Bridal Drama in Park Slope...

...I am somewhat used to. Being that the wedding industry is the field in which I earn my living. (And also the reason we eloped.) But THIS, ladies and gentleman of the jury, takes (tops?) the wedding cake:

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Read the story here.

From the far roots of my family tree:

How cool is this? I am totally going to memorize these phrases. I can't believe I have been here almost a year and still don't speak a lick of Polish. It's a damn shame.

http://www.greenpunkt.com/polish.html

Daily Adventure

I thought that kids only played in open fire hydrant streams on Sesame Street and in Spike Lee movies. However, I was wrong. When I went to Williamsburg this afternoon for my music lesson, there were no less than three hydrants that had been relieved of their caps and were sending raging streams of water into the street. The temperature was almost to the century mark and there were dozens of kids romping around in the splashy street. I was totally jealous. If I didn't have a cello strapped to me, I would have joined them.

In other news, while I was at my lesson I left doggy home by herself to bask in the air conditined coolness. I practiced our usual low-key departure routine so as to not get her all riled up. I made a peanut butter-filled Kong for her to lick, I left some NY Times by the door for her to toss around. I slipped out quietly and returned after my lesson, about 90 minutes later. As I came up the stairs, I heard her bark a big-dog bark. I expected to open the door, and to find her usual "I've read the paper" mess that she leaves us. Which I did:

But I found no doggy. No wiggly, crazed animal to greet me. Then I heard a bark and and a yowl and scratching from... inside the bathroom. That crazy animal had somehow gotten herself locked in there, and proceeded to freak the hell out. I opened the door. She came rushing out and scrambled around in her torn papers. And then proudly told me all about how she accomplished the following during the time she had been stuck in the bathroom:

1) tore my new bra in 2 seperate but equal parts

2) ripped exactly 4 new holes in a perfectly good towel

3) slobbered all over and chewed a new(ish) pair of underwear to an unreconizable state

4) dumped and scattered the contents of the trash bin

5) chewed corners of aforementioned trash bin

6) bled a little bit on everything.

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I present you with photo evidence:

Inside your head, man. Not mine.

This morning, while doing our daily early constitutional around our leafy park, we stopped to pet/sniff/play with two dogs that sat with their owners near a bench. We were exchanging the usual friendly dog-owner banter about breeds and playfulness and these sorts of things when a black bug flew by, sort of lazily. This was the conversation that ensued:

Guy on Bench: Whoa... are you seeing that bug? That really weird-looking bug?

Chick on Bench: Yeah...

Guy on Bench: That's like a really weird kind of bug, man.

Chick on Bench: Like the kind that fly inside your head and eat your brain?

Me: (sarcastically, playing along) Yeah, I hate that kind of bug.

Guy on Bench: (blinks.)

Chick on Bench: (blinks.)

Guy on Bench: No, it's really weird cause it's one of those bugs that looks like that futuristic aircraft, you know?

Chick on Bench: (nodding.) Yeah. Yeah.



This scene has been brought to you by AM High, or Can I Get a Little of What You Took.

Boom. boomobooomboom.

Greenpoint sounds as though it is under attack. It has for the past 5 hours or so. Sure, we could see and hear the massive fireworks from the river betwixt us and Manhattan, and those were some pretty big booms. We could see the finale through the trees in the park. But it also seems as though ever other household in this neighborhood has an illegal fireworks cache purchased straight outta Mexico City. And we are not talking pretty, sparkly, spinny do-it-the-middle-of-the-driveway type fireworks, we're talking shoot-them-in-the-sky-and-hope-they-don't-hit-the-house-across-the-street-holy-shit-that-was-LOUD kind of fireworks.

The terds across the street from me are, on a good day, the most annoying kids on the block. They are the tools who play football or baseball in the middle of the street with no regard for slamming into someone's parked car. (Editor's note: I am fully aware that we live in an urban environ that limits certain types of outdoor activity - but I also live across the street from one of the best parks in the neighborhood. Go play fackin' football there.) Anyway, these fools have been shooting off exploding crap towards our side of the street for about 2 hours now. What husband and I can't understand is why no one cares but us. I have watched flaming stuff smack into several houses this evening. Ugh, and the noise... it hasn't stopped for hours. Not just booms, but screaming, wailing, annoying nonsense coming at us from all angles.

Why do people like to blow things up?

Because of the evenings events, my dog has spent the past few hours curled into a shaking, panting, slobbering ball in the furthest reaches of the bathroom. We dragged her outside so she could pee, but she just curled into a ball in the grass. Once we got back inside she ran back to the bathroom and has not shown herself since. I guess the bathroom is a good place to hide.

