for your Nathan's hotdogs and your Wonder Wheel rides.

And finally, a column, the writing style of which was thoroughly engaging. Check out this NY Times story on Virginia Heffernan's column, "I Hate My iPhone".

NY = 1 for being home of the newspaper I love.

Today's Total score: MO=0; NY=2

A Semi-Sweet White Table Wine and a Very Sweet White Dog

2009-03-31T23:36:00.013-04:00

I uncorked the Whittenburg Semi-Sweet White as I went off on one tangent or another about the challenges of my new job.

I let the wine breath for a few minutes, poured myself a glass, and took a sip. A warm, mellow flavor hit the center of my tongue, and the tartness of an apple draft cider tickled the tip of it.

The wine being more full-bodied than I'd expected, I relaxed, contentedly, sinking a little deeper into the slat-backed wooden chair.

The first glass was a well-deserved pleasure after a frustrating day at work, and the second glass was pure indulgence. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a white wine as a standalone, without a food pairing.

Peaceful Bend winery is on the Meremac River in Steelville, Missouri.

all photos by smalltowngirl

Two glasses in, I realized the dog was still outside from 20 minutes before. When I let her in, her muddy paws left footprints across the white quarry-tiled kitchen floor. The dog already in need of a bath, and me having already had two glasses of wine, the dog with little hope.

Into the kitchen sink she went, and any dignity the poor dog had disappeared...

It's the little things in life that make it good. A glass of local white wine and a clean white dog are all it took tonight to lift my heart up to a better place.

More pictures of the (dry) white dog.

Wineries, Coffee Shops, Art Galleries...a Castle?!

2009-03-30T23:19:00.006-04:00

What's become of my bumbling little country bumpkin of a home state, Missouri?

I hardly recognize my downtown square, which is now lined with a cafe, a New York style pizza place, a fairly nice bar and restaurant, and a music store.

And don't get me started on the national bicycle race coming thr

ough town. We never had that kind of thing when I was a kid.

What? Is one of the nation's last living independent music stores really in St. Louis? Darned right, it is. And I'm proud to say I've been buying music there since I was 16.

You know what else Missouri has? It has wineries. Like, no joke, a LOT of wineries. Wineries with good wine, beautiful views, live music on the weekends, art galleries, and B&Bs.

Finally, and then I'm getting back to updating my events listing for April (look beneath this blog)...We have yoga. I took my first small town yoga class tonight, and it was good.

If none of the above perks you up to the Show-Me State, check this out...Joplin, Missouri has a castle :

Photo from 4statehome.com

Despite my grouchy, short-fused, angsty poop of a mood over the last few days over missing New York, I've gotta hand it to Missouri - it's changed a lot in the 10+ years since I last lived here.

Lemons or Lemonade: A Blog in two Parts

2009-03-29T17:02:00.013-04:00

Part One:

I'm grouchy today.

Missouri is so nice, and people here are so nice. It's all so...NICE.

Where's the grit? Where's the texture? Where's the edge?

Oh, that's right. It's Missouri. It's not gritty or textured or edgy. It's nice.

Photo by smalltowngirl

Thank God for blogging, FB, and Twitter...And thanks to my NY friends who are following my blogs, photos, and tweets, caring about this journey I'm taking now, back in Missouri after so many years away.

I had hoped that social media would help me feel close to some of what (and who) I love about New York, and though some days I'm not sure it's working, other days it's the thread that keeps me connected, and by extension, keeps me sane.

So thank you, if you're following, emailing, and commenting. And if you're following but not commenting, it would be so good to hear from you.

NY=1; MO=0

***

Part Two:

For all the missing New York I'm doing now, I missed small town MO very much over the last 10+ years, too. Sometimes I longed for the quiet, humble, nice Midwest

While I can't walk down the street to grab the Times from a bodega or newstand in my small town, I can read it online from the coffee shop, where the barista visits with me for ten minutes at a time, and I can buy a large latte for less than a small coffee in NYC.

And while French Press coffee and omelets with hungover 20- and 30-somes isn't quite the same as drip coffee in the pot at home, it's really kind of nice to wake up sober, to family and a little white dog.

So I'm trying here - I really am - to seek out the best Missouri has to offer.

I want to love life here, or anywhere that I am, for that matter. I want to be one of those people who can find beauty and happiness anywhere.

I've started a community calendar here. I hope that this can become a space for locals to seek out hip, healthy, and interesting events in the area.

I'm independent, so I can publish any event (unlike other, corporate events calendars I've found in MO). If you have events you'd like published, tweet me, Facebook me, email, or leave a comment.

In the meantime, I'll leave you with a few good local things I've discovered this afternoon:

The Tour of Missouri 2009

Go! St. Louis

Trailnet: Promoting Active Living

The Soulard Art Market

The Gift in My Mailbox

2009-03-27T20:00:00.011-04:00

As I sat huddled over my Mac, creating a last-minute ad that was already three hours past deadline, writer's block muddled my brain and my half-baked InDesign skills inspired prayers that I never find myself without a capable graphic designer on staff.

Hastily, I created a pdf of the ad and printed it off for editing. I rushed into the dining hall, thrusting the ad upon three witless interns, trying to sound managerial as I begged them, in desperation, to proofread the piece for me.

As I rushed to submit the ad before the weekend, somewhere across the office, someone was putting time and thought into making my day a little happier.

I submitted the ad for publication, and while I was submitting, someone else was someone else was sticking an awkwardly wrapped gift, complete with big, red bow, in my office mailbox.

I present you (pun fully intended, because I'm witty like that) with Evidence A, "The Gift":

Standing at my desk, taking in the boyish wrap-job and Christmas colors, a smile spread across my previously grimacing face. Someone cared enough to wrap up some little something for me.

I snapped this photo, and I proceeded to unwrap the package.

I slid the white box out from the shiny, striped paper, and I grinned goofily as I opened it up.

Inside, this is what I found. Observe Evidence B, "the Empty Box":

Nothing.

I have been the target of an intra-office practical joke. I'm sorta flattered.

Cupcakes (a.k.a. Bet You Wish You Were at My House)

2009-03-26T00:12:00.009-04:00

Photos and Cupcakes by Smalltowngirl

Happy Thursday night!

I'll bet you wish you were at my house right about now...

These cupcakes are chocolate and peanut butter with homemade milk chocolate icing, topped with Reese's Peanut Butter Chips.

(They're really as good as they look.)

***

I spent my morning in downtown Farmington, Missouri. What a delight to walk down brick sidewalks from a music store to a restaurant; an overflowing florist's store to a warm and cozy bookstore.

The Downtown Farmington Parntership/Alliance (I forget it's formal name) has done a really nice job bringing life back to downtown.

Much to my excitement, Farmington has a new and quite legitimate cafe! Brauhaus, our new coffee shop and lunch spot, has a story to tell, and I hope to tell it soon.

The owner enthusiastically told me today about its name, the photos on the wall, and the two years she and her family spent renovating the historic building the cafe calls home. I'm planning to visit her again soon, this time with notebook and camera in tow so that I can blog about it.

Until then, where quaint downtowns and kitchens big enough to prepare 3 dozen cupcakes are concerned, MO = 1; NY = 0

Followers

2009-03-24T19:13:00.003-04:00

I've been pleasantly surprised at the number of people who have been popping in to read this small town girl's perspectives on the move from NYC back to small town Missouri.

It's nice to get emails, Facebook messages, or Tweets about things I've written and photo I've posted. Thank you!

Among the surprise readers I've discovered recently is a friend of a friend who I met not long before leaving NYC.

I hadn't realized that this friend was a talented amateur photographer until he sent me his blog today. He doesn't update too often (he's in medical school, as if that's an excuse ;) ), but his photos make a journey on over to http://www.naterr.com/blog.php worth a moment of your time.

I've just been inspired to reach a little higher where my own pictures are concerned.

As an aside, I'd like to further my previous plug for "Dark Was the Night". It's a strong album. I've been listening to it almost nonstop now for the last two days.

दिस्कोवेरिएस!

2009-03-23T17:04:00.005-04:00

I'm not sure why my Title is showing up in a foreign language. (Hindi, apparently.)

The funky title can't rain on my parade though. I just had an exciting hour-and-a-half phone meeting with our web designer, who is bright and knowledgeable, and living in the St. Louis neighborhood I didn't know existed (but that I'm head-over-heels in love with).

There is a bit of Brooklyn in St. Louis. Check it out:
Old North St. Louis

This neighborhood is essentially a renovation district, and while it's still in its building phase, I can't express to you how excited I am to see a real community in St. Louis proper.

From what our web designer told me, most of the buildings here had become very, very run down. The homeowners' restorations are labors of love. Check out this blog about the restoration of a home that was missing an entire wall.

Another website, seemingly dedicated to property sales in the area, has some great photos of the commercial district (under renovation) in the neighborhood.

And on my "Must-See, Must-Eat, STL" list? Crown Candy Kitchen, an ice cream shop and restaurant founded in St. Louis in 1913.

My car accident brought on a lot of "I miss New York" sentiments for me, and honestly, I spent my weekend pretty down in the dumps. Having my eyes opened to this St. Louis neighborhood has, thankfully, lifted my spirits.

Yay, St. Louis!

MO and NY = TIED.

Dark Was the Night

2009-03-22T15:07:00.004-04:00

Disclosure: My best friend works for one of the artists on this album, so my opinion is probably influenced by her talking this album up, pre-release.

Last night, I downloaded "Dark Was the Night", the newly released album produced by Aaron and Bryce Dessner from one of my favorite bands, The National, as an AIDS and HIV awareness project.

Besides Feist and The National, the album features an impressive list of artists, including Beirut, Kronos Quartet, Bon Iver, Arcade Fire, Cat Power, The Decemberists, and more. It's a two-CD set, and it is working much-needed magic in my soul.

Living in the rural midwest is a lot easier in 2009 than it would have been in the past. Ten years ago, I would have needed to drive to St. Louis on the release date of an album like this, hoping that a store like Vintage Vinyl might have it in stock. Last night, I downloaded it from my bedroom.

Ten years ago, I'd probably have been one of the only people I knew digging an album like this one. Now, I can probably find a thousand people online talking about it.

So as I sit in my big, red, paisly arm chair, feet propped up and sun streaming in my window, I listen to this album, and I don't feel far from NYC at all.

Thankful for One More Day

2009-03-22T00:58:00.009-04:00

The morning sun was at my back as I drove North on Highway 8. I was hovering just below the speed limit as I approached the Potosi city limits.

There is no turning lane on the highway in that spot, so when I saw a car passing the pick-up, I realized that the truck was in my lane. I slammed on my brakes, gripping the steering wheel with my left hand and throwing my right hand to my horn.

The grey and black Ford F-150 looked like a wall of steel standing before me as I braced for impact.

The left front end of his truck struck my front driver's side. His truck scraped down the side of my car, and I watched the shoulder of the road move all too quickly beneath my tires.

I felt my car leave the road, then the shoulder of the road, and finally come to a stop nose-down in a six-foot ditch.

