The last time someone tried to stress to me the importance of using seatbelts was my first NYC trip to the doctor in 2008 (because I didn’t understand my health fund, and therefore didn’t use my health insurance, the first year I lived here). The conversation came from nowhere, just like the decree that she wouldn’t perform a pap smear unless I was registered to vote. I kind of wished I hadn’t been registered to vote and didn’t think it was her place to say otherwise.
We sat in her office — which was more like a stuffy study, crammed with art work and books — and in addition to my family history, she grilled me on whether I wore a seatbelt in cars. I told her I didn’t take cars in New York (cab drivers had trouble finding my home in Brooklyn, so public transit wound up being easier, faster and much cheaper). She kept grilling me though. I told her that when I drove at home, I always wore my seatbelt, but I couldn’t absolutely confirm that every (rare) time I entered a cab (for a brief period) I was buckled up.
She proceeded to tell me different ways people were injured in taxi cab accidents. The one I remember most vividly was when the person in the back flies to the front, smashes the windshield and loses their teeth. She referred to it as “The Cup,” or something similar, because of how your teeth would all fall out together (maybe in the cup holder?).
I wanted to run out of the office right then. Somehow I made it through the rest of the visit knowing I would never go back to this woman.
So when my friend Matt e-mailed me a seatbelt public service announcement while we were on the phone last night, I wasn’t sure what could be so great about it. Let me tell you though, I was captivated from the first frame. I proceeded to stop talking, watch it twice, talk to him about how beautifully done it was, then could hear him watching it again, so then I started watching it again, and then we watched it again a couple times together.
Now it’s your turn to watch (for as many times as you feel necessary. Go ahead. I’m not judging).
Right off the bat, the music had me. If I knew what song this was, I’d download it from iTunes. The music perfectly conveys the almost lyrical movements of the family, especially when the daughter and mom reach around the dad. And the way he flew forward had me wondering what sort of stunt appartus was involved to make everything look so realistic – maybe a trapeze or harness so that he could propel forward?
If it takes imagining the seatbelt as a hug from me in order for you to wear it, by all means, imagine away (though maybe it’s best for you to imagine it as hugs from other people, especially if we don’t know each other). Because believe me, you don’t want “The Cup” to happen to you.
(I wrote this post on my three-year anniversary in New York City — January 27, 2010 — but didn’t get around to posting it then. A couple days later my mom reminded me that I moved to New York on January 26 — and she would know, because it’s her birthday. Regardless of the date, the feelings are the same).
• • •
Three years ago today, I moved to New York. It was the day after my mom’s birthday. My family and I woke up very early in the morning to say our goodbyes. I cried a lot. My dad and I went to the airport. I was thankful that it was dark because I couldn’t stop crying. Then my dad and I got on a plane to New York. A few days after that, I cried again when I said goodbye to my dad. Then I opened a gift my mom had sent with my dad, the book “Love You Forever,” and started crying even more. Moving to New York meant a lot of crying for me and I wondered what I was doing to myself. Growing pains are hard.
Three years ago I moved into my first apartment with a stranger in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I started my first real job. I wore tennis shoes to work and then switched into heels (eventually I ditched the heels, but I was totally Melanie Griffith Working Girl for awhile). I picked out which health insurance plan I wanted, even though I really didn’t understand the process. I filled out forms for my life insurance beneficiaries — my best friends and my sister. I hoped I wouldn’t die by getting hit by a cab or mugged by one of the 15,000 scary people out on the streets or internally combusting from all the noise or catching a rare disease from touching a subway pole.
Three years ago, I moved to a city where I knew only two people — my cousin and a friend from college, Lindsey. I got confused on the subway and sometimes wound up on Canal Street when I thought I was going to Times Square. I wanted to cover my ears because everything here was so loud. I said “Excuse me” when the situation called for it and people looked at me funny. After depositing my first paycheck, I bought my first iPod.
