We reached a “red letter” day in the family last week.
The twins, who will graduate from High School next June, have been accepted into colleges.
Colleges which require them to move away from home, live in a dorm and share the bathroom with 800 other college students.
For a while, it was questionable. They both got turned down by their first choices much to our surprise. After all, they had average SAT’s and a 3.5 GPA. We assumed that’d get you into a state college without any trouble.
We were in for a shock. Apparently, with the economy in North Carolina in the toilet, the folks who would normally have sent their kids to private schools – Wake Forest, Duke, etc – have backed up and sent them to our outstanding state colleges – UNC, NC State, etc. Add to that the "non-traditional" students who are older, unemployed and returning to school and massive budget shortfalls in the university system, and you've got a recipe for a lot of rejection.
The thing that put us at a disadvantage is that the parents of those kids who would normally have gone to private schools have been building those applications and resumes’ for college since little Tiffany and Armbruster were in the 2nd grade. They definitely had the paper advantage.
So the first choices fell by the wayside – UNC-Greensboro for Jordan and their College of Nursing, and NC State in Raleigh’s School of Engineering for Taylor. Instead, Jordan’s been accepted to UNC-Charlotte and Taylor to Western Carolina in Sylva.
The process has been eye opening, too. They have SAT scores within 2% of each other and identical GPA’s. Both have similar extracurricular activities, and yet some places accepted one and denied the other.
They aren’t intent on going to the same college, so that’s not really an issue although it does make one question the admission process somewhat.
Decisions aren’t cast in stone yet. Taylor hasn’t heard from Appalachian State in Boone, a mere 45 minutes away, or from Oklahoma State which emerged as a late contender, nor has Jordan heard from UNC-Wilmington.
The chances of transferring to a preferred school after a year are significantly better. Of course, there’s always the possibility that they’ll decide they like the place they’re at and choose to stay there. North Carolina has an exceptional university system, so a degree from the regional colleges is not necessarily a detriment in looking for a job later.
But for now, everyone will be loading into a car to go live “away” come next August, and that’s a good thing for everyone.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
A Cultural Icon
Sometimes, common culture shows through automatically or, as Grandma woulda said, “You can’t get away from your 'raisin’”
Eliseo, who lives in the apartment upstairs and is Yoko the Pug’s “real” daddy, was taking him for a walk and slipped off the curb, spraining his ankle. When he did, he dropped the leash and the dog immediately saw his advantage and took off.
As Eliseo was lying in the street moaning, trying to get his bearings and stand back up, Yoko came back, sniffed at him for a moment and then, as if he realized his daddy was hurt, ran to the door of a nearby house where he barked, trying to get someone to come out.
When we were told of this event, we looked at each other and, as if on cue, said, “Quick, Lassie, run for help!”
It was spontaneous and automatic, but any child of the 60’s will immediately understand the reference.
Eliseo, who lives in the apartment upstairs and is Yoko the Pug’s “real” daddy, was taking him for a walk and slipped off the curb, spraining his ankle. When he did, he dropped the leash and the dog immediately saw his advantage and took off.
As Eliseo was lying in the street moaning, trying to get his bearings and stand back up, Yoko came back, sniffed at him for a moment and then, as if he realized his daddy was hurt, ran to the door of a nearby house where he barked, trying to get someone to come out.
When we were told of this event, we looked at each other and, as if on cue, said, “Quick, Lassie, run for help!”
It was spontaneous and automatic, but any child of the 60’s will immediately understand the reference.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Breakfast of Champions
We had breakfast with Yoko the puppy this morning. Unlike most weekdays, where breakfast for him consists of a bowl of dog food chunked out while we suck down a cup of coffee, this was “real” breakfast.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast.
And since the dog was here visiting, as he is most mornings, he got breakfast, too. More than his regular kibble. Something special.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast.
All of which he enjoyed, but which didn’t stop him from still begging scraps from our breakfast. I don’t think that DNA for eating disorders can jump species, but if it can, he is truly our love child.
It made me recall an earlier life I had, with an earlier dog.
Bull was my companion for over 20 years. Even though he’s been gone for almost 5 years now, I still miss him.
When I lived in Oklahoma, he frequently stayed with Grandma Johnson when I travelled. She liked it. He was well trained and low maintenance, content to sleep on the footstool next to her and share a bowl of popcorn in front of the television.