I put the car in park. By the time I got out and turned to look at the scene of the accident, the truck's driver was already halfway between his truck and my car, asking me if I was alright, and

apologizing.

Adrenaline pumping, my hands began to shake. Soon my arms and shoulders began to shiver and shake, too.

By the time the police reports were written, the car was on a tow truck and I had arrived at the auto shop, I was sick to my stomach and exhausted.

My dad helped me with the phone calls and paperwork for insurance and a rental car, and then I worked a 7 hour day, leaving the office well after 9 p.m.

I slept for 12 hours last night though, and spent today with a sadness in my stomach that I can't explain.

The sadness was there yesterday as well. I wished someone would hug me so that I could let the tears flow. Instead, I worked. Today I cleaned and unpacked more boxes, and only now, after midnight, in my bed alone, are a few tears falling.

I wasn't afraid. As I braced for impact, I felt at peace with whatever was about to happen.

What a strange thing - to be aware of that sense of peace even as a Ford truck is pummeling the car you're driving. I think I resigned myself in that moment that I was prepared for whatever hand God was dealing me.

I was a blessed woman to have landed in the cozy 6-foot ditch that I landed in (rather than in any number of 50+ foot drop-offs along that highway), and while I was at peace with whatever was going to happen, I am so, so thankful that I was given another day to wake up and live today.

Smalltowngirl

Taken 3/14/09 in Potosi, MO

My wreck, in my momma's words

2009-03-21T15:18:00.001-04:00

For my Momma's take on my accident, check our her blog:

http://cherisheachpreciousday.blogspot.com/2009/03/proud-momma.html

Driving to Work in Week 3 = WRECK.

2009-03-20T12:56:00.008-04:00

One of the questions I've gotten over and over about my move from NYC to MO is, "How are you enjoying driving everywhere?"

Another is, "How do you like your 42 mile commute?"

On a whole, I don't mind the commute or the driving. One thing that subway life taught me, however, was just how dangerous highways are.

When I'd visit family in MO, I'd see people...

Eating and driving...

Talking on a cell phone and driving...

Talking on a cell phone, eating and driving...

Talking on the phone, smoking a cigarette and driving...

...sometimes while driving a stick shift...

Reading a driving...

Digging around in their floorboard and driving...

These multi-tasking drivers scare me.

Why do they scare me? Because cars are big, heavy machines that go very, very fast.

Today, I was driving my own big, strong, heavy machine (i.e. a Ford Taurus) to work when a younger driver in a much bigger, heavier, stronger machine (i.e. an early-1990s Ford F-150) made a lefthand turn on a state highway.

Making a lefthand turn isn't inherently problematic. Making a lefthand turn into the lane in which I am driving, however, is very problematic.

I realized what was about to happen before it happened, honking and swerving to try to avoid being hit. To no avail.

His truck hit my car on the driver's side, and then pushed it into a fairly deep ditch, where the front end of my (relatively smaller), but still strong and heavy machine's front end saw further abuse by Missouri clay and rocks.

Thank God no one was hurt, but Lordy people, please don't forget that driving is a responsibility, and that automobiles are dangerous.

MO=0; NY=1

Sayersbrook Bison Ranch

2009-03-19T23:48:00.010-04:00

On Monday, I was invited to take a personal tour of the Sayersbrook Bison Ranch in Potosi, Missouri.

I've recently become aquainted with the ranch owners, and my day on the ranch this week was a moderately absurd, while simultaneously lovely and educational experience.

To get to work, I travel down a US highway, then a state highway, and then a county highway, before turning onto the road our lodge is on.

Sayersbrook is just a few miles from my office, so I hopped in the car Monday morning from work, and I headed to the ranch.

I was cruising along county highway AA when a dumb ol' country squirrel darted beneath my tire, creating a "thuhm-bump" sound that nearly made me cry.

I'm not a fan of death, and while running over a small mammal is probably some sort of Welcome to Missouri rite of passage, it still shook me up.

After the squirrel mishap, I found the bison crossing sign particularly sweet. (I'm not sure my trusty tank of a Ford Taurus would have held up well to a 2600 bull.)

Making note not to run over any of these huge creatures while on the ranch, I pulled through the gate. Immediately to my left sat the ranch's airstrip, and a bit further down the road was the family's home.

A sprawling single-story, log home with picture windows and beautiful landscaping, the house delivered to me a new meaning of "ranch-style home".

Later in the day I'd be joining the Sayers for bison lasagne in the kitchen of the house, and meeting with Mrs. Sayers about Washington Country Tourism Board planning. For now though, it was time for a ranch tour in one of Mr. Sayers' fleet of Hummers.

Along we chugged along, on road and off, around the property. I got to see what was once an apple storage space with quarter-inch-thick cork walls for insulation.

Mr. Sayers' grandfather had stored apples from the orchard there. Now the room is arranged for presentations, and bison head (taxonimized) are hung from the walls and propped up on the floor.

The property is 3,000 acres, and its perimeter is six square miles. This repeater radio tower stands on Missouri's third-highest place (the highest is Taum Sauk and second is Little Pilot Knob). We stopped here so that Mr. Sayers could feed this portion of the herd.

Bison, as it turns out, are pretty darned smart, but they're also herd animals. If one gets riled up or angry, it's like that the others will follow suit. 10 angry bison is scary, but 100 angry bison is terrifying. The Sayers' 100 or so bison, then, are kept in smaller herds in seperate fields from one another.

Though the animals don't get sick often, when they do, the herd helps the sick animal. A group of bison will circle the sick bison, propping it up between them. They'll then walk with it to water, where the sick animal is usually able to hydrate itself back to good health.

Fascinating!

Now, may I tell you about their mating rituals? (Little readers, cover your ears.)

Female bison require that a bull court with it for a day and a half before mating. None of this sex on the first day nonsense for these ladies. These heiffers have class.

At three years old, females start bearing lil' ones, which Mr. Sayers assured me (as he drove his red, white and blue Hummer with what looked like an M-16 mounted on a tripod in the backseat) are "the cutests little things".

(I have been invited to return to the ranch in a month or so to meet some of the newly-born bison calves. I hope I'm able to see them!)

On my tour of Sayersbrook, I learned about rifle ranges, sporting clays, Jeep off-road competitions, and even about Missouri history. Of course, I also learned a lot about Bison. Bison are not buffalo; their meat is 97% fat free; and you can visit one of only a few dozen large bison ranches in the USA right here in MO.

New York was starting to catch up on my cow count, but where Bison are concerned, Missouri definitely takes the lead.

MO=1; NY=0

All photos by smalltowngirl

Gracias Amigos!

2009-03-16T23:20:00.007-04:00

I was honored with an invitation to "stinky drinks" tonight with two old friends. One friend is a tree trimmer and the other is an assistant to a large animal vet.

Both friends can get pretty stinky in a day's work, so their version of happy hour is aptly named "stinky drinks."

Though neither of my friends were particularly stinky tonight, we did meet up for drinks, and I was convinced when the following check came out at the end of the night that it was missing some digits.

Our check:

Gracias Amigos, indeed! In almost two years in New York City, I can't remember ever being able to buy a single drink for $5.94, much less three drinks and chips and salsa for $5.94. Missouri wins this battle in a big, big way.

MO = 1; NY = 0

Camping

2009-03-15T13:20:00.003-04:00

Photo by Smalltowngirl

Photo also OF Smalltowngirl

Note to self - use the bathroom before putting on four pair of socks, two pair of gloves, and zipping yourself into your sleeping bag.

Between my bladder and the coyotes, I didn't sleep much last night. (Note the one-eyed, glaze-over stare out from inside the sleeping bag cacoon.

Home and showered, it's time for this small town girl to take a nap.

Trailer Parks and Newspapers

2009-03-14T10:48:00.008-04:00

On my new daily commute, I pass Bannister City, the mobile home community where my aunt and cousins lived for most of my childhood. Each time we stopped in to visit them there, I would come home to our four bedroom ranch-style house on a beautiful seven-acre hill feeling pretty lucky.

My dad's first house was a trailer. He bought it in college, and lived in it from then through his first bit of marriage with my mom. They upgraded later to a starter house, and finally to the house on the hill, which will be where they retire.

It seems to me like that sort of gradual upgrading was pretty typically in the 1970s and 80s. Now though, young people, myself included, are hesitant to buy into the world of manufactured and starter homes. I'm not here to write a polical tangent; we all know about sub-prime homes and the people who have taken on mortages that are beyond their means.

What I'm talking about here is nostalgia for a time when everything didn't have to be bigger and flashier and better. A time when it was fashionable to be a little bit frugal; to have some money in the bank, and to have a home you could afford.

I gave The St. Louis Post-Dispatch an earnest try this morning. I was turned off by many of the comments left by readers on this story of a perfectly preserved 1950s home and the family who preserved it.

Many readers left unsupported comments calling the family "mentally ill" or "wierd", and I found myself angry at the judgements against this family who the readers had never met. Instead of commenting on the house's pink bathroom or 1952 Frigidaire, readers were focused on tearing down people they didn't even know.

Rock on, readers of The Post-Dispatch, rock on with your hateful selves.

I'm not sure if this says more about the way St. Louisans think, or more about the St. Louisans who comment on The Post Dispatch's stories. Either way, after twenty minutes of reading The Post-Dispatch, this story's comments were the breaking point for me, and I found myself running by to my old standby, The New York Times.

As I read the front page, my shoulders relaxed, and I settled in to my indulgent weekly Times time. The first story that caught my attention was on, of all things, New York City's only trailer park.

Check it out.

In Missouri, a trailer park isn't exactly luxury living, but for New York City, to be able to buy several rooms, a washer and dryer, a sunroof, parking, and "a garden knome or two" for $500/month is pretty attractive. There's something to be said for living well, but keeping things within your means.

2009-03-12T23:46:00.006-04:00

Eyes burning, but snug at home with my hot tea and fuzzy pjs, I feel good about moving back to Missouri.

I've spent two days this week working in various parts of St. Louis; driving in city traffic, eating in city restaurants, and talking to city people.

I've spent the other days in small town Missouri; taking my Class E driving test at the highway patrol office, getting my new license at the DMV (I can drive company cars now, woot!), jogging on trails in the woods, and appreciating the mornings' sunrises.

I'll leave you tonight with the promise of a horseback trail ride and campout blog on Sunday, and with this photo, taken out of the sunroof of my car in downtown St. Louis on Monday. I love being a tourist in my own city:

Good night, all!

A Bald Eagle, a Beautiful Sunrise, and a Shotgun

2009-03-08T12:48:00.005-04:00

On Friday evening, I sat with several coworkers in the dining hall, waiting for the board retreat events to begin. On the menu were fried fish, hush puppies, a salad bar, and desert.

The dining hall looks out onto a 360-acre spring fed lake, and as we ate, a gigantic bird flew past the windows 40 feet or so above the water. My colleague, Andy, pointed it out to us, saying that what had just flown by was "our" bald eagle.