Three years later I am living with my cousin in an apartment that feels like home. I’m a pro at navigating the subway. I still get excited when I see celebrities. I’ve actually been tapped by a cab when I was going through a crosswalk and managed to walk away just fine (though with some nasty bruises). I realized that the people here aren’t scary, just different from the people I grew up around, that their vibrance and diversity is what makes New York City the way it is. The magazine I worked for ran an article called “25 Reasons I Love New York” compiled from reader submissions. This one particularly sums up what New York means to me too:
I love New York because it’s inconvenient. It makes you work a little harder. It wears you out. It forces you to interact with life. With the street musicians. With taxi cab drivers. Hot dog vendors. Hipsters. Baristas. Pigeons. Trash. Trees. Graffiti. Flower shops. Coffee shops. People riding the subway. People riding bikes. People talking on cell phones. People talking to themselves. You can’t hide from life in New York. Poor. Rich. Dirty. Ugly. Hungry. Spectacular. Honest. Unforgettable. I love New York. Unconditionally.
Three years seems like such an incredibly long time ago, especially considering all that has happened in the last six months. I was laid off (on my dad’s birthday). I started a freelancing job on my birthday (starting to notice a trend of life events coinciding with birthdays…). Then I traveled for five weeks. Had jury duty for three weeks. Was able to spend a solid amount of time at home for the holidays. I dog sat.
Three years later I am unemployed, trying to find a job that will keep me happy and keep me in New York. Funny the irony that life throws at you sometimes. Now I’m trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Suggestions and job offers welcome. Just try me. All ears over here. I think there are jobs out there that I would love, but I don’t even know they exist. I’m open to a new experience, preferably one that pays all my bills with leftovers to fund my retirement, buy eclectic picture frames and purchase a unicorn.
Today I felt an intense urge to clean out my closet. I’m spending most of my days hunting for jobs, hopefully the next place where I can meet new people who will eventually become my friends and a place where I can learn new things, and if it happens to be somewhere I can see celebrities, well even better. But the hunt can be pretty overwhelming. So I decided I needed to clean. That whole feeling that maybe if I get my closet in order, everything else will have an easier time falling into place.
And what did I find but the customer receipt from Bank of America from when I deposited my first paycheck. A paycheck for seven days instead of the normal 10 since I started mid-week, which initially freaked me out when I didn’t realize this because the amount was not what my dad had budgeted and used in the Excel spreadsheet that basically said after taxes, health insurance, rent, utilities, student loans and food that I would have a whopping $5 of fun money each month. Thankfully I didn’t spend as much on life as my dad budgeted and I was able to have more than $5 of fun.
I have absolutely no clue what the next three years have in store for me. And that scares me. Because for so long I knew that I wanted to be in magazine journalism. I was on the yearbook staff all through high school and knew I would major in journalism in college. I worked on the yearbook, newspaper and magazine through college and new I wanted to end up at a magazine in New York. By some stroke of magic, I was offered the first job I applied for in New York shortly after graduation. I worked at that magazine for two and a half years, received a promotion, became incredibly close with co-workers and could see my career path clearly charted out. Then I was laid off in August 2009 and everything changed. I remember thinking afterward that the lay off was an opportunity. Which is much harder to grasp now that my career path is waiting for a new direction, one that I can’t chart out at the moment. For as long as I thought my future was in magazines, this economy is making me think otherwise.
But if these first three years here are any indication of my next three, I will make it through everything good, bad and scary just fine, thanks to my friends, my family, a couple cries and a good run.
I just returned to New York after an 11-day trip to Kansas City for Thanksgiving (amazing how easy it is to find more affordable flights when you’re not worried about vacation days anymore!) My fam said funny things, which I kept track of because I like to write down good quotes. Here are some highlights:
Me: Mom, look at all your Facebook messages! Mom (covers computer screen): UH. PRIVATE!
(yes, my mom is on Facebook and we just became friends. She wasn’t too subtle about me needing to friend her. Watch what you say on my wall!)
Sister: The reason I moved to San Diego was because I got locked out of my car in a snowstorm. Mom: I didn’t know that…
Dad about 6-month old Zoe, who is going to puppy school: You have to invite her up on your lap. Me: That’s like vampires when you have to invite them into your home. Dad: Zoe, I’m inviting you over here. Jacky is not.