One time, I got back to Oklahoma City where she lived and spent the night at her house before returning home the next day. The next morning, I got up, stumbled to the kitchen for coffee and sat down to watch the breakfast preparation across the room.
Grandma, being a Grandma and having been a short order cook for years before I came along, was fixing breakfast.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast.
At first, I thought it was odd that she was fixing three plates but just assumed that my Uncle was coming by, as he did sometimes.
I didn’t think anything about it until she turned to me and said, “I’ve tried to figure it out all week, but I can’t tell. Do you think Bull likes strawberry jam or grape jelly better on his toast? I’ve just been fixing one of each so he can try them both.”
Still being on my first cup of coffee, it didn’t immediately sink in that she meant the dog, not my uncle.
I looked at her dumbly as she repeated the question, and I realized that I had two choices.
I could point out that he was just a dog and probably had no preference and that it was silly to even ask such a question.
Or I could offer an opinion.
Given the obvious pleasure she was getting from preparing a meal for someone besides herself, I chose the latter.
“I’m not sure Grandma. We just swap back and forth at home.”
“OK, then I’ll just keep making him one of each,” she said as she put the dish on the floor. “It’s been so nice to have someone in the house to cook for this week.”
It was then I realized that the dog, a little poodle mix, had gained weight not because she’d given him more than his allotted amount of kibble. Indeed, the bag was virtually untouched.
She’d fed him exactly what she’d eaten all week, thrilled to have both his company and his appreciation for her cooking.
When we got back to my house and I poured his regular dog food into his bowl the next day he looked up somewhat expectantly. Had Bull had the gift of speech he would have said, “There must be some mistake. My Grandma doesn’t treat me like this. She gives me anything I want and loves me more than life itself. I want to go back to live at Grandma’s house.”
At the time I thought it was kind of funny, a doting old lady treating the dog as if he were one of her grandchildren.
And yet, this morning I found myself cooling off Yoko’s eggs so he doesn’t burn his nose on them while I spread a bit of jelly on his breakfast toast as he looked on expectantly.
I think he prefers raspberry jam, but I’m not sure.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast.
And since the dog was here visiting, as he is most mornings, he got breakfast, too. More than his regular kibble. Something special.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast.
All of which he enjoyed, but which didn’t stop him from still begging scraps from our breakfast. I don’t think that DNA for eating disorders can jump species, but if it can, he is truly our love child.
It made me recall an earlier life I had, with an earlier dog.
Bull was my companion for over 20 years. Even though he’s been gone for almost 5 years now, I still miss him.
When I lived in Oklahoma, he frequently stayed with Grandma Johnson when I travelled. She liked it. He was well trained and low maintenance, content to sleep on the footstool next to her and share a bowl of popcorn in front of the television.
One time, I got back to Oklahoma City where she lived and spent the night at her house before returning home the next day. The next morning, I got up, stumbled to the kitchen for coffee and sat down to watch the breakfast preparation across the room.
Grandma, being a Grandma and having been a short order cook for years before I came along, was fixing breakfast.
Bacon. Eggs. Toast.
At first, I thought it was odd that she was fixing three plates but just assumed that my Uncle was coming by, as he did sometimes.
I didn’t think anything about it until she turned to me and said, “I’ve tried to figure it out all week, but I can’t tell. Do you think Bull likes strawberry jam or grape jelly better on his toast? I’ve just been fixing one of each so he can try them both.”
Still being on my first cup of coffee, it didn’t immediately sink in that she meant the dog, not my uncle.
I looked at her dumbly as she repeated the question, and I realized that I had two choices.
I could point out that he was just a dog and probably had no preference and that it was silly to even ask such a question.
Or I could offer an opinion.
Given the obvious pleasure she was getting from preparing a meal for someone besides herself, I chose the latter.
“I’m not sure Grandma. We just swap back and forth at home.”
“OK, then I’ll just keep making him one of each,” she said as she put the dish on the floor. “It’s been so nice to have someone in the house to cook for this week.”
It was then I realized that the dog, a little poodle mix, had gained weight not because she’d given him more than his allotted amount of kibble. Indeed, the bag was virtually untouched.
She’d fed him exactly what she’d eaten all week, thrilled to have both his company and his appreciation for her cooking.
