My so called life

My best friend and I started using the phrase “Just another day in the city…” after I’d tell her about something absurd or unbelievable that I’d witnessed in New York. No matter how random the event was, by New York City standards, it was just another day. Like a weekend stroll in Union Square when I accidentally started walking in line with protesters passionate about Taiwan. Another time, I passed Cynthia Nixon on 16th Street one rainy day after work — and literally stopped, turned around and stared (with mouth open) as she walked past me.  I’m not too fond of taxis, and I have to wonder if part of the reason is because one brushed against my right side as I was in the middle of a crosswalk during my lunch break. After being knocked to the ground, I picked myself up and continued on to the library. The bruises lasted a week but the story will live on forever. I’m not one for mingling in places where celebrities hang out, but Sean “Puffy” Combs and I had dinner at the same restaurant one night. He was even wearing a puffy coat. I actually felt like a celebrity when the cast and crew of America’s Next Top Model paused filming in Central Park for my running class to pass by. And then they clapped for us. I got the impression they thought we were training for a marathon and I wasn’t going to correct them.

Here are a few “just another day in the city” observations from this weekend (a little less exciting, but memorable nonetheless).

Celebrity sighting
Upon leaving work, I forced myself to walk through Times Square. I occasionally dare myself to do this, not so much as a test of patience or grace, but more to remind myself that I live in New York. That this place I dreamed of living when I was in high school has become my reality. That a few blocks from my office is the center of the tourist universe. And while I was cursing tourists under my breath for abruptly stopping and taking up the entire sidewalk, I noticed Saturday Night Live alum Rachel Dratch quietly walking past me. Spotting celebrities will never get old to me.

Sidewalk portraits
The artists who line the entrance to Central Park have an overwhelming affinity for showcasing their drawings of Angelina Jolie. They display other celebrities and regular people too, but it must be a requirement to set up shop on this path that you know how to draw Angelina specifically. While most of the artists’ work appears interchangeable, you can weed out one dude whose Angie portrait barely resembles her.

I’ll admit that when my sister and I were younger, our parents let us get caricatures done when we were on vacation. But I’m still baffled by how many artists are in Central Park everyday. I’m not sure how much business they have at 8:30 a.m. on a Sunday, but I appreciated the note one man left on his chair next to his easel that listed his phone number and said that if you called, he’d come right down. Which made me wonder if he’d climbed up in the tree or something. I sure wouldn’t mind a treehouse in Central Park.

Product instructions
Picked up cottonballs from the grocery store and got a kick out of the suggestions/instructions for use: “BABY CARE: Soft and gentle for cleaning a baby’s delicate skin. ARTS & CRAFTS: Ideal for art projects and creative hobbies.” Or, you know, removing eye makeup. Whatever.

Subway characters
I remember yelling at my sister a lot when we were younger because she blatantly stared at people. To the point that even I was uncomfortable. Subway commutes make it entirely too easy — and guilt free — to look at people. So I stare. A lot. And that seems to be OK with everyone else. One man caught my attention yesterday. He reminded me of a cross between Mr. Clean and actor/diabetic/Liberty Medical and Quaker Oats spokesman Wilford Brimley. Which is to say he was not a small guy and looked rather intimidating. Once he sat down, I noticed his baby blue shirt said “Animal Haven” in the center. Then I noticed that he also had his ear pierced, much like Mr. Clean, and that he had tattoos covering the majority of his arms. There’s something about picturing a large, gruff looking, middle-aged man playing with kittens that makes my day. It wasn’t until he exited the train that I noticed all of his tattoos were of animals — mostly dogs. I nearly melted.