Bald Eagles:

MO=1; NY=0

***

Because board retreat activities were going fairly late Friday night, I stayed at the Lodge. I woke up the next morning to this view outside my room:

Beautiful sunrises over lakes:

Mo=1; NY=0

***

On Saturday afternoon, the board was invited to participate in a trap and skeet range orientation. Since I've been trying to do as many of the activities at work as I can, I decided to tag along.

I grew up around guns, but I had never taken gun safety, and had never shot a shotgun. During the hourlong gun safety course we took, I learned about the parts of the gun, the rules of responsible gun handling, and the meanings of some common firearm jargon.

Watching the instructor (who also happens to be one of my bosses) handle the three shotguns (none loaded) that were part of the safety course, I had butterflies in my stomach.

I haven't been around guns in a long time, and my liberal-leaning New-Yorker-self was starting to question whether I really wanted to handle one.

I stayed back, watching the board members and their families try their hands with shooting trap. Finally, though, all of the other people had taken their turn, and a few people turned to me, expectantly. I looked around, realizing that I was the only person left to shoot, and stood up to try shooting the 20-gauge shotgun.

The kick on the 20-gauge wasn't as bad as I'd expected it to be, but the gun itself was a lot heavier than I was prepared for. My left arm, on which most of the weight of the gun was resting, was almost shaking after five shots, and it's still a little sore today.

I guess I was proud of myself for trying something that scared me. I would have been perfectly comfortable never having that shtogun in my hands, but I didn't let myself stay scared.

I missed every one of the five clays I was shooting at, but I learned new things and overcame what I hadn't even recognized before then was a fear of mine in handling firearms.

Firearms aren't a subject for light-hearted conversation, so I'm not giving this experience points in my tongue-and-cheek MO vs. NY battle.

***

I will, however, chalk one up for the trails outside the office. After finishing up at the trap and skeet range, I took a jog on the trails, and left work to head home for the rest of the weekend.

Trails outside the office:

MO = 1; NY = 0

Week One Recap (spoiler: I held a chincilla tonight!)

2009-03-06T22:48:00.004-05:00

It's 9:49 p.m., and I'm sitting in my office in Potosi, Missouri after a full day of work, including eight hours in the office and several more with our board of directors. If ever before this year I had been told I would work in Potosi, Missouri, I would have bet everything I owned that you were lying. (And I'm not a better).

If you had told me I'd love my new position working in Potosi, Missouri, I would probably have laughed in your face. (And I'm generally very polite).

Yet here I am, tired after my first week of work here, but tired in the "sugarplums dancing in their heads" kind of way, where I feel an excitement about what's to come and such a deep peace about where I am in this moment that rest will come easily when I finish this post and crawl into my bed.

This week I have been woken up by the family dog, I've had coffee at the kitchen table with my dad before work, and I've watched my mom get so creative and excited about cooking really great, healthy meals for us.

Wednesday on my way home from work, I saw a deer cross the road in front of me and run down a hill and into a field. The weather has warmed up here, so I've continued to test out my new trail running shoes on jogs in the woods behind the office. Tonight, I held a chincilla in my hands (his little nose was adorable, and his "pricklies" were softer than they looked!).

My coworkers are gracious, thoughtful, and incredibly welcoming. Do not misunderstand me here, they are also hard-working, experienced, many of them very well-traveled professionals. They have brought me into my first week here at the Y with nothing but compassion and kindness, which heals my soul in ways that I didn't know it was even aching.

Do I miss New York City? Of course I do, in little ways, and sporatically. Do I love where I am though, professionally and personally; mentally, spiritually, and physically? Yes, wholly.

All things happen for a reason, and I believe that my new job and new home are no exceptions.

Milk and Cookies

2009-03-02T21:06:00.009-05:00

My friend Factor has kindly shared the following photo with me of another New York City cow. This one lives in Manhattan, not Brooklyn.

Clearly, I was incorrect in my assumption that MO would have one up on New York were cattle are concerned.

New York City has some darn fine cow (butts). I have cow pictures from two boroughs now - does anyone know any cows in Staten Island, Queens, or The Bronx?

Photo Credit: ShellyS

There aren't any cows at my new job, but there are lots of other great things. My first day was pretty great.

I found out that coffee brews from early morning until after lunch, and I can drink as much as I want.

Plus, there are cookies. Like, every day.

Mmmm...cookies...

Did I mention that my lunch, if I choose to eat in the dining room, is free?

Life is good, my friends.

But seriously, people, it's great. I've never felt more warmly welcomed in a new job, my office was freshly painted, and I had a brand new Mac desktop waiting for me. My coworkers are friendly and helpful, and the place is just stunning.

My new supervisors have taken great efforts to make my transition smooth; planning meetings for me with each department over the coming ten days to familiarize me with our programs and the way each department works with the marketing department.

I saw a portion of the 5,000 acres of land today, including tours of several of the 10+ buildings. Besides the horse ranch, enormous lake, tennis courts, gym, cabins, and 5-story log lodge, there are miles of trails for walking/running/hiking, and it seems like I'll have coworkers to take advantage of these things with after hours.

It seems like I'll have a lot to learn, and also a lot to offer, which, when combined with the organization's efforts to raise employees through its ranks (rather than lose good employees like so many organizations do), lead me to believe that I've found a place I'll be able to stay and grow for a good amount of time.

And did I mention the cookies?

And milk? (seriously).

Mmmm...

Little Chinatown in the Antiques Mall

2009-03-01T18:33:00.006-05:00

I've never been a handbag kind of girl - I much prefer jewelry, shoes, and music, if music counts as an accessory.

I have to admit though that I worried, if only momentarily, that immediately following my departure from NYC I'd develop a compulsive need to buy knock-off handbags.

Much to my delight, the local (and by local, I mean really local, i.e. one-ninth of a mile away) antique mall has an entire row of knock-off Coach and Dulce & Gabanna's.

Watch out Chinatown, small town Missouri has it's own little Canal Street, hidden away in an unasuming rural antique mall.

Dry Cleaning and Other Cheap and Friendly Things

2009-02-27T11:39:00.004-05:00

In the realm of the things MO has to offer, please consider the cost of dry cleaning, and the friendliness of the people at stores here.

Cases in point:

1. I took one suit, one blouse, four pair of pants, two skirts, and a blazer for dry cleaning yesterday. Not only was my bill less than $40.00, the woman at the counter was exceedingly friendly.

Melissa: Thanks, I'll see you on Monday evening!

Lady: Thank you! We'll see you on Monday! Have a great day! Thank you!

Melissa: Thanks, take care.

Lady: Thank you! We'll see you soon. Take care now! Thanks!!

So the dry cleaning lady either doesn't usually get business from someone with that much dry cleaning, or she's just really, really friendly.

Judging by the kittens playing with a ball of yarn depicted on her sweatshirt, I think she's probably a very nice lady. What one's sweatshirt depicts tells a lot about one's character, don't you think?

2. I took my cowboy boots (see blog titled "I Like Your Boots") for repair. After a long sigh and a sincerely sad and empathetic look, the woman at the counter informed me that it was possible that my boots were beyond repair.

The woman in the boot shop was nearly as friendly as the woman at the dry cleaner, but she was wearing a plaid shirt on which no kittens were depicted. Unsure of whether I could trust her with my beloved boots (can you trust anyone without kitten pictures on their clothes with a pair of boots as unique and lovely as mine?), I realized that I had no other choice.

Despite her racist comment (racist is not okay) about the manufacturer of said lovely red and black boots, and despite her plaid, sans-kittens shirt, this is the only cobbler in town. It seemed I had no choice, if I actually wanted to wear the awesome boots again someday.

Expecting a hefty bill for the cost of repairing four holes in the boots, I braced myself. When she announced hesitantly that the repairwork would cost $24.00 (I guess this is an expensive boot repair job by local standards?) I was gleeful.

The cost of living here makes me feel like I felt when I was traveling in Asia - my dollar goes 30% further in MO than in NY, and much like so many of the Asian colleagues and friends I met along the way, people here are overwhelmingly friendly and helpful.

Today's battle of NY vs. MO:

Friendliness MO = 1; NY = 0

Racism MO = -1; NY = 1

COL MO = 1; NY = 0

TOTAL MO = 1; NY =1

Note to Missouri: I'm trying damned hard to make you look good here, and you're so close. Stay away from the racist side-comments, and you'll fare much better moving forward.

Laundry

2009-02-25T21:53:00.009-05:00

Laundry in New York...

How do you do laundry in New York City?

Since most apartments don't have washers and dryers in the building, you can take your laundry to the laundromat yourself, you can drop it off for pick-up service at the laundromat, or you can pay to have someone pick up and drop off your laundry at your apartment.

I happen to be among the tiny school of fish in the sea of (former?) New Yorkers who prefers to do their own laundry.

This is not because of some sick joy I find in doing laundry, mind you. It's for one reason, and one reason only; I like my laundry to smell really good.

My experience with drop off service is that my clothes come back smelling much the same as YMCA towels do. (Nothing against the Y. I love the Y, in fact, especially since they started paying my salary. The Y rocks.)

The thing about doing laundry in New York though, is that just like everything else in New York, it's hard, especially if you live in a 4th-floor walk-up, 2.5 blocks from the laundromat. The four flights of steps are the hardest part.

Once you get to the entry way from the fourth floor, you can use your trusty New Yorker-cart. The cart is used to roll your laundry 2.5 blocks away to the laundromat.

The cart:

In preparation for the trip to the laundrymat, you can't forget your quarters and/or small bills for the quarter machine...

Because laundry in New York starts to get expensive after a while...

***

Laundry in Missouri...

Laundry in Missouri, on the other hand, is not hard at all.

You have to sort your laundry and carry it to the utility room, where your own personal washer and dryer await you.

Witness washer and dryer...

And notice that there is no slot for quarters in this particluar model...

In the battle of the laundry, the score is clear:

MO = 1; NY = 0

Grantsville, PA

2009-02-22T22:18:00.008-05:00

Dad pulled in to Brooklyn just before 2 p.m., and after finding a parking space and exchanging a bear hug, we headed to La Bagel Delight for a sandwich.

Bellies full, and drizzly rainy grossness falling from the sky, we opted out of staying the night in New York, and opted in to packing the van to get the hell out of dodge.

Photo by smalltowngirl

Several trips down my four flights of stairs later, my room stood empty, the moving van sat full, and Dad and I prepared to sit in traffic on our way out of the city.

Two of my roommates, Bill and Suzanne, got home just before Dad and I were leaving. We spent a few minutes saying our "goodbye for now"s, we gave each other hugs, and they stood on the stoop to watch as Dad and I drove away.

South Oxford Street Gang

Photo by PapaG

As we made our way uptown toward the Lincoln Tunnel, Dad got a quick peek at Macy's, and I convinced him to make a minor detour so that he could say he'd seen Times Square.

At about the same time this afternoon, my mom looked out the window to see eleven deer in the backyard. She snapped several pictures, and blogged about it, saying "NY = 0; MO = 1".

Wrapping our way back down 9th Avenue and over on 39th street, we entered the Lincoln Tunnel.