Sister explaining why she forgot something: My mind is a galaxy.
Me, turning up radio for Miley Cyrus song Mom: How old are you again? 11? 12?
Grandpa to waitress after we’d been ignored: I’m going to trip you if you don’t get over here.
Mom to barking dogs as she lets them in the backyard: Go tell your friends all about it.
Last year was the first time I watched the New York City marathon, an event that overtakes the entire city the first Sunday in November. Traffic is blocked from streets and bridges. Bus routes are rescheduled (one ride led me through Yankee Stadium in the Bronx before going into Manhattan). Thousands of volunteers set up and distribute water, direct traffic and assist injured runners. It’s the world’s largest marathon (Italy and France were really representing this year). It is magical.
I was a few weeks into my running class last year when our coaches suggested we cheer on the runners. My friend Adrienne joined me. We were in awe of the athletes. The experience was so wonderful — we both left talking about how we wanted to run the marathon — that we watched it together this year too.
We camped out on some steps near Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem, arriving early enough to see some of the elite runners near the end of the race and staying long enough to see the average-paced runners too.
One of the entertaining perks of this location is a “wild” group of nuns from a church along the route. They’re so pumped up that they come out screaming with cowbells. And they keep it up for hours. Praise Jesus, these women know how to cheer. Some runners even stopped to take pictures of them (which says to a lot to sacrifice your time for some photos).
(Left: Runners turning onto Fifth Avenue. Right: Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders should watch out — these nuns have natural talent.)
I have mixed feelings about the fans this year, though. The people who were watching earlier in the race were so obnoxious that I had to move because they were pissing me off so much. One man taunted a runner who took a short walking break (I’d like to see him run 26.2 miles). His young daughter even started repeating the taunts, even though she obviously had no clue what they meant. A woman with a stroller casually walked through a wave of runners, in no rush to get out of their way. Countless others didn’t even wait til the runners thinned out before walking — not even sprinting — across the street. I understand that the marathon can be inconvenient for those who don’t care about it, but it’s incredibly disrespectful to the runners to not even try to get out of their way. I was on the verge of locating a megaphone and appointing myself crowd control since the volunteers and police officers didn’t seem to care.
But if you stick around long enough, the fair-weather fans leave (some of their encouragement sounded more like insults anyway). And you’re left with some very kind souls. Some carried signs or came alone or simply yelled out the name of every person who had it written on their clothes. I remember one man who was dressed like a construction worker, with steel-toed shoes. He was by himself and offering the sincerest encouragement to runners, who at this point looked like they could use all the support they could get. This is what I love about the marathon. How it can bring people, the city and the entire world together. Whether or not you run or know someone in the marathon isn’t important. Because there are universal emotions we can relate to. Determination. Perseverance. Dedication. All from putting one foot in front of other. Over and over.
Since I’ve been back in New York, people have asked what I’m up to as an unemployed person. My first week back after traveling, I was bored out of my mind (and not enjoying all the unpacking/reorganizing of my room and closet after being gone five weeks). But then things like this happen, when I go see Martha Stewart just because she’s famous and I don’t have anywhere to be at 5 p.m.
(After the photographers took pictures of her holding her new books — shouting things like “Martha, look to your right please. Please Martha, right. Look to the right.” “Over here Martha! Your right, just could you maybe hold the books the other way?” — she whipped out her camera and took pictures of them. For her blog. Apparently Martha gets a kick out of the number of page views her “little personal blog” gets. I can’t remember if it was 7,000 a day or 7 million a month, but it was crazy.)
(As much as I wanted her “Encyclopedia of Crafts,” I couldn’t justify spending $35 when it’s only $20 on Amazon.)
Her book signing was at the new Michael’s craft store opening on the Upper West Side. This is a huge development in the craft world, as the only other store nearby is in Queens. But this new one. Holy cow. It’s insane. The aisles are entirely too small and all the employees drove me crazy, but the stuff that was stocked made me want to go on a shopping spree. Because who doesn’t need a $124.99 paper cutter?
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.
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