So as not to sound like a totally whiny bitch, I will finish off this blog with two positive notes:

1. I have 2 (two!) days off in a row!!

2. We saw "Ratatouille" at the movies today and it was GOOD. Go see it.

The following was lifted from the Overheard:New York site. Props go to my darling friend in LJ for the link. And for what it's worth, G train = Greenpoint.

I Meant Nowhere White People Would Want to Go:

Blond Tourist Bimbo: I've never even heard of the G Train.

Blond Local Bimbo: Yeah, it's a ghetto train.

Blond Tourist Bimbo: Where does it go?

Blond Local Bimbo: Nowhere.

Black eight-year-old boy: Except my home, bitch.

--G train Hoyt/Schermerhorn station

Me and that Eight-year-old kid are the best or friends now.

Fireflies (lightning bugs?)

If there's one thing that the children who grow up in California are deprived of, it's fireflies. Seriously, they are the coolest bugs. Ever. I saw my first firefly of the season this evening while we walked Jacky in the park, and I shrieked with the delight of a four-year old getting pie.

In other news...

On Saturday night we had a date to see Shakespeare in the Park, which is at the De La Court outdoor theatre in Central Park. My brilliant other half has always spoken highly of the experience, but I had never been. It was sort of hectic getting uptown to Central Park, as I was coming from work and he and I had agreed to meet at a particular train stop that was, this particular evening, not running. Each of us, on our own, devised identical plans to circumvent this train mishap and continued up town (now racing against the clock to get to the show on time.) As the A train that I was riding pulled into 59th Street, it announced that this was the last stop. But I had to get to 81st Street... crap. I hopped off the train with all the other irked and confused passengers and tried to decide how I was going to make it to the park in time. As I climbed the steps out of the subway, I saw my darling husband... he had been on the same train and, gleeful as we were to see each other, we needed to be at the ticket window by 7:30 or they were going to release our tickets. No choice but to grab a taxi. He asked if I had any cash, and I said no. Neither did he. We hailed a cab anyway. And giggled about not having any money to pay for it. (We ended up having the driver drop the husband off at the park and he drove me to an ATM. They I ran all the way back to the park, cause it was faster that having him drive me.) Rick got the tickets just in time and all was well.

As we took our seats, it was sunset and the stage was surrounded by trees and birds and all manner of lovely Central Park ambiance. We saw Romeo and Juliet (for the zillionth time - I never tire of it), and I have to tell you it was one of the best theatrical experiences of my life. It was absolutely gorgeous... the sets, the performances, hearing the birds sing and watching the play as the sky turned black and the stars came out... the breezes were blowing and all sorts of serendipitous little elemental things kept happening throughout out the performance. Romeo bursting upon Juliet's balcony scared away the cranes that were sleeping in the trees above the stage. There was, at one point, a raccoon that wandered onstage and came very close to stealing the show. And, best of all, when Juliet stabbed herself and collapsed onto Romeo's dead body, an owl came out of nowhere and let out a low who-who as he flew across the stage, past the dead couple. It was a lovely night.

In yet other news...

I had a brief (they're always too brief) sojourn to the Homeland (California) earlier this week. I didn't tell anybody I was coming because I needed some good-old-fashioned hangout time with my family. I always feel like they get the short end of the stick when I visit, so I made a special trip to just sit around and veg with the peeps who know me best. And, other than the horribly cramped seats and shitty service of American Airlines, I had a great time.

The Subway Series: A lonely photo montage on the G train

Bad Blogger.

Oh, I've been bad at blogging.

I have been a slave to the stationery work world (not to be confused with the stationary work world.) Things here have been fairly normal and quite warm, which is fantastic.

The clerk at the food store talked to me in Polish for about three minutes while she rang up my food. When I didn't answer she said "You don't speak Polish, do you?" No, I told her and shook my head. She laughed and said, "This whole time I thought you did... you look so Polish!"

Greenpoint, I have arrived.

Blogglets here and there

So, here's the usual excuse: I have been working a lot so when I get home at night, I try to avoid the computer a little so I can spend time with my dog and my husband. But the other half is off at a show, so here I am to catch y'all up. On what, I'm not so sure. Right now I'm just kind of trying to contemplate the place my belly is in, after me having eating nearly an entire bag of blue corn chips and a full jar of creamy southwestern ranch dip. Sounds good, right? It was.