When we exited the tunnel, New York City was behind us, and once it was, I didn't look back.

Twenty Four Hours

2009-02-22T08:24:00.005-05:00

I gripped the rungs of the ladder, excited. Kids laughed and hollared and water splashed in the pool beneath me as I placed my foot on the first cool, metal rung.

Quickly, I ascended, afraid to look down. The top of the ladder came quickly, and as my eyes became level with the diving board, I realized for the first time exactly how high in the air I was.

What would happen if, at the top, you froze and couldn't get yourself down? Would they call in the fire department like the do when a cat gets stuck in a tree?

All of time stood still for a moment. Butterfiles rose up in my stomach, and fear trickled slowly from my core, into my arms and legs, and on to my fingers and toes.

It was quiet from the top. A place of relative solitude. The kids down below looked small, and even the lifeguards - in their towers of authority - were beneath me.

I was on my own, and while I wanted to feel the rush of the dive, I was terrified to actually jump from the diving board now that I was standing on it.

Whether it was fear of humiliation, the uncertainty of what would happen if I simply sat on the diving board and refused to come down, or my innate sense of courage and adventure, I'm not sure.

I walked to the edge though. I took a deep breath, and I jumped, a scream of terror and delight escaping my lips as my body hung in the air and began plummeting down.

When I crashed into the water and made my way back up for air, I couldn't imagine not having had the courage to make that leap.

***

"How are you feeling about the move?"

With twenty-four hours left, maybe this helps answer that question.

***

The Final Seventy-Two

2009-02-21T17:05:00.011-05:00

I'm counting my time in Brooklyn down by the hours now.

At T-Minus 72 Hours...

I was touched by my coworker Kate's toast to me during the office farewell party. We sipped Yellow Tail Shiraz and Merlot, and I was given more hugs, compliments, thanks, and well-wishes than I can count or than I deserve.

I moved the last of my files onto the shared servers, double-checked that I hadn't left anything

behind in desk drawers, and send a farewell email to our staff.

I switched off my overhead light, handed in my key, and walked out of my office at the Garden into the cold winter air for the last time.

At T-Minus 67 Hours...

I walked up Flatbush Avenue towards Flatbush Farm, where I was meeting friends for more send-off celebrations.

Flatbush Farm was the bar of choice in part for its low-key and spacious interior, but also for the play on words. I'm leaving Brooklyn for Farmington, MO, after all.

Imbibement and celebration carried us into the 65th hour...

At which time we migrated to Union Hall, Park Slope's hipster bar.

Johanna, Melissa and Meghan en route to Union Hall, 2/20/09

Photo by Big Mike

Union Hall's warm lighting, leather chairs, and bookshelf-lined walls welcomed us. We had a few drinks and made our way to the downstairs music venue where someone was celebrating their birthday with karaoke.

At T-Minus 62 Hours...

The 'Staches closed the joint down, and headed for the deli for some late night sustenance.

The 'Staches, 2/20/2009

Photo by the Barkeep

And speaking of 'Staches, check out his mustache!

The Bartender, 2/20/2009

Photo by Big Mike

T-Minus 61 Hours...

Found us at the apartment of three of our teammates, eating and talking until the sun came up.

T-Minus 58 Hours...

(i.e. 8:30 a.m.) Found me walking home under a sunshine-filled Saturday morning sky, most of my teammates asleep on either beds, couches, or floor space at the apartment. Goodbyes are so much easier when I can slip out the front door without many people noticing.

T-Minus 48 Hours...

I'm still awake, and have been now for somehwere around thrity-six hours. My apartment is mostly packed...

I've said goodbye to almost everyone I need to say goodbye to, and I'm going to go have tea with my coworker and Friend, Kat, before coming back home to go to bed.

My Dad will arrive tomorrow at around noon with the moving fan and a bear hug. Stay tuned for the my story of our father-daughter cross-country trek.

The 'Staches

2009-02-19T22:12:00.009-05:00

Zogsports 2009 Dodgeball

Bohb's Kabobs (a.k.a. The 'Staches)

Meet Bohb's Kabobs. i.e. my dodgeball teammates and I. We like mustaches, and we like Bohb (seated, far left). Our official team name is Bohb's Kabobs, though everyone in the league knows us as The 'Staches.

I'm a big fan of Zogsports, which is a charity league (i.e. we play for a cause), although Bohb's Kabobs is not exactly the best team in it. In fact, last season we were one of the worst.

It was in our last game of last season, as we hugged the bottom bar of the bracket, that we decided to make light of our sad ranking by wearing matching fake mustaches to the game, and we've been known as The 'Staches ever since.

Everyone's favorite Zogsports referee is Sam, who has a great sense of humor, and is adored by the girls and respected by the guys. Sam look something like an oversized twelve year old, with his big eyes, smooth skin, and lean frame. We all love Sam.

Good humored man that he is, Sam has repeatedly offered the team terms which, when met, will result in him wearing the fake 'stache. No matter how easy his terms have been, they have always been just out of reach...

Sam: Win three of four games against the two worst seated teams in the league tonight, and I'll wear the Stache to the playoffs.

The 'Staches: got our butts kicked in three of four games.

Sam: If Melissa can make two catches in tonight's game, I'll wear the 'Stache for the rest of the teams' games tonight.

Melissa: makes one catch.

Sam: If Dave can drink his beer faster than me, I'll wear the 'Stach for the rest of the night at the bar.

Dave: barely has his cup to his lips and Sam's finished his beer. Sam clearly has no asosphogus.

No matter how hard we tried, The 'Staches just couldn't meet Sam's terms. Week after week, we went home disappointed. Week after week, that is until this week.

Because this week, after four and a half catches, the most gracefull fall in the history of dodgeball, and some otherwise slick moves on my part, Sam agreed to wear the 'stache. I believe he credited it to my "all around performance."

So my last night in the Zog dodgeball league ended on a high note, with Sam in a mustache. Zog has been great, and I'm going to miss the league and my teammates on it. As far as the ongoing MO vs. NY battle goes...

Both have dodgeball:

MO = 1, NY = 1

But MO doesn't have The 'Staches, Sam, or league manager Andy (who deserves more credit than he got in this blog).

MO = 0, NY = 1

Thanks for five great seasons, Zog, and two great seasons, 'Staches!

Meghan, Sam, and Melissa

Melissa's last Zogsports Dodgeball Game, 2/19/09

Exes, cows, and Almondine

2009-02-17T16:43:00.011-05:00

Almondine

DUMBO, Brooklyn
Photo by smalltowngirl

Among Brooklyn's most well-known eateries is Almondine, a patisserie in DUMBO known for it's baguettes and pastries.

When the ex-boy called to see if I wanted to get together one last time before my move, it seemed like a good opportunity to check out Almondine.

(@andrearosen gets a mini-credit for unintentionally inspiring this trip with a tweet this morning about Almondine's stuffed pretzels.)

The food was tasty. I had tomato and spinach soup, a grilled vegetable sandwich, and some sort of blue cheese that tasted great broken up into my mixed greens salad.

For desert, Jeff and I split a coffee and a fruit eclair that vaguely resembled a footlong sub, only in miniature and with fruit, not deli meat. As good as the real food was, the eclair kind of made me wish we'd just skipped lunch and gone straight for sharing deserts.

I can now cross Almondine off my NYC to-do, to-see, to-eat list. While I don't think that St. Louis is without good bakeries, I would guess that this one is a notch above, so the final score on Almondine:

NY = 1; MO = 0.

Empty coffee cups at Almondine
Photo by smalltowngirl

***

On the bright side, my ex doesn't live in Missouri, so I won't have to make decisions about whether to see him once I'm gone. Every time I see him it gets a little easier, but it's still awfully hard. On the ex-boy front, the score is:

NY = 0; MO = 1

***

As an addendum to the "I like your boots" story, I owe MO an apology for under-estimating its supply of cobblers.

My mother kindly informed me that my hometown has a large shoe repair and boot shop now. I no longer feel pressured to have my boots fixed before I leave town.

Thanks, Mom!
NY = 1; MO = 1

***

And, finally, I've been assuming that MO would get the cow credit over NYC. How wrong I was.

This photo, taken on our walk back from DUMBO today, is evidence that this midwest ain't the only cow country 'round these parts. Where cows, go, I'm sure rural MO will have more real ones, but I have to give NYC a point for trying...

NY = 1; MO = 1smalltowngirl with cow
Brooklyn, NY
Photo by the ex-boy

LTC 2009

2009-02-17T01:13:00.011-05:00

I took the Amtrak from NYC to Syracuse this weekend to see Jesse and his wonder Golden Doodle, Oscar. Having spent this weekend with Jesse and last weekend with my friend Tim, I've found myself thinking a lot about the moment when once-new friends become old ones.

Jesse and I have seen each other through a lot. He calms my soul, and even though I’m not sure what value I bring to the friendship, I must bring something, because he continues to be there for me.

Visits with him help ease me into my transitions, and this weekend was no exception. After two good weekends in a row with old friends, I'm reminded that it’s the connections we make, not where we make them, that matter in this life.

NY = 0; MO = 0; Friends = ad infinitum

"I Like Your Boots"

2009-02-14T01:22:00.007-05:00

Danielle and I parted ways in Times Square as she headed back to Brooklyn, and I tried to figure out to make it down to @socialmedium's birthday bash in sliver of Manhattan between the East Village and the Lower East Side where I'm never exactly what neighborhood I'm really in.

I needed to take either the 7 or the S from Times Square to Grand Central, but the 7 wasn't running, and the S was going to be a twenty minute wait. I opted against @socialmedium's party in favor of invitation #2, a group of Brooklyn friends who were out in a place not far from my apartment.

I left the S platform and made my way back to the jam-packed, Brooklyn-bound N,Q,R,W platform, where I was one of the only people flying solo tonight.

A girl with a Billy Idol-style platinum blonde spike stopped talking mid-sentence, and looked adoringly, albeit hazy-eyed, at my boots. The boy standing beside her, whose back had been turned as I approached followed her gaze so that I could see a thick layer of foundation, subtle eyeliner, and a light blush.

"I like your boots," the girl said. "Those are fucking sweet."

"Thanks," I said. "I love them."

***

The Q was running local instead of express, so my four stops to Brooklyn turned into more stops than I could count, and I was ready to crawl into bed by the time I got off at Dekalb Avenue for the walk home.

I got off the train, helped some girls from Manhattan find their way to Union Street, and headed down the platform to my exit. I passed a man leaning against a pole, waiting for the R.

"I like your boots," he said.

"Thanks," I said to him before I walked up the steps and out of the station.

***

I emerged from underground into the lights of the Applebees at the corner of Fulton and Dekalb. A sanitation truck came down the street at the first intersection, so I paused, not sure if he'd yield to me. He stopped to let me cross, and as I did, he flashed his lights once.

I ignored him.

"I like your boots," I heard him say from the cab of the truck.

I gave a quick glance over my shoulder as I headed up the street towards my apartment.

