Raising Opie and his sister in the most wholesome town in America.
The children at my kids’ school observed the anniversary of 9/11 by making and decorating “peace pinwheels” and placing them in front of the building. They still know little of what happened that day, and less of what it meant then and means now. There will be time for that later.
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This is going to make me sound like a jerk, but I am convinced that I am completely justified. That probably makes me even more jerky. So be it.
Every Sunday I get the the New York Times. We don’t even have home delivery here so I pay a guy named Scott to deliver it. I don’t know where he gets it, but who cares? I get my Times. Some weeks I recycle most of it because I don’t get a chance to read it. Some sections stack up for weeks (Style!) so I can read them when I do have time. But I always, always read the magazine, and I always, always save the crossword puzzle. I may not do it right away, but I will carry it around with me until I can do it.
And when I am, finally, doing the crossword puzzle: I do not want any help, nor do I need any. Okay? It’s nothing personal. Jo wants to help by “just writing the letters” for me. This seriously disrupts my flow. When I come up with an answer, I want to write it down. I don’t want to dictate it to a secretary (one who refuses to use capital letters, which is completely unacceptable in a crossword puzzle).
I do not want my husband to look over my shoulder and try to help. (Unless I get really stumped and I specifically ask for suggestions.)
And I for sure do not want some random mother at the karate school to harass me–repeatedly–about how I can possibly work a crossword puzzle without crossing out each clue once I’ve solved it. I JUST CAN, LADY, OKAY?
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On September 9, 2001, Jeff and I walked our dog down Boulevard East. The street where we lived ran along the bluff, overlooking the Hudson River and beyond it, Manhattan. We walked almost to the end of the promenade, to the small park that was always full, on sunny weekends, of bridal parties and prom-goers. Families and photographers snapped their pictures with the New York City skyline forming a magnificent backdrop.
We snapped a picture too, me standing sideways so you could see the tiniest hint of a baby bump, the dog pulling anxiously at her leash. Off in the distance, over my shoulder and across the river to the south, stood the twin towers. We thought maybe we’d take a picture every month, documenting the pregnancy.
Two days later, the towers were gone. We never did take another picture in that park.
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Because I am a yoga nerd, I was unreasonably excited to learn that on the Saturday morning of BlogHer, Lululemon would be hosting a free yoga class in Bryant Park. A whole new and different kind of squeee.
So I trotted down 6th Avenue at the appointed hour, and it was perfect. It was sunny and warm, but not too hot or humid. The sky was beautifully blue. There were lots of people, but plenty of room. In front of me was a woman who had to be at least 75 years old, pushing one of those old lady shopping carts. Her hair was dyed bright red and she wore a leotard and tights under her clothing. After the class she sipped water from an old bottle of ibuprofen.
Two celebrity Jivamukti teachers, Dechen Thurman (yup, same Thurman) and Matthew Lombardo, led the class from the same stage that plays host to Monday night movies in the park. But down on the grass were two dozen more teachers (see the group in yellow, second photo) who circulated among the students to give corrections and adjustments.
Normally, I take class in a small, windowless room with one teacher and no more than 10 other students. And I love it. But being outside, in a large group, is really special, and not just because we were encouraged many times to share our energy with those around us (so not why I practice yoga). And hands-on correction from teachers who know what they are doing is like getting a really, really good massage. A short massage. But still.
After the class was over (60 minutes flew by) and I was rolling up my mat to leave, a butterfly landed gently on my neighbor’s mat. Everyone admired it, and then it fluttered away. And I walked back up 6th Avenue to the Hilton.
P.S. If you’re curious about what it takes to become a yoga teacher (I was), I just posted an interview with a friend who’s in training.
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Let’s revisit the to-do list and see how I did.
1. Present session: Check! And, WOW. This was really wonderful. My co-presenters, Celeste and Nora, were a dream to work with. We had a good crowd and the questions and comments really made the session both informative and empowering, if I do say so myself. See for yourself at the liveblog or at one of the recaps/discussions I’ve come across: Alma from Marketing Mommy, Megan from Acorn Dreaming, Rita at Surrender, Dorothy, and Emily Rosenbaum (read the comments too!).
2. Cheer for the Tutus for Tanner runners. OK, so I did this virtually instead of in person at 6 in the morning.
3. Take a yoga class in Bryant Park. Check! This was so fun. I’ll post about it separately.
4. Play “Blowfish” with Monica and Olivia. (And follow their rules of swag: Take only what is truly useful and portable.): Not really to part A (how did I forget to show you two the iPad?), but yes to part B. I didn’t get very far in the expo halls. I was too busy going to sessions and chatting.
5. Avoid emergency rooms and hospitals: Check! Not so much as a blister or hangnail!
6. Blithely ignore any drama: Check. I think there was less of it this year, and whatever there was, I remained blissfully unaware of it. The whole conference felt more positive and friendly than ever.
7. Have some Pinkberry yogurt. NO. Sadly.
8. See some old friends: Check!
9. Meet some friends for the first time: Check!
10.Make some new friends: Check!
11. Miss some friends who won’t be there: Sad-faced check.
12. Find some time for non-blogging NYC friends and family too: Check!
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This morning on NPR I heard this story about the return of Soup Man, aka the Soup Nazi. I might have to add “eat soup even if it’s 100 degrees” to my BlogHer ’10 must-do list, because it made me hungry. I’m a little skeptical, though, because the original soup Nazi, Al Yeganeh, doesn’t make the soup or even own the business anymore (the current owner says he “remains involved”).