Last Saturday, husband and dog and I went to the "dog beach" in Prospect Park. (That's the giant, huge, massive park in the neighborhood of Park Slope.) Park Slope is to Brooklyn what Lincoln Park is to Chicago, only a little crunchier and a lot richer. The strollers are big, parking is nil, and everyone has a dog. But I digress. We went to the Big Park and found the little, tiny dog beach. It was a portion of shore fenced off from the rest of the lake, perhaps thirty feet long and twenty feet deep. And for a dog who was used to frolicking up and down the longt beaches of Lake Michigan, it just wasn't worth it. If Jack could have given this beach the finger, she would have. Of course this led to me removing my shoes and wading into the putrid, icy water and trying to lure her in against her will. I did succeed in luring in a giant chocolate labrador, and was thusly splashed from head to toe. Good times.

Husband of mine is now officially done teaching for the year and has begun The World's Longest Summer Break. That is, of course, until he begins his second official job as a PhD student. Please wish him luck. Of course he's been getting email after email from his students professing how much they love him and how much they enjoyed his classes. What can I say? He's born to teach, for him it is truly a gift. My gift is an uncanny abilty to convince people not use comic sans or papyrus on their wedding invitations. See? We are each and all of us unique and wonderful snowflakes.

I get to attend the National Stationery Show here in New York this week... it's sort of like the Mother Ship is calling me home. Me and acres and acres of beautiful paper products... I might die of happiness. When I am not dying, I will be trying to suss out new and fun printing companies that we can represent in the shop. All other moments will be spent rolling around in piles of lovely letterpressed sheets and finely engraved papers. Yes, paper cuts may happen.

Summer is really trying to arrive here, but today it's been freakin' cold. I sense California wants to send me some sun, though.

New York Movie

The neighborhood where I take music lessons is a largely Puerto Rican section of Williamsburg, just outside the super-ultra-hipster section but still cool enough to snag a great apartment above some scrappy little bodega without paying $2000 a month. There are all sorts of colorful characters peppering the streets and I am always reminded of the obligatory New York Movie scenes where kids are sitting around on porch stoops hollaring at each other or playing handball in a deserted school playground. Tinny-sounding music wafts around from where ever and it smells like all manner of fried, crunchy things. It is, like so many things, very New York. Or maybe, it's very Brooklyn.

Yesterday I arrived at my music lesson early, so I stood outside of the building just soaking up some sunshine and watching time pass me by. The building is big, the kind where you have to be buzzed in, and there is always a steady stream of people going in and out who always offer to let me in without knowing who I am. I supposed they assume the big, black cello-shaped back pack that I have strapped to myself is indeed actually a cello and not some frightening torture device with which I will terrorize the residents. So, yeah, as I am waiting in the sun about four people asked if I needed to go inside and I declined. Continued sunning myself.

An older grandmotherly-type woman was crossing the street toward the front door of the building and stopped to talk to some guy in a car as he waited for the light to change. I saw her reach into the car and warmly grab his hand, and then when he took off and she walked toward the door, where I was standing. In a wonderfully thick accent, she asked if I needed to be let in. I told her no, thank you, but I needed to wait. She smiled and turned to the door, but then she turned back to me. "He is such a nice young man now." I realized she was talking about the guy in the car that she had just been talking to. She continued, "I was so worried about him for many years... I didn't think he could get it together. But now, when I see him, I see that he grew up all right." I smiled at her and muttered something lame, I can't remember what. "I guess you grow up and you smell the coffee," she said and grinned.

"Yeah, I know I did," I told her.

"Okay," she said. "It's good to see you. Take care."

I told her it was good to see her, too. Even though I had never seen her before. Because it was good to see her. It's nice when someone shares a pleasant thought with you for no reason, you know?

So the time had gone by and I buzzed and then plodded up the five flights of cracked, sloping marble stairs to my lesson.

Photo montage

Happened upon some racks of free clothes that had been left behind by some TV costume crew. They were mostly mens clothes, and my husband is the happy new owner of the following items: a London Fog trenchcoat, a formal alpaca coat, three brand new pairs of Levi's and a nice button down shirt. He also got two new pairs of black leather gloves, which were hidden in the pockets of the coats. It must have been a crime drama shoot...

Some fleurs in the park...

This adorable little girl on a poster in the subway taunts me as I wait for the ever-so-slow G train.

Cool ships abound at the Southt Street Seaport. Sort of like Pier 39 for you Californians.