***

I got home, and I sat down to take off my boots. That's when I noticed that the leather at broadest part of the boot was coming apart from the sole. I took of the right boot and looked closer. Sure enough, a seperation about an eighth of an inch long had developed on the right boot.

I set the right boot on the floor, slipping off the left. I looked at the same place on it, and once again the leather was no longer attached to the sole.

Before New York, I probably would have taken these holes as a sign that the boots needed to be retired, but in New York, we have cobblers. Lots of them. And one of them happens to be just down the block from me.

Chalk one up to New York for cobblers.

I like my boots.

10 Days in Brooklyn, Part II

2009-02-12T21:47:00.013-05:00

I had never walked up Broadway to 23rd street from Union Square, so I felt like I was on a mini-adventure, not sure what sat between 18th and 23rd along Broadway.

As I reached the southern edge of the park, I realized that I was less than a block away from the bar where the St. Louis Cardinals Fan Club in New York City meets to watch games.

Somewhat serendipitously, I had been reading an article on the train written for New York Magazine by Will Leitch (check out my other blog for thoughts on Will's article), who I met months ago for the first time during a Cards game that the fan club watched together at that same bar, across the street.

A gust of wind nearly knocked me down, but I persevered. As I made my way to the edge of the park, I saw the infamous Shake Shack, the holy grail of New York walk-up hamburger stands, sitting humbly beneath the barren winter trees.

Shake Shack, Washington Square Park

Photo by smalltowngirl

The unusually warm weather had brought a handful of other people out to eat a burger in the park. As I waited in line, I checked out the menu, which consisted of burgers, fries, shakes, sodas, concretes, beer and wine.

I ordered a Shake Burger (single patty, lettuce, cheese, and tomato), fries, and a black and white shake. (My days of having black and white anything are numbered).

I fought the wind as I ate my burger, resenting the cruelty of the woman who ran laps around the park and past the Shake Shack with her little white dog in shoes (red ones, with velcro. They were disgustingly cute). As if I didn't already feel guilty about eating a burger, fries and shake for lunch...

Continuing with the ongoing MO vs. NY theme, I think it's important to rate Shake Shack against Missouri drive-in burger joints. Here's the verdict:

1. The burger was good, but the Shake Shack rage is totally New York-centric. If I brought a friend visiting from the midwest to Shake Shake, I'm almost positive they'd be disappointed.
MO = 1; NY = 0

2. The black and white shake made me happy, and is flavor that's easy to find in the Bible Belt.
MO = 0; NY = 1

3. The fries left something to be desired.
MO = 1; NY = 0

In Summary: NY burger + Shake stand doesn't hold up to my farm girl standards for what ground beef, dairy, and fried potatoes are capable of. Missouri wins this match 2 to 1.

***

Continuing my adventure, I made my way back downtown for a stop off at one of my favorite stores, Fishs Eddy.

Fishs Eddy carries some of the most affordable, quirky and clever dishes in the city. My stop off there today was further evidence of New York's downward turning retail landscape. Fishes Eddy is going out of business.

On the bright side, this is one less thing I'll have to miss about New York City. I also have to admit that the going out of business signs outside the store were just as clever as the great finds inside the store:

Finally, Fishs Eddy's loss is my gain, because I....

scored these snazzy new...

Brooklyn glasses for my future kitchen...
I picked up eight of them, and am debating the purchase of four more. I heart Brooklyn, and I'll miss Brooklyn.

***
The last stop on my adventure was at the Strand bookstore. The Strand is quite possibly the best bookstore in New York, and with it's cozily cramped aisles, low prices, and great selection of new, used, and reviewer copy books, I have to give New York some credit. I'll miss this place.

***

Finally, and then I'm going to crawl into my bed and fall fast asleep, I'd like to pay homage to the man who made my adventures possible today, one former US President, Mr. Abraham Lincoln. I stopped by his statue in Union Square to give him a moment of respect. Happy birthday, Abe.

***

Addendum: while I said I was going to sleep after the Lincoln homage, I have to document the hacking cough of my downstairs neighbor. May it please be noted that sick, noisy neighbors don't help New York City's score in this ongoing debate of states:
MO = 1; NY 0

10 Days in Brooklyn

2009-02-12T13:19:00.009-05:00

It's Lincoln's birthday, which means that it's a floating office holiday. I had to work for a few hours, but now it's time to enjoy a gorgeous day outside by stealing my own Shake Shack virginity, and taking a walk in Manhattan with my camera.

Countless people have asked me two questions over the last few days. The first of which is, "Why are you leaving New York?"

The people who ask this question are bewildered at the prospect of leaving The City (i.e. the only city, in their New York-centric perspective) for the rural midwest.

The second question is, "How are feeling about your move?"

I've answered the first question in my other blog.

The second question is actually the more interesting one.

I feel:
Numb
Nervous
Exhausted

I cannot:
Seem to get enough sleep
Take in enough of New York before I leave
Imagine not coming back

I can:
Live without hard goodbyes
Manage change in my life
Find the positive in any location, position, or situation

I've got a lot of stuff going on in my heart and my head. I have so many things to do in the next week that my feelings and thoughts are dominated largely by necessities like transition plans at work, logistics of moving 1030 miles away, and finding someone to take over my lease.

Following my afternoon adventure today, I think I should have photos and better stories to tell. For now though, I thought I needed to document the moment.

Speaking of the moment, it's 1:28 p.m.

1/28 is my birthday, 1:28 is my personal moment of the day, and though I don't generally subscribe to the concept of luck, 128 does seem to be the luckiest number I know.

On that note, it's off to Madison Avenue to have a burger and shake!

Knife.

2009-02-09T20:02:00.003-05:00

So I’m on the R train tonight heading from Madison Square Garden, where I’d been at Westminster with my friend Tim, to the Upper East Side to see a cornea specialist about my eyes when a shouting match breaks out between two dudes on the train.

Said two dudes are sitting immediately behind me. Before long, the looks on the faces of the people around me make me turn to check things out.

An older black dude and a younger Latino dude are totally about to duke it out. As they raise their voices and the Latino dude starts pulling off his jacket, I notice a glint of silver in the older dude’s lap.

He’s pulled out a damned knife. Not a pocket knife, but a full-out, 4-5-inch-long knife.

I move as far away in the train car as I can get, and I gladly get off the train at the next stop.

I have no idea what ended up happening, but I can definitely chalk knives on the subway up as one of the things about New York that I will not miss.

The Golden Hour

2009-02-08T04:57:00.006-05:00

I walked into the Metropolitan Ave. station to catch the G train at 4:05 a.m. after two Belgium beers, some delightful cheese, a cup of coffee, and great conversation.

In my pocket was a list of books, movies, and music to check out. On the opposite side of the platform, Marcus was catching the G back to Greenpoint.

While I waited for the train, I was standing with 30 or so other late-20s/early-30-somes pretty much just like me, decked out in various states of hipster dress and drunkenness.

When the train came at 4:22 a.m., a readheaded girl down the platform cheered.

In my subway car were seven or eight other people. Most of us were traveling independently, though I wouldn't say we were traveling alone.

I got off the train at Fulton Street, and I discovered on my walk home that a golden hour exists between 4 and 5 a.m. during which Mullane's still has patrons at the bar, and la Bagel Delight's lights are already on.

There's a whole side of New York that I'm just discovering now that I've missed for the past sixteen months because I've been working six days a week.

Added to my list of things I'll miss: The Golden Hour between 4 and 5 a.m. when the subway is dominated by my demographic, the bars haven't quite closed yet, and the bagel shops are almost open.

The I'll Miss (or Not) List

2009-02-07T19:04:00.006-05:00

It's time to begin documenting the journey back to the big M.O.

I guess that it makes sense that I'd eventually make my way back to the place where I grew up. The difference between here and there are so fully complementary that it's hard to quantify one place as better than the other.

What, precisely, are the trade-offs are between here and there; this and that; one and the other?

Here's a list to get us started. Photographic evidence and further elaboration to come:

Top Five Things Rural Missouri has over New York City

(In no particular order)

1. Washing machines in the home (as opposed to four flights of stairs and three blocks away)

2. Stars that you can actually see

3. Summer thunderstorms that remind you just how small you really are

4. COL (i.e. $)

5. BBQ

Top Five Things New York City has over Missouri

(In no particular order)

1. diversity

2. a pretty darned inclusive public transit system

3. Zogsports

4. Great food

5. Some of the best cultural institutions in the world

Too Many Tears for Chinese New Year

2009-02-01T23:58:00.006-05:00

I sat with Jeff on a park bench in Chinatown watching teenagers in t-shirts toss a football to one another. It was nearly fifty degrees today after weeks of temperatures that hovered around zero, so warm sunshine and the lunar new year brought a sense of lightness to the park around us.

My hope when he invited me to come with him to Chinatown today was that we'd find our shared space again - the space where "he" and "I" are "us".

We talked quietly about what lead us to break up; how I wouldn't have applied for a job out of state if I'd known he saw a future with me, and how me applying for a job out of state was the beginning of him falling out of love with me.

In seven months, he'd never spoken the words, "I love you" to me. Today he spoke them twice, and while it was good to hear him verbalize his feelings for me, it wasn't romantic or special the way it should be when those words are spoken to someone for the first time.

I watched a lanky Asian boy gracefully catch the football his friend threw.

Instead of sharing the words, "I love you" with a sense of excitement or aniticpation, I heard them from Jeff for the first time with a football landing in a teenager's hands, and a vacuum-like sense of emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

The words, "I love you" weren't followed by a kiss or a hug. They were followed with a request that we be "friends."

"I don't want you to be my ex-anything," he said to me. "I don't think of you as my ex-girlfriend. I think of you as my friend."

Kids laughed and an old man shuffled by in clunky black tennis shoes.

A hawk flew down from the sky and clutched a mouse from the sidewalk between its talons. As quickly as it landed, it flew away again. I'd never seen anything quite like that - such a breathtakingly graceful gesture, but one that ended in the death of a living thing.

I'd never felt anything quite like what I was feeling then, in the park, when Jeff finally admitted that he loved me, but followed it with a request that we be friends, either.

Some things just aren't built into our natural, biological, or intuitive sense of understanding. Hearing "I love you" followed by "I want to be friends" is one of them.

"I want to be your friend, but I'm not even sure how to do that," I told him.

I'd have my opportunity to learn how to do that a short time later as we entered a party thrown by his coworker, Ed, who promply introduced me to someone else as Jeff's girlfriend.

I was proud of myself for smiling, not crying, and making small talk with the people there. I was proud of myself for doing everything in my power to be Jeff's "friend" when so deep inside my heart, I feel pulled to be the girl he loves and holds and takes care of - not the girl he's friends with.

"This is my friend, Melissa," he would say to people as he introduced me.

I am his friend, Melissa. I would think to myself, rehearsing this new role that I've been forced into.

We went to the roof of the building, and I looked out onto the streets of Chinatown. Colorful scraps of paper littered the streets from the parade earlier in the day.

Nearly two weeks after accepting my new job in Missouri, a sense of the scale of that decision hit me firmly in the chest as I stood looking out on Chinatown from that rooftop.