When we got back to my house and I poured his regular dog food into his bowl the next day he looked up somewhat expectantly. Had Bull had the gift of speech he would have said, “There must be some mistake. My Grandma doesn’t treat me like this. She gives me anything I want and loves me more than life itself. I want to go back to live at Grandma’s house.”
At the time I thought it was kind of funny, a doting old lady treating the dog as if he were one of her grandchildren.
And yet, this morning I found myself cooling off Yoko’s eggs so he doesn’t burn his nose on them while I spread a bit of jelly on his breakfast toast as he looked on expectantly.
I think he prefers raspberry jam, but I’m not sure.
The End of Christmas, 2010
Christmas finally ended for us on January 7.
No, we’re not Greek Orthodox or anything, but that was the day that we were able to meet with the family in Forest City, having gotten snowed out on Christmas day.
It was somewhat bittersweet, because it was the first Christmas without an entire generation there. Maw-maw Belle and her sisters Louise and Georgie had all passed away during the last year. (Well, Belle beat Christmas last year by just a few days, but that hardly counts since we were still too numb to notice).
It was still a great celebration. There’s a new baby to pass around, and that improves any gathering in my opinion. There was lots of food and a special gift or two.
Sis had put together her genealogy work in a notebook and gave out copies, and Belle’s youngest daughter had copied some of her favorite recipes down in books for everyone. While playing “Sneaky Santa” was fun – we’ve dialed back the commercialism significantly – those are the presents that will mean the most in the long run.
At the end of the evening, those of us from Hickory bundled back in our cars and the locals went off to their homes.
We had reconnected, even if it was just for a few hours, and had heard family stories retold, laughed at foibles, pushed each other’s buttons enough to make sure that they were still there but not enough to make anyone mad, and generally had a good time.
That’s what holidays are for. Not the presents or the food (although those things are nice), but because they give you a reason not to lose touch with those you love.
No, we’re not Greek Orthodox or anything, but that was the day that we were able to meet with the family in Forest City, having gotten snowed out on Christmas day.
It was somewhat bittersweet, because it was the first Christmas without an entire generation there. Maw-maw Belle and her sisters Louise and Georgie had all passed away during the last year. (Well, Belle beat Christmas last year by just a few days, but that hardly counts since we were still too numb to notice).
It was still a great celebration. There’s a new baby to pass around, and that improves any gathering in my opinion. There was lots of food and a special gift or two.
Sis had put together her genealogy work in a notebook and gave out copies, and Belle’s youngest daughter had copied some of her favorite recipes down in books for everyone. While playing “Sneaky Santa” was fun – we’ve dialed back the commercialism significantly – those are the presents that will mean the most in the long run.
At the end of the evening, those of us from Hickory bundled back in our cars and the locals went off to their homes.
We had reconnected, even if it was just for a few hours, and had heard family stories retold, laughed at foibles, pushed each other’s buttons enough to make sure that they were still there but not enough to make anyone mad, and generally had a good time.
That’s what holidays are for. Not the presents or the food (although those things are nice), but because they give you a reason not to lose touch with those you love.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
A New Years Party
One of the hard parts of travelling is that you have to return to the real world eventually, and that sometimes interferes with finishing out your entries about your trip. That’s kinda sad, sometimes, because some of the best things often happen unexpectedly on the last day of an adventure.
So it was with our trip to New York. We were invited to a tradition that our friend Beth’s mom had done for years and which Beth and her significant other Steve decided to renew – the New Year’s Day Party.
As might be imagined, these are not usually a brunch. In this case, we were to travel to Brooklyn on the subway and arrive sometime after 3:00 in the afternoon.
Given that in years past we were barely able to pull it together by mid-afternoon on January 1, this worked out fairly well.
It’s not that we overindulged the night before. It’s a lot more fun to watch the partiers making fools of themselves than being one of them, and ralphing into the shrubbery curbside is a whole lot less fun at 50ish than it was at 20ish (although I can’t imagine it would be a lot of fun then, either. Plus, recovery takes longer when you’ve grown up).
There was almost a crisis that would have cancelled the party. Beth and Steve live in a beautiful early-1900 apartment building that is right across the street from the Brooklyn Museum of Art, which is an incredible building in itself. I’d always heard about it but haven’t ever gone there – it’s on the list for the next trip.
The problem, as anyone who lives in an historic building knows, is that things break.
In this case, it was the only elevator in their six story building.