Urban turkey who seemed pretty content to hang around Lower Manahttan.

spring observations

You watch and you wait, and there in between the watching and the waiting you think about a time when the cold sticks that pretend to be trees won't be cold sticks anymore. You think about open windows and street sounds wafting through a lazy apartment on a lazy day, or walks to work that don't include puffy coats, silly hats and an ice cold wind finding the spaces that you forgot to cover on your self.

And then, all at once and altogether too slowly, the trees begin to have specks of green and puffs of pinks. The sun hangs around much later than it did in January and dares to remind you of steamy summer evenings that have yet to arrive. Spring is here, and my East Coast Spring (unlike my West Coast Spring) takes its sweet time to reintroduce itself to us. But I am ready.

I am reminded of the house that I refer to as my true Childhood Home on a little cul-de-sac in Fresno. When I think of Spring, I think of that house and it's wide open windows. I think of sunshine streaming in and catching specks of dust in the air of my bedroom and I think of green shag carpet and a backyard that offered endless opportunities. I think of Girl Scout meetings on the back porch and of bottle-brush trees blooming red and buzzing with bees. I think of open garage doors and hydrangas and calla lillies. Nostalgia is a beautiful thing.

Sunny Side of the Street

So my father paid us an extended weekend visit and we did many fun New York-y type things such as:

* see a show at Radio City Music Hall (Loreena McKennitt, quite nice)

* visit the new Hall of Human Origins at the Museum of Natural Histroy

* eat at our favorite Ukranian restaurant

* ride the subway, a lot

* ride the subway, a lot more

* guess as to why the Empire State building was lit green (Earth Day, Dad was right)

* buy stuff off sketchy street vendors

* visit the ships at South Street Seaport

* take picture of bad-ass old buildings

* walk across Central Park

* witness a tv show being filmed in our park

We had a great time because with him my father brought the California weather.

We rejoiced and frolicked in the sun; all was well.

Back to rain, back to work!

Comments

I've disabled my comments because I'm sick of having to delete the snatchy remarks some people have been leaving.

To my loyal friends and family readers, you can email me comments if you like. I will continue to update you on my life here because I miss you people and wish you were here with me.

To my readers who find themselves so bored with my "excuse for a blog" that they have to leave me messages telling me how lame it is, I pose this question: if it's so bad, why have you come back to leave the same comment every time I delete it? Haven't you some other blog to spat upon? Cheers, pal. You win the "Cooler Than Me" award.

Visitation

My father's here for a visit, and here's what that means: the evening was spent playing the following instruments with much enthusiasm and little skill: cello, guitar, piano, violin (after much tuning)and singing various crazy songs that he seems to remember from god-knows-where. We discovered that Leonard Cohen's "Famous Blue Raincoat" seems to have inspired Mason William's "Saturday Night at the World" and spent a good amount of time getting creative with musical forensics - it was sort of like CSI, only with late 60's music instead of dead bodies.

I actually have a couple of days off of work to entertain my guest (shocker!) and tomorrow we are going to wander the Pretty City known as Manhattan. He's already seen Greenpoint and the only comment he had was that the Cheap Aluminum SIding Salesman really cleaned up when he came here. That's my hood... you want vinyl siding?! We got vinyl siding!! On every precious street.

In other exciting news, it's supposed to be 77 degrees on Monday. I can't fucking believe it. I mean seriously, I've been waiting a long time for Spring to show up so I'm trucking out naughty swear words just to make sure you know how excited I really am.

La la la

I couldn't think of a better title. Sorry.

Let's see... New York news: Yesterday while waiting for the L train into Manhattan there was a girl singing and playing her guitar on the subway platform. She had the kind of voice that I would kill to have; the kind of voice that I would give up all my other talents for. Textured, original, not too pretty, but soulful and versitile. No one was giving her any change even though she sounded amazing, so I gave her $5.00 for her efforts.

And the other day as I was coming out of the F train to go to work, I spied a mom trying to a) hang onto her stroller with her toddler while b) she flailed about behind herself unsuccessfuly to grab the two long straps that had come loose on her baby-in-the-front carrier. She was juggling to kids and couldn't manage. With out saying a word, I came up next to her on one side while a workman passing by came up on the other. We each grabbed a strap, circled around her and pulled them into her waiting hands and she was able to re-tie her carrier. And then we all laughed at our little impromptu ballet and went on our way. It's moments like that when I am glad that I live in a close-quarters city where people really do look out for one another.