I'm leaving New York, and in deciding to leave, I'm also turning my back on one of the best things that's happened to me in a very long time; my relationship with Jeff.

The tears started then, as this sense of perspective hit me, and Jeff and I said a quick goodbye. He squeezed me in his arms, but it wasn't the same as it used to be.

I wiped away a few tears there on the roof, but tried to hold my composure until I reached the street outside of Ed's building, at which point tender sobs grew out of my hurt.

I walked crying through Chinatown, to the base of the Brooklyn Bridge, and I cried as I walked across it into downtown Brooklyn.

Through Brooklyn Heights and into Fort Greene I cried.

I cried as I walked through Fort Greene Park, down Dekalb Avenue, and onto South Oxford Street, where I sat for a few minutes on the stoop of our brownstone, taking it all in, and letting a few more tears stream down.

That was hours ago, but tears are sliding down my cheeks again now as I write this, in my pajamas, in my little bedroom in my shared apartment in Brooklyn - a place I can't call home much longer.

I'm not his girlfriend anymore, and soon I won't be a New Yorker anymore either. I pray that this decision I've made is the right one.

Anticipating the Future; the Present Becoming the Past

2009-01-27T17:58:00.003-05:00

I still have just over a month before I start my new job in Missouri, and already I'm fighting the urge to fill every anticipated free moment with an activity of one kind or another after I've arrived.

I've researched intramural sports teams (dodgeball, whiffleball, kickball) in St. Louis. I've started thinking about who I'll go to for haircuts. About where I'll go to church, and about who might be enjoy going to museums with me.

I've started daydreaming about my dad and I fixing up the little house he bought, intending to resell later as part of his retirement.

I've laid out budgets and basic financial goals for the next six months, next three years, and longer. I've tried to imagine how I'll arrange my furniture and what pictures I'll hang on the walls.

I've started laying plans for warmer weather; what vegetables my mom and I will grow in our garden, and how we'll go for evening walks in Engler Park.

I've even started buildling a mental list of what movies I should rent on Netflix, so that I don't become disconnected from the independent film world that I've just started to develop a little understanding about.

I've wondered what music I'll play on the piano at night. Whether the public library will have the books I want to read, and whether I'll find myself relishing in lazy Saturday mornings at home, or if I'll be in the car headed to yoga and farmer's markets in St. Louis every weekend.

For as hard as the decision to leave New York was to make, I certainly appear to myself to be excited about this change. Coworkers comment that my face lights up, or that I sound "whole" when I talk about this new stage in my life.

So here's to new beginnings in Missouri. Beginnings which will probably quickly move from being quiet and peacful to being my typical-Melissa whirlwind of activity.

And here's to my last month in New York City, a city in which I've learned that I can love and be loved after a bad attempt at marriage. A city that's taught me a lot about what it means to be successful, motivated, competitive, and creative. And a city that's taught me a little bit more about what I do and don't want to be part of my life, professionally and personally.

Becoming a better friend

2009-01-26T10:31:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I made several phone calls.

Making phone calls isn't notable except that I usually freeze when it's time to pick up the phone to call someone. For old friends, this poses a problem - I seem like I don't care about talking to them, when in fact, I care so much that when I freeze up about returning calls, it's not uncommon for me to lose sleep those same nights.

I simply struggle with picking up the phone. I can eat chicken feet, travel alone in Asia, and live in New York, but I become paralyzed by the idea of talking on the phone.

Of the many correlations I've made between various circumstances in my life and my phone phobia, New York City seems to be among the strongest.

I'm tired here, so I don't have much energy to talk. I'm afraid that when I talk to friends outside of New York, I'll sound pretencious or spoiled.

I'm underground on trains (no reception there), at work, or out with friends most of the time, and in the small amount of time I actually have at home, I long for quiet time. I try to escape the self-imposed presure of self-percieved expectations of the people whose calls I should return.

So last night I decided to walk home from work, and on the way I called four people, all of whom I should make more time to talk to.

Among my goals in the coming months is to be more present in the lives of the people I love. By leaving New York City for work in a quieter part of the country, I hope I can spend less of my limited energy supply simply trying to stay afloat, and more of it on staying in touch with friends and family.

Generally speaking, I hope that this move frees my time and energy so that I can work toward being the person (and not just the professional) and the friend that I want to be.

Last night I tried to take a step closer to reaching that goal.

These are the People in My Neighborhood

2009-01-07T21:41:00.004-05:00

Welcome to Fort Green, Brooklyn. This is a beautiful neighborhood of four-story brownstone buildings, independent markets, restaurants, cafes, and one of New York City's oldest parks.

The skeletons in the closet of this rapidly gentrifying community's not so distant past include drugs, gangs, and violence. It seems that some of those skeletons are out of the closet again, both figuratively and literally.

Not too long ago, a deconstructed human body was found on the street across from the park. The body, wrapped in plastic and stuffed into a cardboard box, appeared to have been put out for the Department of Sanitation to pick up with the trash.

I understand that it was the liquid seeping from the box that drew passersby to report the box to the authorities. I was shaken up, not only by the crime, but by it's proximity to my own apartment; less than one block.

Only a few days later, a man walked into a barber shop in Fort Green and open fired. I've willed myself to forget what the casualties were. This incident was a few blocks further than the first from my apartment.

Last night, another human body was found wrapped in plastic and stuffed into a cardboard box on the same street as before, across from the park, less than one block from where I live.

Thinking about these crimes, I hear the old song from Sesame Street, "These are the people in your neighborhood" play in my mind, with a Tom Waits-style creaking, screaching, eerly, spooky accompaniment.

It's hard to imagine who the person is in my neighborhood that would do this.

People in Your Neighborhood

Written by Jeffrey Moss

(Lyrics taken from: http://members.tripod.com/Tiny_dancer/ssalbums.html)

Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood?
In your neighborhood?
In your neighborhood?
Say, who are the people in your neighborhood?
The people that you meet each day

Oh, the postman always brings the mail
Through rain or snow or sleet or hail
I'll work and work the whole day through
To get your letters safe to you

'Cause a postman is a person in your neighborhood
In your neighborhood
He's in your neighborhood
A postman is a person in your neighborhood
A person that you meet each day

Oh, a fireman is brave it's said
His engine is a shiny red
If there's a fire anywhere about
Well, I'll be sure to put it out

'Cause a fireman is a person in your neighborhood
In your neighborhood
He's in your neighborhood

And a postman is a person in your neighborhood

Well, they're the people that you meet
When you're walking down the street
They're the people that you meet each day

The baker is the one who makes
Your bread and rolls and pies and cakes
If you want something sweet to eat, go see
The baker in the bakery

A teacher works the whole day through
To teach important things to you
He'll teach you things you won't forget
Like numbers and the alphabet

A barber has a great big chair
You sit in it, he cuts your hair
He'll snip and clip and never rest
Until your haircut looks its best

The bus driver drives fast or slow
To take you where you want to go
When you get in and pay your fare
She will drive you anywhere

A dentist cares for all your teeth
The top ones and the ones beneath
So if you have an aching tooth
He'll fix it quick, and that's the truth

The doctor makes you well real quick
If by chance you're feeling sick
She works and works the whole day long
To help you feel well and strong

The grocer sells the things you eat
Like bread and eggs, cheese and meat
No matter what you're looking for
You'll find it at the grocery store

The shoemaker is always there
To take care of the shoes you wear
With his hammer, nails, and glue
He'll fix your shoes as good as new

The cleaner is the one who knows
How to clean and press your clothes
He'll take a jacket, suit, or vest
And clean it so you'll look your best

The trash collector works each day
He'll always take your trash away
He drives the biggest truck you've seen
To keep the city streets all clean

Breaking Things to Fix Them

2009-01-06T00:15:00.008-05:00

We began talking. I apologized for snapping at you during brunch. You accepted my apology. Things seemed okay, but I had a lot on my mind. We were sitting on the white couch, and you reached out for me. I needed to talk, not to be held. Even now, when you aren't here to hold me, I don't regret that decision.

An hour later, I took your keys off my keychain and set them quietly on your book shelf. You walked out of the apartment as I started to gather the things of mine that had gradually accumulated in your space. I wanted to slip as gently and quietly as I could out your front door, and I wanted the hurt to stop hurting. I didn't want to leave any traces of myself behind to haunt you.

I thought that maybe you were leaving - that you would take a walk and I'd be gone when you came back. A moment later the door creaked open, and you appeared with two sturdy shopping bags. It wasn't until a few hours later that I realized you'd taken them from the stack someone in your building had left in your entryway. I packed my things.

I said to you what I wanted to say. You were standing next to the radiator. You looked like someone had crushed you when I said what I did. I guess that it really wasn't until that moment that you realized how I felt about you. You had already made your decision though, and I needed to go.

You put my bags in the backseat of the cab, and then you wrapped your arms around me. I can still smell the leather of your coat. I could not hug you back. The heaving sobs rose from deep inside me - from caverns of emotions that I thought would be foverever closed. You had opened them up, and now they echoed my heartbreak.

I sat in the cab and watched you walk down the sidewalk defeated, shoulders slumped and arms hanging low. I thought to myself, "I love you," and I asked the driver through choked sobs, "why do men do this?" even though I knew that man didn't do this.

I had prayed for two weeks that our future would be made clear to me. Saturday night we laughed and teased and watched movies, and we fell asleep happy. The next day, I watched those words come out of your mouth, and I heard the tone in your voice. I think that you were as surprised to hear yourself say those words as I was.

I feel as if someone has punched me in the heart. Looking back at my life, though, I have never had a bruise that didn't heal. And the healing that you offered my heart, Jeff, far exceeds the hurt that you've left in it. Thank you for that.

The 60th percentile

2008-06-07T00:00:00.010-04:00

Photo credit: Smalltowngirl, Taiwan 2007

Bon Iver creeps out of my stereo and cars pass quietly down the street outside my open window. I'm in pajamas and glasses, thinking back over the past week, and thinking forward to a future that's looking better than it was a few days ago.

Doubt covers me some days, suffocating me until what started out coming in from the outside seeps through my skin and resides inside of me, infiltrates every thought, and dominates my perspectives on my life.

I read recently that more than 40th of Americans actively dislike their jobs.I was in the 60th percentile of Americans. I'm not used to being so middle-of-the-road statistically.

***

As a kid, I'd get sick to my stomach when the Missouri Mastery Achievement Test would come each spring.

The teacher would seperate our desks so that we could not see each other's exams. She (all of my teachers were women) would explain, using white chalk drawings on a black board, how to properly fill in the little multiple choice bubbles.

She would also make sure that every had two sharpened No. 2 pencils ready on their desks. She would open her copy of the thin paper test booklet, and she would read the test instructions to the class.

I think it was in the very first year that I had to suffer through these exams that I was diagnosed with stomach ulcers for the first time. I would sit, listening to the teacher read the directions, and my stomach would burn. Butterflies would creep from my tummmy into my chest and arms, leaving my fingers tingly and leaving me doubtful that I'd earn an acceptable score again this year.

