Row’n time

Karen,

By no means am I an expert at the row machine.  In fact, once while I was working out at my gym on the upper west side (westside!) an orientation tour came in to talk about the different machines.  I  tried to show off how well I listened during my own tour and how obnoxiously good I was at rowing.  The tour guide had to correct me, as I wasn’t sitting up straight enough. Burn.  Blow to the ego!  Need I remind you I am NOT a fitness person either…

That being said, you should sit up straight and pull the bar into your stomach, NOT your chest.  That was my mistake.  And when you pull, pull with your arms.  It is easy to get lax and let your legs do all the work.   Pulling should also be a fluid motion, not a large pull at the beginning that does all the work, then lets you relax for the rest of the stroke. Lastly, you get out of it as much as you put in.  You can just do your thing OR you can get a full workout.  Your call.  But I like it non the less.

begging, or something like it

I was riding the L home and a guy got on the train.  He began making an announcement to the packed car as soon as the doors closed.  “Good evening ladies and gentlemen.”  You know any speech that starts like that is a ploy for money.  Everyone continues what they are doing, pretending to ignore him but actually listening.  He had a loud, nasal voice and balled up his hand suggesting some sort of deformity.  “I do not mean to cause offense, but I am a good man trying to make the best of a bad situation.”

Honestly, my heart broke, as it always does underneath my skepticism.  The bums here aren’t nearly as good at their speeches as they are in the Big Apple, but this one got me.

If it weren’t for the fact that in the middle of his speech he coughed and under his breath said, “excuse me” in a nearly inaudible tone–a tone that did not match the voice with which he spoke–I might have looked in my bag for an uneaten Kashi bar.  Oh, that and the fact that his clothes, bag, shoes, and leather coat all looked decent.  I always check the shoes.  Those are key.  Not that I should be judging anyone…sigh.

About 10 minutes later, after he’d left our car for another, he came back and started the same speech over–word for word–with the same inflection.  This time adding an uncontrollable footstomp for dramatic affect.  I wanted to say, “dude, you’ve already hit this car.  And none of us fell for it.  Move on.”

But I kept quiet, nose in my book, as I always do.

NY sleeps alone tonight

I’ve been thinking about New York lately.  Wondering if she misses me and feels a bit replaced.

Chicago is a great city.  A fabulous city.  But it is not New York.  I miss the corner grocers with endless fruit and flowers that made my face light up, no matter how hard the day had been.  I miss that awful smell that came when descending into the subway.  I miss the substantial transfers that only seem to exist here at Clark/Lake.  I. miss. the cupcakes.  And the black-and-white cookies.  I miss the hobos that sing and do acrobatics on the subway cars.

In choosing a place to live I remember saying that if New York was in my future it would make itself known.  “I could always get an internship for the summer.”  “I could still look into a second masters.”  “There are jobs in New York.”  I said.  But I also knew that my “yes” to Chicago was a “no” to the Big Apple.  Not that I still can’t go–but my life has direction and meaning here now.  I’d rather finish grad school than take a summer off.  I’m pretty antsy not to be in school anymore and the thought of another degree is much less appealing than a job.  Let’s be serious–there aren’t really library jobs anywhere, most especially New York.

Plus.  New York doesn’t have Deutschs.

And worst of all, I’m happy here.

“She once told Ives, while they walked along the boardwalk of Coney Island, that, in her opinion the troubles in life were started by people who never looked into their own souls.  He walked along holding her hand and nodding.  He was astounded, a woman nearly as introspective as himself, who loved him.”

Mr. Ives’ Christmas, Oscar Hijuelos

Top Five Concerts of All Time, no. 5

I lived in New York. Ben Folds was coming to Brooklyn. None of my friends wanted to shell out the money for the ticket, but I would not let solitude keep me from seeing the Ben-Rufus show.

I went by myself. And it was one of the greatest decisions I have ever made. I took the subway to Prospect Park and got in line with all the other early attendees. People carried blankets and backpacks full of food. I carried my thoughts and my book. When the doors opened people scampered for the best view of the stage. Being I was alone, I was able to squeeze in between two blankets up against a fence with a perfect view of the piano. To my right was a young couple with their two kids, and to my left were a few die-hard fans. When Rufus came on stage I was able to stand and rock out to his songs without worrying what people around me thought. I didn’t have to defend my space. The night was beautiful. And I was there to enjoy every good thing.