Jacky and I took a long walk home this evening, stopping at both of the dog parks on the way home. It rained all day so she had a great time chasing her dog friends through the mud and dirt. (Of course she just had a bath yesterday. Couldn't stay clean for too long.) They have been giving tickets/summonses to people who have their dogs off leash in the park by our house so we have had to be careful about playing only in the actual dog park instead of letting her play ball or stick in the open grass. This is not exciting news. I have no idea why I am telling you guys this.

Alrighty... off to do some sort of "Bring Spring and/or Summer" dance and try to will away the cold.

Winter Redux

This morning there were snow flurries. Last week it was 65. The constant about New York weather seems to be its ability to screw with me on a weekly and sometimes daily basis. I want June. I need June. Please send June.

In other new and exciting news, I got some new glasses. Two pair actually, and both have the correct presciptions in them. For the first time. Ever. See, the thing is that I have actually needed glasses for about 4 or 5 years now, but when I went to Sears so many years back they succeeded in a)giving me pink-eye so badly that I ended up the ER and b)giving me the wrong prescription and being mean to me when I went back to get it fixed. So I kept the glasses (with the incorrect lenses), and wore them on the rare occasion that I felt I could stand the headache that came with them. But now the world is beautiful again, thanks to health insurance and a really great eye doctor. I was literally stunned at how well I can see now. It's quite fabulous. But I had no idea that so much dog fur had settled in the nooks and crannies of my house.

In Greenpoint Neighborhood News, we seem to have some sort of a local Guerilla Theatre group. A Middle-aged Polish Man Guerilla Theatre Group. Of which all them members/performers seem to be drunk by about 9am. But they really enjoy hanging out in large numbers by the dog park and lately they have taken it upon themselves to sing, dance, and (the kicker) play the harmonica. (I use "play" lightly. Really they make the kind of harmonica sounds that I used to make as a 7-year-old who thought she was playing the harmonica.) Occasionally one of the members/performers will wander over the the dog park fence and then Jack takes it upon herself to berate the aforementioned with extremely loud large-dog barks and taunts. It really is a sideshow of glee for all involved.

I'm still playing the cello (well, still studying the cello) and still not very good at it. My main problem is a complete and utter lack talent, follwed closely by my inability to just relax and breathe. Lame, especially since I spent so many years in school learning how to breathe (yeah... acting school really prepares you for the real world.) I do have a good time plugging away at trying to learn the thing (the cello that is, and I have named her Misty. Because she's a cheap girl with a shiny finish, kind of like a stripper. Or a My Little Pony.)

This concludes our update.


Editors note: My husband gets credit for the "Guerilla Theatre" joke.

Man, you're tall.

Today, as I walked home from work through the park, there was a guy on ten-foot stilts.

And he was dressed in Victorian era clothing. Lots of black velvet and such.

Yep. Gotta love it here.

Poetic justice.

How nice is it that, after I have written two days ago about how lovely it is outside, that yesterday it snow-iced 4 inches? Yes, indeed. Let's hope this is winter's swan song becuase I can't take much more sleet-in-the-face.

Today is Saint Patrick's Day. Parade, revelry and drinking - none of which I am participating in. But let's reflect: Saint Patrick's day in New York makes me think of a day exactly four years ago, which for me was another Saint Patrick's day spent in New York. I was a senior at Fresno State, performing in a show, trying to graduate in two months and knee-deep in the Grad School panic. In Februray of 2003 in San Francisco, I auditioned for Tisch and the graduate acting program at NYU. I got a much-desired callback and on the 16th of March, I flew on a red-eye to NYC to secure my education for the next 3 years - or so I thought. I was trying desperately to convince myself that an MFA in acting was worth the $100,000 in loan debt that would follw me around for 35 years after graduating from such a pretigious school. I was trying to pretend also that I actually enjoyed acting - that it was something that I wanted to continue doing and it wasn't just something that I did because people said I was good at it.

Let's just say that I did not present myself well at this particular callback. In fact, I venture to say that it ranks number one as my Worst Audition Ever. However, if I had gotten into NYU, I never would have accepted my offer at the Chicago Conservatory of Performing Arts. Now, y'all know what I think of that "educational institution". But it took moving to Chicago and going to a super-crappy school in order to arrange my life path so that it would cross that of my darling husband. And now look where we are... in New York, on Saint Patrick's day, four years later. The Empire State Buling is lit green and I am in the same green sweater that I wore four years ago. (Even though I should be wearing orange, but we won't go into that.)

And now I shall go scrape the ice-snow off the car before it solidifies into an ice-block that won't melt until June.