When my test scores would arrive in the mail weeks later I was almost always in the 98th percentile. How then, at this stage in my life, have I found myself in the 60% of Americans who actively dislike their work?

***

For the last several weeks, I've hoped to understand where my life was meant to go in both the romantic and the professional departments. Doubt had crept in, and as usual, it was suffocating. I looked inward enough to know that I could use some help, and then I looked upward to ask for it.

This week, I was presented with a new professional opportunity that I think would put me back up in the 90th percentile of job satisfaction. And by contrast, decisions were made for me in the romantic department that seem to have answered my own doubts and questions.

Bon Iver eases his was smoothly out of my stereo, and a yawn spreads through my jaw and chest. My eyes water just a bit, and my eyelids droop. Before I close my eyes and fall into sleep, I smile because I can already see the 40th percentile behind me getting smaller as I walk away.

Sticktoitiveness

2008-06-03T23:16:00.009-04:00

Photo Credit: Smalltowngirl, June 3, 2008

Sticktuitiveness an unsophisticated term that country people like myself use to describe what New Yorkers would call perseverence, determination, or dedication.

I'm beginning to see how that good'ole core Midwestern value of sticktuitiveness is valuable, especially in a city like New York where perseverence, especially at first, is vital to long term success (and simply to survival).

I arrived in New York eight months ago, and I've worked full time for a little over six. I also started freelancing about a year ago with just one single client.

In that time I've added three more music and dance organizations and groups to my client roster, and I've filled nine hours of every Saturday with teaching piano lessons to students in south Brooklyn. An opportunity has now come up for me to substitute teach a drumline again as well.

My dad and mom raised my brother and I to value honesty and hard work. These values are certainly paying off now, as I've stuck to my freelancing, stuck to my passion for the arts, and have seen my freelance and teaching income steadily increase. Sticktuitiveness may be an unsophisticated word, but there's something to be said for staying grounded, working hard, and doing something that you believe in.

Drumline

2008-05-29T23:44:00.005-04:00

Nothing will fry insired writing or kill the high found in watching a Panamanian drum corps rehearse in the park or keep new drumsticks in their packaging unused as well as television will.

I've been home for several hours now, and except for a really productive discussion with my roommates and making myself dinner, I've been entirely unproductive. But off with the television and back to the Panamanian drum and bugle corps.

I left my office at around six, and heard drums playing in the park. A percussionist myself, I couldn't resisit checking it out to see what it was. What I found was approximately forty percussionists and bugle players. I stood watching them for what seemed like fifteen minutes but was actually an hour and fifteen minutes. I think I smiled the entire time, and before I left, I was invited to come back to Tuesday's rehearsal. Forty some-odd players from all over NYC, technically not amazing players, but they knew what drumming in a group was really about.

On my way home, I stopped into Guitar Center and bought a pair of sticks and a practice pad. I hadn't played in nearly two years, but after watching that rehearsal, I knew what I had to do.

The Wrong Number

2008-05-27T23:22:00.005-04:00

We glanced at each other, and Mark asked me if I was at all nervous about what we were about to do. I smiled, "Yeah, a little bit, but usually the things that make me a little bit nervous are also the ones that make the best stories to tell later."

Mark's silent gesture toward the door indicated his agreement, and so we passed the barred front window, opened the heavy wooden door with the Yankees sign on the front, and entered the dimly lit bar.

There was no question that we "weren't from here". Around (and behind) the bar were a woman in sunglasses (despite the already low lighting in the place), a friendly guy with a big, toothless smile, a bartender whose cool countenance said he'd seen more in his sixty years than all of us in the joint combined, Mike, and Baldy.

"What can I do for you?" The bartender, barely lifting even his eyebrows, asked.

"We're looking for a house," Mark answered. I glanced at him, assuming that his word choice had been careful enough that making it sound as if we were shopping for real estate was no accident. This was the most interesting third date I'd been on in awhile.

"What kind of house?" Asked the bartender.

Mark hesitated, so I answered, "It's pretty small," and looked back toward Mark. He pulled his Blackberry out of his pocket, showing the bartender a photo that he'd been emailed of a tiny little house sitting between two much larger ones.

"Where's it at?" someone else at the bar asked.

"We aren't sure. It's somewhere near T and Van Sicklen," Mark responded to the group. The handful of patrons at the Wrong Number were all listening in casually now.

With more excitement than the rest, the toothless guy (who was not that old, to be clear), reached for Mark's Blackberry to examine the house.

"I've lived here all my life and I never seen that house."

"You mean you want to look at that house, and they didn't even tell you were it's at? That don't make much sense," someone else offered.

"Can I get a Bud?" Mark asked the bartender. He looked to me, "do you want one, too?" I did.

"Make that two."

I waited for our beer while Mark used the restroom. The bar was straight from the 30's with original Art Deco ceilings and vents. Since dating Mark, I've learned a little more about New York's architecture.
While he was gone, I made small talk with a good looking guy in his 50s named Mike. Mike had the wrinkles and cough of a guy who spent way too much time in bars, smoking cigarettes, and probably doing some kind of work with his hands in the sun. I imagined stories of his first wife, whom he had truly loved, and of his second who in my imagination she was still in the area. In my imagination, his kids were estranged, and he found that The Wrong Number and its patrons were his family. His neatly combed, dark hair was brushed straight back, and when he smiled, his perfectly straight, white teeth surprised me.

He asked me where we were both from. "Mark's from Staten Island, and I'm from St. Louis."

"St. Louis? You a Cardinals fan?"

"I am!" and so we talked about baseball for a minute or two before Mark came back beside me and took a sip from his red plastic beer cup. Mike was just finishing his story of watching the Cardinals beat the Tigers in the 2006 World Series, and I smiled, telling Mark I'd been hearing lots of stories lately of where people were win the Cardinals won the Series.

The guys at the bar (the women never spoke up), placed wagers on where the little house was located.

The toothless guy said, "It's gotta be further up Van Sicklen. I know this block. It ain't here. Unless I drove right past it and didn't see it it was so small. But it ain't on this block. I'm thinking it's up further, by where Toni Marinelli and them's house is."

Mike said, "I've lived in this neighborhood my whole life, and I'm telling you, if you go further up Van Sicklen, you hit those big old houses where the Hassidic Jews live." He looked at me, "mansions, these houses are mansions they live in. You're not gonna find this little house over there."

The toothless guy was adamant that we just needed to go further up Van Sicklen.

"You wanna bet on that?" Mike asked him.

An old guy in tinted eyeglasses and a velour Puma tracksuit and wifebeater came out from the back room. He walked over to us, took the last puff of his cigarette, and dropped the butt on the floor of the bar, grinding it out with his tennis shoed right foot. Smoking is illegal in bars in New York.

"What are you guys looking for?" the guy asked.

"This is the owner," Mike said. "This place is famous. Famous. Been here since the prohibition."

"Not in this location," chimed in the bartender.

"Have you owned it that whole time?" Marked asked the owner in the velour tracksuit.

"Famous," said Mike, and then he half whispered to me, "organized crime. You know," with an emphasis on the word "you".

The owner told us that the bar used to have a different name and a different location, but said that he'd owned it for a long time, and that the bar had, in fact, been open since the prohibition, hence the 1930's ceiling and air vents.

It seemed that everyone in The Wrong Number had a different idea as to where the house was that we were looking for. We could have walked through the neighborhood all afternoon and not covered all of the blocks that they'd suggested we walk down, so we didn't argue when the owner offered to drive us around to look for it.

And so Mark and I climbed into the owner's white SUV with black leather interior, and peered out the windows as he drove us through the neighborhood hoping to spot the house. The owner told us about the different blocks as he drove, and Mark, sitting in the front seat, reached his hand over his shoulder and wiggled his fingers. I squeezed his hand for a minute, content.

We found ourselves back in front of The Wrong Number, having had no luck finding the house after fifteen minutes or so in the owner's car. As we climbed out, Mark asked the owner, in the tan, velour, Puma track suit with the wife beater underneath, what his name was.

"They call me Baldy."

"Baldy, I'm Mark. Thanks for your help. It was great of you to drive us around."

"Thanks so much," I said from the back seat, and Mark and I headed back toward the N train, my hand in the crook of his elbow. We paused for a minute over the tracks, looking down at the graffiti, the white frame row houses, and the litter strewn on the ground. He stole a quick kiss, and into the subway station we went.

*Note: Upon further investigation, and adding irony to the name of the bar (The Wrong Number), I found out that the little house we were searching for is actually not in Brooklyn at all. It's in Toronto.

Baby Owls in Central Park

2008-05-26T10:55:00.004-04:00

After an hour of walking through North Central Park, craning my neck upward to search in the trees; and after the group leader lent me his binoculars, I finally saw two baby screech owls perched high up in the trees above our heads.

Just as Bob, the bird watch leader, had promised, the fluffy baby owls made exaggerated movements of their heads. Since the owls can't move their eyes, they move their entire head to see what's around them and to approximate what's directly in front of them. And so the awkard little baby owls started stretched up tall, and while keeping the faces directed at us, swung their necks down and around in a clockwise motion. Up high....swoop around down low, and up high again...not unlike the motion of the Egg Scrambler at Country Days when I was a kid.

It was dusk, and I was witnessing a little bit of magic. I wouldn't wander solo in the park at night, but we were a large group of maybe fifteen or twenty people, and we stood watching the little owls until the sun went so low that we could no longer see their profiles in the trees.

2008-05-20T00:21:00.007-04:00

If it were only possible to reign in the inspiration on any particularly wonderful day and redistribute it along equally among the other days of the week or month, I would do exactly that; I would bottle inspiration and give it away free as a public service to the people who need it most.

When the anorexic woman came around that corner, jogging and crazed a few days ago, I wanted to have the power to pass peace to her. I wished that with the touch of my hands I could calm her; make her understand that she could stop running, and that she would be alright. It's not the first time in my life that I've longed for the gift of bringing peace to someone who was hurting.

Yesterday was a day of inspiration and relaxation. I loved yesterday. I loved looking out onto Harlem, unhurried conversation, and an unending supply of black tea with milk and sugar. Hot tea, quiet, and good conversation are three of my life's sweetest pleasures, and yesterday had plenty of each. Today I felt like I was in on a little secret...Like I'd figured something out that so many New Yorkers never do; how to capture cups of tea, good conversations, and moments of quiet reflection in one of the world's fastest-paced cities.

I've longed for the ability to bring people's guards down; to lower their defenses and to get to know them as individuals beyond their 30-second elevator speeches and easy answers that are customarily given to new acquaintances.

Tonight I met lots of new people at our organization's volunteer dinner, several of whom opened up to me really deeply in a very short period of time. After talking for just fifteen or twenty minutes, I learned the story of her silver ring; of his four years in the Marines...Of his fascination with Native American cultures; of her friend's dying with cancer; and of their mutual love for the American Southwest.