Did I mention that they were on the 6th floor?
Aside from the caterer having to tote all the goodies up all those stairs, that’s tough on the guests, too. They toyed with cancelling the party because of it, and then “The Miracle of New Year’s Eve” happened – the elevator was fixed the day before. The party would go on.
Except that after we made the trip out, there was a sign on the door – resuscitation was only temporary, and the elevator was once again out of service. While climbing the stairs, though, we got to see how truly beautiful the building was.
When you're standing and gasping for air, you notice the little touches that might have otherwise been overlooked. Or it might have been a hallucination caused by a lack of oxygen, I'm not sure. Either way, it was pretty.
Tile floors. Ornate touches everywhere. Those buildings have character that simply doesn’t exist in new architecture.
The party was great. We got to meet lots of their extended family and friends, chatted about the events of the world and learned that in many ways people are a lot alike no matter where they live. People in the same age groups have the same complaints and joys. We mixed, we mingled, we drank INCREDIBLE eggnog that Steve had made and we ate ourselves silly.
Then a miracle happened again. Just when we were girding our loins to waddle back down the stairs, someone announced that the elevator was working again.
It was a great party and a great end to our trip. We made it back in time to finish packing before going to bed in anticipation of our 6:00 a.m. pickup to go to the airport.
January 2 ended the trip. We were back in Hickory by noon doing the laundry and preparing to head back to work the next day. Although January 3 was technically a holiday, you can’t be gone that long without some repercussions.
Email would be answered. Phone calls returned. Paper addressed, and once again all would be right with the world.
So it was with our trip to New York. We were invited to a tradition that our friend Beth’s mom had done for years and which Beth and her significant other Steve decided to renew – the New Year’s Day Party.
As might be imagined, these are not usually a brunch. In this case, we were to travel to Brooklyn on the subway and arrive sometime after 3:00 in the afternoon.
Given that in years past we were barely able to pull it together by mid-afternoon on January 1, this worked out fairly well.
It’s not that we overindulged the night before. It’s a lot more fun to watch the partiers making fools of themselves than being one of them, and ralphing into the shrubbery curbside is a whole lot less fun at 50ish than it was at 20ish (although I can’t imagine it would be a lot of fun then, either. Plus, recovery takes longer when you’ve grown up).
There was almost a crisis that would have cancelled the party. Beth and Steve live in a beautiful early-1900 apartment building that is right across the street from the Brooklyn Museum of Art, which is an incredible building in itself. I’d always heard about it but haven’t ever gone there – it’s on the list for the next trip.
The problem, as anyone who lives in an historic building knows, is that things break.
In this case, it was the only elevator in their six story building.
Did I mention that they were on the 6th floor?
Aside from the caterer having to tote all the goodies up all those stairs, that’s tough on the guests, too. They toyed with cancelling the party because of it, and then “The Miracle of New Year’s Eve” happened – the elevator was fixed the day before. The party would go on.
Except that after we made the trip out, there was a sign on the door – resuscitation was only temporary, and the elevator was once again out of service. While climbing the stairs, though, we got to see how truly beautiful the building was.
When you're standing and gasping for air, you notice the little touches that might have otherwise been overlooked. Or it might have been a hallucination caused by a lack of oxygen, I'm not sure. Either way, it was pretty.
Tile floors. Ornate touches everywhere. Those buildings have character that simply doesn’t exist in new architecture.
The party was great. We got to meet lots of their extended family and friends, chatted about the events of the world and learned that in many ways people are a lot alike no matter where they live. People in the same age groups have the same complaints and joys. We mixed, we mingled, we drank INCREDIBLE eggnog that Steve had made and we ate ourselves silly.
Then a miracle happened again. Just when we were girding our loins to waddle back down the stairs, someone announced that the elevator was working again.
It was a great party and a great end to our trip. We made it back in time to finish packing before going to bed in anticipation of our 6:00 a.m. pickup to go to the airport.
January 2 ended the trip. We were back in Hickory by noon doing the laundry and preparing to head back to work the next day. Although January 3 was technically a holiday, you can’t be gone that long without some repercussions.
Email would be answered. Phone calls returned. Paper addressed, and once again all would be right with the world.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Early Observations of the New Year
Walking back to the apartment in New York City early (around 3 am) on January 1 is a true epiphany in many ways. If you’ve not indulged to the point that you can’t appreciate the whirl of humanity around you (and we hadn’t), you can see things that are probably universal but are concentrated with so many people in such close proximity.
