its a mad mission

It was this day in 2007 that I moved into the Crafton’s living room and began city living (I was baptized immediately: when unloading the car I set down a plastic box on the sidewalk, and when I moved it off their sofa later on that day realized I had transferred chewing gum from the cement to the couch). And now, 2 years later, I’m going to try to quantify what 730 days here has meant to me (in some cases, numbers are approximate).

0 complete wipeouts subway surfing (a few close calls and falls into the bodies of strangers).

0 times I’ve beat Bill at chess

1 time I came close

1 best job in the city

1 mugging at Union Square

1 fab apartment, 3 fab roommates

1 proposal in central park, 3 other attempts

1 new husband (can I get a what what!?!)

1 craft fair and one resulting teaching gig at the Cooper Hewitt

1 pair of skinny jeans (I totally caved on this one. I swore them off, and then ended up buying a pair within 1 month of moving here. Cue Debbie Gibson track. Sarah warned me it would happen.)

1 potentially dangerous confrontation with a subway thug (I’m sorry, but if we’re pulling into a station, don’t make me let go of the bar just so you can get ahead of me. I’m not falling over for you.)

1 fainting episode on a commute, 9 EMT’s rush to my aid

1 biking trip up the west coast of Manhattan

1 novacaine shot in the nostril (may that be the only time it ever, ever happens)

1 viewing of cardboard tubes fight club in McCarren Park (complete with spiked cardboard armor)

1 pair of commuting shoes (Privo all the way)

1 time I was told I have beautiful eyes by a strange man

1 time I was told I have beautiful feet by a strange man (huh?)

2 flights of stairs to get to apartment with resulting thighs of steel

2 matching puffy vests for Bill and I

2 deaths of close coworkers (Lynn from cancer, Pearl in a tragic accident)

3 mice

3 car rentals (not bad for 2 years without a car)

3 blocks from the neighborhood dealing with a toxic groundwater seepage problem, compliments of the local factories

4 subway doors shut on me

4 walking history tours

5 Williamsburg Church locations

6 times I’ve purchased more at the grocery store than I am actually capable of carrying home comfortably

7 games of Settlers of Catan played (3 won)

8 viewings of Anne of Green Gables

9 movie sets on the corner of Manhattan Ave and Driggs

9 sewing projects

10 falafel sandwiches at Oasis, and almost as many Empanada Mama visits

11 visits to Junk

12 near hits by a motor vehicle

15 subway acts worth forking over spare change for (A magician had a rabbit and a sparrow with him last week. My favorite was the gymnasts.)

24 trips to Connecticut to see family

30 or less books read (to my chagrin). Highest recommended: Peace Like a River, by Leif Enger. Most proud of finishing: Anna Karenina. Favorite author: P.G. Wodehouse (“He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say “when!”).

40 felts

50 coffee coolattas (back in Dunkin Donuts country, baby!)

80 This is not a quantity, but merely the decade most fashion around here is drawing inspiration from. Bleck.

120 balls hit at the driving range during my first golfing outing

132 listens to Sufjan Stevens’ “For The Widows In Paradise, For The Fatherless In Ypsilanti.” Makes me want to learn the banjo.

450 bunches of fruit for us to eat brought into the office by my super cool editor nearly every morning

500 subway commutes, myriads more rides to other locations

764 fliers I’ve been assaulted by while walking on the sidewalk. And I can’t even count the number of times summer fundraising groups have tried to mow me over petitioning for funds for this organization or that politician. Seriously, this isn’t a friendly, “Hi!” They literally stand in your path and heckle you to stop. It borders on illegal.

1,000 miles walked (at least), 15 or so of those run in rain or thunderstorms without an umbrella

1 million flu germs avoided with my “subway system”: my left hand holds grody poles and doors,  my right hand brushes away hair, uses the cell phone, etc. The left hand is not allowed to touch anything else until I’ve washed my hands. 

So it’s been an interesting 104 weeks, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. This place can be weird, exciting, frustrating, depressing, energizing, bewildering, inspiring. It’s holds all the emotions you might experience elsewhere, but in seemingly bigger dimensions, like its buildings. It’s taught me much–you just never know what you are going to stumble upon in NY. Literally. The neighborhood dogs make sure of that.

We’ve just come back from a wonderfully long vacation, which I will be posting pics from, but I’ll start with this brief sampling. Part of our time was a staycation, during which we mapped out several thrift shops in the area to hit one afternoon. I love Brooklyn, but it turns out its thrift shops are nothing to brag on. Disappointment was to be found at every smelly, dirty, dank corner.

So when we drove by a little (I mean little!) thrift store in Taunton, MA on the way out to the cape, Bill suggested we go in. And got a happy wife as a result. The prices were ridiculously low, and I found these steals. The vintage tablecloth and six napkins, with complimentary moth ball smell: $1.25. The sweet apple green bowl to inspire me to eat the fruit inside: $1.50. All sorts of other odds and unneeded ends were found as well, but these are my favorites. Anthropologie, eat your heart out.