In ten minutes or less, I learned that the woman on the other side of me at the table was laid off earlier this year form Bear Stearns, and that she didn't even realize she was depressed until she started volunteering at our organization a few times a week and remembered what it was like to want to wake up in the mornings. She seems surprised at herself for opening up to me about all of this. The couple expressed to me how surprised they were at themselves for sharing so much with me about their lives in such a short period of time.

I've been praying to learn to ease the defenses of the people I meet in order to truly get to know them as individuals and not as a career title or a company association or by their appearances alone. Tonight I had the power of a calming touch; the ease with others that they opened up and really talked with me about their life's experiences.

A small glimpse into the life of another perfectly imperfect, individually fascinating human being is humbling. If I could bottle up the inspiration I felt after watching my new friends' defenses fall at dinner tonight, I'd give it away free.

Since it's not possible literally to bottle inspiration in the sense that we bottle up our pickles or olives, I suppose the best I can ask is that my words will capture something that can be passed on and that will serve as a hand of peace on the shoulder of someone who needs it most.

What are you running from, lady on the street?

2008-05-16T14:04:00.008-04:00

I was walking down the hill in front of Brooklyn Hospital on my way to work yesterday morning, taking in the traffic and the bustle of the late-morning commuters. If there were so many people rushing to work at 9 a.m. on a Thursday in Fort Greene, what must Midtown be like? I've never worked in Manhattan; I live and work in Brooklyn, my borough. I like it here.

The downward slope walking from Fort Greene Park toward the Q,B,N,R, station at DeKalb Avenue provides a glimpse of the urban grit I adore about Brooklyn. A contstruction site, a big intersection, little bodegas and a few fruit stands line the busy, one-way Dekalb Ave. Long Island University's Brooklyn campus sits at the base fo the hill, and on my morning commute dozens of tennis-shoe wearning, backpack-toting teenagers trudge up the hill toward me, overworked and underslept.

Yesterday though, there was an interruption to my predicatable little routine. As I approached a smaller intersection, a woman rounded the corner towards me. She was running, with her long, dull brown hair flying behind her. Her eyes were glazed over. This woman was in another place emotionally; she wasn't just running, she was running from something. I was startled, and I instictively took a step back and clutched my bag, expecting to see a man chasing after her.

As she ran towards me I took in the full impact of her crazed sprint. She was braless, but there were no breasts to bounce as she ran. Her hair was down and her clothes looked like she'd slept in them - not running clothes by any stretch of the imagination. Her ribs showed as the air through which she forced her scrawny frame pressed against her white t-shirt, and her hip bones jutted forward through her navy blue sleeping pants. Dark tennis shoes on her feet, this woman had undoubtedly rolled out of bed, looked in the mirror, and taken off on a sprint down the street.

I wanted to stop her...wanted to put my hands on her shoulders and say, "It will be okay." I wished that I had the power of people I've known in the past whose hand on shoulder has brought with it such a sense of peace. I wanted her to be okay, and I wondered if she would be.

What are you running from, lady on the street? What is there behind you that's so bad that you need to run, eyes-glazed over, hair tangling behind you, up Dekalb Avenue? What are you running from?

I almost subconsciously said a prayer for her as her presence faded behind me and I continued on my walk to the Q to start my work for the day. The woman's face, ribs, and hips are still sketched in my memory. I hope that whatever it is that she's running from, she'll eventually find what she's running twoard.

The Target Demographic

2008-02-06T13:01:00.001-05:00

It was my first workout at the Y. For several days prior, I’d felt a little lost; a little far from home; like maybe the move to New York had become real, and I was sensing the distance (emotional, maybe more so than physical) from my friends and family.

My workout was done, and with it, any makeup I’d been wearing earlier in the day was also ‘done’ – long since wiped away along with my sweat, onto the YMCA institutional towel with the faded blue stripe down the center.

Looking around a few minutes before, as I neared the end of my thirty minutes on the elliptical machine, I realized that I was the target demographic. I was surrounded by fifty or sixty other mid-twenty- and early-thiry-somes who were probably living far from their own homes, chasing one dream or another. For maybe the first time in my life, I was almost precisely the median; more alike than unalike the people surrounding me.

Standing in the locker room post-workout though, hair freshly blow-dried and no makeup on, I caught my own eye in the mirror and it was as if I’d caught my brother John’s eye. The hazel center of my baby blues was unmistakably a mark of my father, and for a moment I was not only 100% New York dreamer and career chaser, I was also 100% connected to who I really am and where I really come from; my family.

What can I do?

2008-01-27T20:52:00.000-05:00

When you thank me for my friendship, what can I do but tear up a bit and try to hide my feelings behind my tomboyish pride? I want to reach out to you, hug you, hold you (like you did me when I needed you) as you climb this hill in your life.

I know that your soul was deeply invested in this, and I hurt with you even though you try to hide your hurt by asking me about my freelancing work and by telling me about school.

I'm proud of you for where you are and where you're going. I'm proud to call you my friend. It's people like you that I want at the dinner party in my dreams, where my most interesting and compassionate friends come together to celebrate life in all its grandiosity and tragedy.

When you thank me for my friendship, what can I do but tear up and try to hide my emotions beneath the layers of skirts that I wear over my heart like the women used to wear over their hips when women still wore skirts.

It makes me want to die streaks my hair and express the most personal and individualistic pieces of my self when I have conversations like this one.

But what can I do but store the inspiration away for a rainy day, and be glad that no one was there as I hung up the phone to see the sparkle in my eye when I realized that after all we've been through, you hold me as close to your heart as I do you to mine?

The Golden Compass

2007-12-05T23:43:00.001-05:00

They've put one of my favorite books on the big screen. I'm so excited to see it this weekend!

The Cardinals Apologize for Winning the World Series

2007-11-16T10:26:00.000-05:00

The Cardinals Apologize for Winning the World Series

Fear of one thing

2007-11-16T00:42:00.001-05:00

I have yet to find a time in life when fear has served me well. As a rule, I'm not scared of much. I'm brave enough to do things that people who know me can only shake their heads at, but there's one thing that sends all my bravery fleeing.

Neil Young is playing on the speakers in the Tea Lounge, and I'm sitting cross-legged against the exposed brick wall, propped up on pillows, laptop sitting (appropriately) on my lap. Not long ago, I took a break from my editing job to buy myself a glass of California pinot noir from the bar.

I curled back up on my pillow against the wall, wine glass in hand, realizing that my focus was gone for the night. Every time a tall shadow came through the doorway, my eyes moved from my monitor to the door. My editing was a hopeless cause. My heart was elsewhere.

A few hours before, my fear had taken over, making me snappy and grouchy. It always happens this way; I become attached to someone, I feel frightened and I push the person away. Why am I so afraid? And why can't I control my fear of love the way I always have my fears of other things?

I've lost my concentration, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I'll see his tall shadow walk through the door. In twenty-five minutes, the tea lounge will close. My wine glass will go empty and alone into the sink for someone to wash and dry, and I'll walk myself the ten blocks to my smoky sublet on the other side of the Slope.

I can't stop asking myself why, when I know better, I still allow myself to become so afraid of love. Maybe it's not too late for me to learn.

(Not) Burned by New York

2007-11-14T11:04:00.000-05:00

It's absolutely easier to give up than to keep your chin up, and it seems that for a lot of people in this city, it's easier to get negative than to be positive. It's easy to complain about things, wherever you are or whatever you do, than it is to be an uplifting influence on the people around you.

For people prone to complaining, it won't matter much where they are living, what kind of work they're doing, or what kind of money is in their pocket - they'll find complaints about their community, their work, and their income. If their community, their work, and their income aren't worth complaining enough about, they'll find something else to complain about, but one thing is for sure - complainers will find something to complain about. Likewise, excuse makers will find reasons why other people are succeeding where they are not.

People here in Brooklyn have identified me pretty immediately in most cases as a Midwesterner. Ohio is the most common assumption so far. Missouri isn't too far from Ohio culturally, so I guess they aren't too far off. I have the neutral Midwestern accent and the wide eyes that mark me as an outsider. When I'm optimistic about my career (even though I don't have a full time job yet) or about my personal life, the usual response is something more or less along the lines of, "you just haven't been burned by New York yet."

To be fair, that may be the case, but I stubbornly choose to believe that it's not the case at all.

I believe in the power of our thoughts to determine our future, and when I decided to stay in New York, I committed myself to not allowing the city to harden me. I hope that ten years from now, people still think I'm not from NY and that I "just haven't been burned yet" by it.

New York is the kind of city that lifts up dreams and makes them seem achievable. It's the kind of city that gives hope, but also takes it away. It's true that New York hasn't "burned" me yet, but it's also true that I have made a commitment to myself and to the people around me not to allow it to.

Our happiness and our attitudes in life are our own responsibilities. In my New York life, as in other areas of my life, I am determined to seek out the positive and the uplifting, so that in turn I have an emotional fuel tank that's filled to the brim. New York, and nothing else in life, will "burn" me. Complainers and excuse makers are "burned", and I'm neither of those things.

2nd Avenue F Train to Brooklyn

2007-10-18T00:00:00.001-04:00

"Second Avenue, F train to Brooklyn." The voice carries from the conductor's lungs over the PA system and into the station.

The word, "Brooklyn," sounds like home to me.

The train doors slide closed, and I'm on my way.

Plastic Bags

2007-10-17T23:41:00.000-04:00

"If it's possible, I'd like to just put these things inside my bag and save the plastic."

I said this to the clerk at the Atlantic-Pacific Target.

I had heard that this was the single most profitable Target in America. I had been in the store a half-dozen times since moving to New York, and each time my purchases had been double-bagged. If this was the most profitable Target in America, the sheer number of plastic bags the store must go through depressed me.

I understand the basic economic principle - or rather, I vaguely remember my graduate economics instruct trying to make me understand the basic economic principle - that says that one single person, economically speaking, does not make a difference.

One person driving a hybrid car (my professor's example) will not make a positive impact on the environment. A critical mass is needed to leverage change and create impact.

Clearly, in the busiest Target in America, I cannot save the earth by saving a few plastic bags. My economics professor in grad school taught me this. My optimistic integrity however, says otherwise.

And so I asked the girl working the register if she could please save the plastic bags and let me put my purchases down inside my own shoulder bag.

"Okay," said the girl.

As she scanned each item and placed it on the counter in front of me, I began loading my bag with my purchases. I had been careful to only purchase what would fit inside my bag. She finished scanning my things, so I inserted my check card into the card reader and waited as the machine prompted me through Target's normal check card purchase questions:

"Please enter your pin." it said.

"xxxx" I typed.

"Your total is $34.76. Is this okay?" it asked.

"Yes."

"Would you like cash back?" it asked.

"No."

"Thank you."

At which point I reached for the last of my purchases; a box of crackers, a pair of pantyhose and a pair of gel shoe insoles, to see that while I had scanned my check card, the girl at the counter had bagged the items for me.

"If it's alright, I can just put those down in my bag" I said.

"Oh. Well, here you go."

"I was just trying to save some plastic. Can I at least give you one of the bags back?"

"Sure," she said.

She took the second plastic bag from me, and she threw it in the trash. Defeated, I turned and walked away.