The first thing you notice (after being grateful that it is almost balmy outside, especially compared to other holidays here) is that the cabs aren’t stopping. Once they have a fare, they are RACING down the street and, since pedestrians still have to navigate some significant snow and trash mounds curbside, if you’re not careful they’ll throw water / slush up on you.
In more than one case, it seemed somewhat intentional, but we quickly learned to step back a bit while waiting to cross the street.
We knew from prior experience that there was little to no chance of catching a cab back to our place. This was fine, because the place we’re staying this year was actually closer to where we ended up than before. We only had to go up 10th from about 22nd to 43rd, a mere 21 blocks.
That’s a significant walk, although I’m not sure how far it really is. If you’re just strolling along and enjoying the sites and not freezing off parts of your anatomy, it’s enjoyable enough.
As might be imagined, there were a number of people out who had obviously over-indulged. Significantly. There were lots of ambulances going down the street with people being loaded into them, although it wasn’t clear exactly why.
One well dressed young man, probably in his early 30’s, was heroically acting as a buttress to a fence that he apparently thought was in danger of falling. His eyes didn’t seem to focus very well and he was engaged in conversation with an older black man who was saying, “Bud, you need to sit down before you fall down. That’s what I always do. You don’t hurt yourself that way.”
I suspect that the young guy’s expensive wool coat and dress slacks hadn’t ever sat in a puddle on the sidewalk before, but they probably did that night.
Walking on, a young, stylishly dressed couple who couldn’t have had a combined waist size of more than 30 inches merged into the sidewalk engaged in a substantial disagreement. He was giving her what-for, and she had that hunched shouldered, “just hunker down and survive” look about her. They weren’t actively engaged in violence, though, so there didn’t seem to be any reason to get involved. He acted like he was going to walk off and leave her, but she kept following him.
One has to suspect that they may not be celebrating next New Year’s Eve, 2012 together.
Drunk people wander around the sidewalks the same way they float all over the lanes when driving. What’s interesting is that many of these people are obviously lightweights, although they ought to be old enough to know their limits.
One woman, dressed in a houndstooth pencil skirt, black wool jacket and a cashmere sweater was taking up all the lanes of the sidewalk. She was about 50 feet in front of us, and we thought she was going to go to the mat a couple of times. Finally, we gained on her a little and realized why she was having so much trouble walking.
She’d lost the high heel off of one of her shoes.
Like a Mack Truck with a flat amongst the 18 wheels, she didn’t realize the problem for a while. Eventually, when we thought she was going to do a face-plant for sure, she seemed to recognize the issue, took her shoes off (!!) and walked on down the street.
Although the sidewalks are pretty dry at this point, there are still some big puddles out there. Frostbite would be a very real possibility were it not for her forethought to take on sufficient antifreeze to avoid this problem.
Soon we were home, tired but having enjoyed our annual late-night extravaganza. Morning didn’t come quite as early the next day – we slept until after 7:30, then dozed for a while longer while wandering back and forth to the coffee pot.
It’s going to be a good year.
The first thing you notice (after being grateful that it is almost balmy outside, especially compared to other holidays here) is that the cabs aren’t stopping. Once they have a fare, they are RACING down the street and, since pedestrians still have to navigate some significant snow and trash mounds curbside, if you’re not careful they’ll throw water / slush up on you.
In more than one case, it seemed somewhat intentional, but we quickly learned to step back a bit while waiting to cross the street.
That’s a significant walk, although I’m not sure how far it really is. If you’re just strolling along and enjoying the sites and not freezing off parts of your anatomy, it’s enjoyable enough.
As might be imagined, there were a number of people out who had obviously over-indulged. Significantly. There were lots of ambulances going down the street with people being loaded into them, although it wasn’t clear exactly why.
One well dressed young man, probably in his early 30’s, was heroically acting as a buttress to a fence that he apparently thought was in danger of falling. His eyes didn’t seem to focus very well and he was engaged in conversation with an older black man who was saying, “Bud, you need to sit down before you fall down. That’s what I always do. You don’t hurt yourself that way.”
I suspect that the young guy’s expensive wool coat and dress slacks hadn’t ever sat in a puddle on the sidewalk before, but they probably did that night.