Listening to “Not the Same” still makes me want to fly away. The crowd sang along with Ben Folds, as they always do, with this incredible harmony that only comes from a mass of people who have heard the CD a thousand times over.

your call

I was busy watching the lone episode of American Idol I have ever seen in an attempt to be social and make the most of my visit.  It was not until I excused myself and lay upon the lonely bottom bunk of a bed somewhere in Brooklyn that I realized I’d missed your call.  “Hi.  It’s me,” the message proclaimed.  I will never forget your tone.  Half laughing, half worried.  “We’re, ah, leaving first thing in the morning.  So, if, ah, I don’t talk to you, have a good rest of your break.”

I desperately wanted to tell you about my day and worried I wouldn’t have access to your voice for well over a week.  I saved the message, knowing that I could always return to it.  I dialed your number, hoping that you were still awake.  Part of me objected to the digits I touched upon the keypad–for I so wanted to be independent.  To not need you.  Even if I was alone.  And in Brooklyn.  You were never a part of this life, and as much as I missed you, were you a part of it now?

the Half-Blood Prince

I had been waiting for a transfer at the 59th Street Circle for what seemed like hours.  Check watch.  Another five minutes has gone by.  Check tunnel.  Still no train.  There was something about this particular stop in the middle of the night that took forever.

When a train finally arrived, bringing a gushing wind and a jolting stop, the doors opened and I pushed aside fellow commuters to ensure I, too, could board.  Why were there so many people?  It was seemingly unusual for that hour.

Most faces were stuck in books.  Normal.  No one ever wants to make eye-contact on a subway.  Most faces also wore large black-framed classes.  Not normal.  The same black-framed glasses.  The faces were all buried in the same book.

Ms. Rowling had kept the city out late that night.  And I had a feeling no one would be getting much sleep anytime soon.

I love you, Love New York

I try not to watch TV much, but after my long run this morning I convinced myself that some non-book veg time might be of benefit. I made my eggs and turned on the television to find it tuned into HBO showing my all-time favorite movie, You’ve Got Mail.

And the world was right again.

A week ago today I was in New York. ((sigh)) In an attempt to kill time before my flight out, Melanie drove me from our worksite in Upstate to the Bronx, where I had every intention of making my way into Manhattan’s upperwest side and remaining aloof at a table in Cafe Lalo. By the time I was dropped off there simply weren’t enough hours for my grand scheme and I made my way straight to the airport. I took the 5 toward downtown and made a last minute decision to hop off at 125th to catch the M60 to Laguardia. The jaunt placed me back in Manhattan for a few short minutes and I instantly felt the rush of the city. I could hear her breathing again and the smoggy air filled my lungs with a deep sense of refreshment.

And the world was right again.

I just wanted to say that all these nothings have meant more to me than so many somethings. So. Thanks.

Kathleen Kelly

 

move’n on up, to the (west)side

Sandy and I decided to put a security deposit on a place we looked at.  We’d been excited about it after the showing, but tried to play it cool.  “We’ll think about it and pray about it.  If it’s supposed to be ours it will be there when we’re ready.  I don’t think we should freak out now and try to nab it.”  A few days later the landlord emailed me to ask if we were still interested, as he thought we’d make good tenants.  This was also the day I discovered that St. Joseph is the patron saint of finding a home.  That man is always watching out for me.  I took it as a sign.  (although, I surely do not believe in signs…)  Aside from some minor things, the place is everything we were looking for.  A bit farther from the city than I would have liked, but for the cost and the amenities its so very worth it.

I was on the phone with the landlord going over some questions we had when another 708 number was ringing through.  I got really excited at the thought of one of the places I applied was trying to contact me.  ((Could it be all to perfect?!))  Turns out it was just my new university confirming that, no, they do not in fact offer discounts on the CTA.  Damn.  There goes another $75 a month.

I’d really love a job in the loop.  It is asking a lot, I know, but I miss the feel of the city.  Last weekend when we changed trains at the Washington stop it made me long for New York in a way I haven’t felt in a while.  Could I make this my New York?  Could I be a bike-riding Farmer’s-market Thomas-O’Brien suburb girl who has a hip job worth waking up for?

I hope it all works out.  How strange life is turning out to be.  Strange but good.  At one point I thought I was moving across the country and now I find myself 4 miles from Ashley, 11 miles from Liz (for a bit), 8 miles from Jake, 13 miles from AAron (and soon Stephanie), and 43 miles from my physical home.  Not that I’ve checked.

Ashlee, you understand.