At my first job in New York, I worked in a building on 57th St. and Broadway. Mr. Yeganeh held court a few blocks away, at a counter that opened directly onto the street. Even before the Seinfeld episode, it was a big deal to go there. The line was really long, and the anxiety was real, because the guy already had a reputation and it was based in true fact. WOE BETIDE the person who didn’t respect the line, the meticulous ordering procedure, or the need to “have your money ready!”
It cost $7 for a cup of soup. It came with bread, a piece of chocolate, and two or three grapes. At that time, that was a lot of cash for me to spend on lunch (actually, that still seems like a lot, now that I eat leftovers for lunch every single day). So it was a very special treat.
But it was every bit as good as you’ve heard.
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My contribution to the annual influx of BlogHer conference posts! I made a tentative schedule for myself the other day and … wow. There’s a lot. But here are my musts.
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I loved this week’s creative challenges at Hot by BlogHer. I chose to do the diet challenge:
For this challenge, choose one day this week and photograph every bite you eat, then blog those photos. (Before you eat it, of course.) You’ll not only be hyperaware of food choices due to the accountability of blogging it, but you may be surprised when you see your entire day of food in front of you.
1 Nonfat chai latte; 2 apple slices left from kid’s breakfast; 3 oatmeal with blueberries, almonds, and a splash of chai concentrate; 4 stir fry with brown rice, tofu, broccoli, carrots, shiitake mushrooms, and bok choy, plus tea; 5 Annie’s peace pasta with parmesan, again with the kid leftovers; 6 sugar snap peas; 7 “club sandwich” wrap with steamed vegetables; 8 roasted cashews with cinnamon and sugar; 9 seltzer
I am amused by the roundness of all my containers. And surprised by the small amount of food (I only ate half of that ridiculously oversized wrap). This is a pretty normal day of eating for me, except we went out to dinner. But not at a decent restaurant, so that wrap was the best thing I could find on the menu. We saw a show and were unable to resist the intoxicating scent of the ($7!) cone of roasted crack cashews.
And as your reward for being interested enough in my daily food intake to read this whole post, here is a clip from the show we saw. Still just as funny as when we first saw it 6(?) years ago.
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And when I say dating myself: I mean in the “omg how old am I” sense, not the “dinner and a movie” sense.
Moving on. Waaaaay back in the day, when I still used floppy disks and a cassette-tape answering machine, I used to go to Kate Spade sample sales. This must have been in about 1993 or 1994, because the Kate Spade brand was just taking off. It was only bags, not all this other stuff they sell now. (And with each successive sale I went to over the course of a couple of years, the crowds got crazier and the prices got higher.)
Anyway, that first sale was the best one ever. I walked out with 7 or 8 bags (some for me, some bought on behalf of friends, some for gifts) and I don’t think I even spent $100. I got at least three of the classic, short-handled, rectangular purses–a black nylon, a brown suede, and a cotton plaid. I got a small, drawstring evening bag. I got a larger black bag with longer handles. I could have died happy that night.
These days, I am a lousy bargain shopper. I am all about convenience and I am usually happy to pay for it. I wish I could be a good thrifter like these amazing women. Instead, I keep my old, out-of-style Kate Spades in my closet, remembering the thrill of that first sample sale and waiting for those boxy shapes to come back into fashion.
Thanks, PBN, for inspring me to take this little walk down memory lane!
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I first took Opie with me to New York when he was 6 months old. In the week we were there he mastered sitting up, practicing on the one small rug found on the sealed concrete floor of my cousin’s loft.
He also visited his first Lower East Side bar. Whenever I come to town it’s always an excuse for a happy hour outing with my friends at work. My cousin/nanny had some other commitment that night so she delivered the baby to me at work (plus, duh, always have to find a reason to parade a cute baby through the workplace) and he accompanied us all to the bar.
At six months, he was a fairly cheerful guy but only if he could maintain contact with one of a few trusted caregivers. I was, of course, at the top of that list. So after a long day of being forced to hang out with my cousin instead of me, he was not interested in any further separations. But after a few drinks (most of them of the “tap water” variety) I did need to use the restroom.
I had, at that point, mastered peeing with a baby on my lap (because desperation is the mother of … more desperation). But I didn’t think my skillz would carry over into the dingy stall in a bar. So I handed Opie over to a coworker, a very lovely and capable woman, and headed downstairs.
Bars are loud, right? Even when it’s only 5:30 and there aren’t that many people there. The music is pumping and people are talking and there’s huge ventilators whirring out white noise and traffic flying by just beyond the front door.
Do you think that was any match for one six-month-old baby? No. I could hear him screaming all the way down in the basement, from inside the ladies’ room. Little man was not having a very happy hour.
Dude, the LES is so over. Next time take me to Greenpoint.
The thing is, I really tried, with both my babies, not to not do things because I had a kid. I took Jo to a friend’s child’s birthday party that was a two-hour drive away, by myself, when she was two months old. Everyone there was astonished but I really, really wanted to see my friends, and my husband couldn’t go for some reason, so I packed up the baby and got on the road. She slept all the way there and back.
Maybe I was overconfident or lucky or stupid or all of the above as a rookie mom but it all worked out. As it did with Opie at the bar, once I’d quickly washed my hands and hotfooted it out of the restroom. And as I hope your new-mom outings did too.
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