Walking on, a young, stylishly dressed couple who couldn’t have had a combined waist size of more than 30 inches merged into the sidewalk engaged in a substantial disagreement. He was giving her what-for, and she had that hunched shouldered, “just hunker down and survive” look about her. They weren’t actively engaged in violence, though, so there didn’t seem to be any reason to get involved. He acted like he was going to walk off and leave her, but she kept following him.
One has to suspect that they may not be celebrating next New Year’s Eve, 2012 together.
Drunk people wander around the sidewalks the same way they float all over the lanes when driving. What’s interesting is that many of these people are obviously lightweights, although they ought to be old enough to know their limits.
One woman, dressed in a houndstooth pencil skirt, black wool jacket and a cashmere sweater was taking up all the lanes of the sidewalk. She was about 50 feet in front of us, and we thought she was going to go to the mat a couple of times. Finally, we gained on her a little and realized why she was having so much trouble walking.
She’d lost the high heel off of one of her shoes.
Like a Mack Truck with a flat amongst the 18 wheels, she didn’t realize the problem for a while. Eventually, when we thought she was going to do a face-plant for sure, she seemed to recognize the issue, took her shoes off (!!) and walked on down the street.Although the sidewalks are pretty dry at this point, there are still some big puddles out there. Frostbite would be a very real possibility were it not for her forethought to take on sufficient antifreeze to avoid this problem.
Soon we were home, tired but having enjoyed our annual late-night extravaganza. Morning didn’t come quite as early the next day – we slept until after 7:30, then dozed for a while longer while wandering back and forth to the coffee pot.
It’s going to be a good year.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
More to come
I took down some of the postings so I can add photos when we are home tomorrow......I know you won't go back once you've read a post.
Happy New Year - 2011
It’s New Year’s morning (and the 48th birthday of the person who happens to live at the same house that I do – HAPPY BIRTHDAY) and we both are fairly alert, despite having stayed out to a time that we sometimes see as our “getting up” time.
The thing about celebrating the New Year the right way is that you have to pace yourself. People who are out at 6:00 in the evening, quite obviously having already had supper and started drinking are never going to make it for the duration.
We met Richard about 4:30 in the evening and went for hot chocolate in Chelsea Market.
Chelsea Market is in the old Nabisco Baking Company factory. It’s where Food TV is created (although you can’t see that part), and has all kinds of food-ish stores on the first level.
Including an amazing chocolate place that makes the best hot chocolate you’ve ever had in your life.
It ought to be, when you see that little Dixie Cup like comes out of a bathroom dispenser and realize you just paid over $2.00 for that.
It’s worth every penny. It’s so rich you couldn’t drink any more than that, even if you wanted to. It’s also so hot when you get it that you can blister your hands through the cup if you’re not careful. Never mind what it does to the roof of your mouth.
The problem was that by the time we got there it was just at 5:30 and they were closing. We got through the door just in time for the clerks in the store to pop their bottle of celebratory champagne, but when they had no interest in revving up the hot chocolate machine again.
Starbucks saved the day. We were just killing time anyhow, so it didn’t really matter. After we’d drunk our coffee we went back to Richard’s apartment to watch television for a while since our dinner reservation wasn’t until 8:30.
A little nap on the floor wouldn’t hurt, since experience told us it was going to be a long night.
We met friends for dinner and went to the Viceroy, which is a step above a diner, but not a big step.
Most restaurants in big cities do a prix fix set menu for New Year’s Eve. It’s about the only way they can keep up with the demand and still let their own staff close up and go home. Our dinner included soup or a salad, an entrée, desert and a glass of champagne.
After dinner, we went back to another in our group’s apartment to watch television for a while – it was still only 10:30, so we watched Bette Midler’s special then watched the ball drop in Times Square.
Yup – we weren’t there. We were watching it on television like the rest of the world.
Why, you might ask? Other than standing in a big honkin’ crowd of strangers, there’s not a reason in the world I can see to be there. Once you’re in, you can’t leave. If you want a spot you have to get there about 4 in the afternoon.
You can’t take a backpack, so that means no food. No alcohol is allowed (a sensible precaution in my opinion), but most importantly, NO BATHROOMS.
This is a celebration? Standing in the same place without eating or drinking or going to the bathroom for 7+ hours?
This is more like Disney World on the 4th of July. No thanks.
Watch it from the comfort of someone’s living room, then go out and watch the other people. That’s the entertaining part of the evening.
After dinner we went to a couple of clubs, had one more drink and dragged in far beyond our bedtime but not so late (or having indulged so much) that we’d feel miserable in the morning.
On the way home, a VERY drunk young Irish kid stumbled out of a bar and decided that he’d join our threesome as we walked along. It was kind of funny, because he decided we were having a good time and he wanted to join us.
We let him walk along behind us for a bit, then kind of headed off in our own direction and discouraged him following. Drunks can be like stray puppies. If you let ‘em follow you and you feed ‘em, they hang around and won’t go away. It’s better to swat them on the nose with a rolled up newspaper so they’ll go away.
The thing about celebrating the New Year the right way is that you have to pace yourself. People who are out at 6:00 in the evening, quite obviously having already had supper and started drinking are never going to make it for the duration.
We met Richard about 4:30 in the evening and went for hot chocolate in Chelsea Market.
Chelsea Market is in the old Nabisco Baking Company factory. It’s where Food TV is created (although you can’t see that part), and has all kinds of food-ish stores on the first level.
Including an amazing chocolate place that makes the best hot chocolate you’ve ever had in your life.
It ought to be, when you see that little Dixie Cup like comes out of a bathroom dispenser and realize you just paid over $2.00 for that.
It’s worth every penny. It’s so rich you couldn’t drink any more than that, even if you wanted to. It’s also so hot when you get it that you can blister your hands through the cup if you’re not careful. Never mind what it does to the roof of your mouth.
The problem was that by the time we got there it was just at 5:30 and they were closing. We got through the door just in time for the clerks in the store to pop their bottle of celebratory champagne, but when they had no interest in revving up the hot chocolate machine again.
Starbucks saved the day. We were just killing time anyhow, so it didn’t really matter. After we’d drunk our coffee we went back to Richard’s apartment to watch television for a while since our dinner reservation wasn’t until 8:30.
A little nap on the floor wouldn’t hurt, since experience told us it was going to be a long night.
We met friends for dinner and went to the Viceroy, which is a step above a diner, but not a big step.Most restaurants in big cities do a prix fix set menu for New Year’s Eve. It’s about the only way they can keep up with the demand and still let their own staff close up and go home. Our dinner included soup or a salad, an entrée, desert and a glass of champagne.
After dinner, we went back to another in our group’s apartment to watch television for a while – it was still only 10:30, so we watched Bette Midler’s special then watched the ball drop in Times Square.
Yup – we weren’t there. We were watching it on television like the rest of the world.
Why, you might ask? Other than standing in a big honkin’ crowd of strangers, there’s not a reason in the world I can see to be there. Once you’re in, you can’t leave. If you want a spot you have to get there about 4 in the afternoon.
You can’t take a backpack, so that means no food. No alcohol is allowed (a sensible precaution in my opinion), but most importantly, NO BATHROOMS.
This is a celebration? Standing in the same place without eating or drinking or going to the bathroom for 7+ hours?
This is more like Disney World on the 4th of July. No thanks.
Watch it from the comfort of someone’s living room, then go out and watch the other people. That’s the entertaining part of the evening.
After dinner we went to a couple of clubs, had one more drink and dragged in far beyond our bedtime but not so late (or having indulged so much) that we’d feel miserable in the morning.
On the way home, a VERY drunk young Irish kid stumbled out of a bar and decided that he’d join our threesome as we walked along. It was kind of funny, because he decided we were having a good time and he wanted to join us.
We let him walk along behind us for a bit, then kind of headed off in our own direction and discouraged him following. Drunks can be like stray puppies. If you let ‘em follow you and you feed ‘em, they hang around and won’t go away. It’s better to swat them on the nose with a rolled up newspaper so they’ll go away.
Disposable Goods
I’ve learned the other downside of the snow.
It’s frustrating to those of us who are “pickers”, because initially it provides a clean palate for things that are discarded. Right out there in front of God and everybody.
You can’t help but be amazed at the mere quantity of trash that is placed curbside in New York City. When trash and recycling services were suspended during the blizzard, that didn’t mean that people weren’t throwing stuff out. It just meant that the stuff that was discarded was on top of the snow and sat there, contributing to the mountain at the curb.
As an inveterate dumpster diver, I find it amazing what New Yorkers throw away anyhow. Plastic bags are of no interest – they’re almost always trash, but the big pieces – that’s pretty tittilating.
Leather chairs. An entire sofa – I thought “One of those cushions would make a great bed for Yoko,” Never mind that he doesn’t need another bed, and I couldn’t possibly get that into carryon, even if it weren’t likely infested with bedbugs.
Computers, television sets, dressers, mirrors -- you could set up house with a single pass through the streets before the garbage men come by.
What possesses someone to simply pitch a sofa and matching chair curbside? I guess it’s because without a truck it takes too much energy to try and haul it to Goodwill (assuming they collect things like that here, anyhow).
Thinking back, there are times we’ve put things curbside because we know that someone will stop and load it up and haul it off, presumably putting it to good use. The difference is that in NYC, there’s no convenient way to stop and do that – especially with all the other drivers on their horns while you’re trying to load a couch into the back seat of a Subaru.
I have to keep telling myself, “You couldn’t possibly need that, you couldn’t carry it and besides, it’s just disgusting,” while at the same time the other voice on my head is saying, “That’s so cool! I could make (something that will never happen) out of it.” “Why would anyone throw that away, it’s a perfectly good ______”.
With the snow, the stuff is just more obvious and difficult to overlook. While walking down the street yesterday, I came across a box of music CD’s.
Not an assortment, the same CD – probably 40 of them in a box. That can’t say much for the quality of the content, though.
I didn’t. Not even a single copy.
I’m not a music fan, despite the fact that CD's very portable and will, in fact, fit in the luggage.
The reality is, I have more unfinished projects at home already than I could deal with in 5 lifetimes. If I were here, I might well end up with one of those apartments like you see on “Hoarders”, with just a trail through the piles of “good stuff” that I’ve saved.
Weight limits on the luggage with US Airways will likely save me from that fate, at least as long as we don't move here.
Besides, some things truly aren't worth saving and simply need to be thrown away.
It’s frustrating to those of us who are “pickers”, because initially it provides a clean palate for things that are discarded. Right out there in front of God and everybody.
You can’t help but be amazed at the mere quantity of trash that is placed curbside in New York City. When trash and recycling services were suspended during the blizzard, that didn’t mean that people weren’t throwing stuff out. It just meant that the stuff that was discarded was on top of the snow and sat there, contributing to the mountain at the curb.
As an inveterate dumpster diver, I find it amazing what New Yorkers throw away anyhow. Plastic bags are of no interest – they’re almost always trash, but the big pieces – that’s pretty tittilating.
Leather chairs. An entire sofa – I thought “One of those cushions would make a great bed for Yoko,” Never mind that he doesn’t need another bed, and I couldn’t possibly get that into carryon, even if it weren’t likely infested with bedbugs.
Computers, television sets, dressers, mirrors -- you could set up house with a single pass through the streets before the garbage men come by.
What possesses someone to simply pitch a sofa and matching chair curbside? I guess it’s because without a truck it takes too much energy to try and haul it to Goodwill (assuming they collect things like that here, anyhow).
Thinking back, there are times we’ve put things curbside because we know that someone will stop and load it up and haul it off, presumably putting it to good use. The difference is that in NYC, there’s no convenient way to stop and do that – especially with all the other drivers on their horns while you’re trying to load a couch into the back seat of a Subaru.I have to keep telling myself, “You couldn’t possibly need that, you couldn’t carry it and besides, it’s just disgusting,” while at the same time the other voice on my head is saying, “That’s so cool! I could make (something that will never happen) out of it.” “Why would anyone throw that away, it’s a perfectly good ______”.
With the snow, the stuff is just more obvious and difficult to overlook. While walking down the street yesterday, I came across a box of music CD’s.
Not an assortment, the same CD – probably 40 of them in a box. That can’t say much for the quality of the content, though.
I didn’t. Not even a single copy.
I’m not a music fan, despite the fact that CD's very portable and will, in fact, fit in the luggage.
The reality is, I have more unfinished projects at home already than I could deal with in 5 lifetimes. If I were here, I might well end up with one of those apartments like you see on “Hoarders”, with just a trail through the piles of “good stuff” that I’ve saved.
Weight limits on the luggage with US Airways will likely save me from that fate, at least as long as we don't move here.
Besides, some things truly aren't worth saving and simply need to be thrown away.
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