Just had some weird facebook encounters that got me thinking about this whole technological era thing.
I've always been hesitant to join up with online profile sites. I was slow to use facebook and myspace both, and now that I have them I rarely check or use them. I'm not looking for a boyfriend, I have lots of friends and much prefer meeting new ones out and about, and I'm very happily busy with my current, real life. I don't want to hang out with my friends online or on facebook; I want to hang out with them for real instead. And though it's quite nice to see pictures of my old friends and read their updates, it feels weird to check them every single day. But the majority of users probably check their sites multiple times a day. To me, why not go live my life with my friends that are physically here?
It's not that I'm anti- keeping in touch. I love emailing my friends and reading about their latest stories, and I speak frequently on the phone with a handful of college friends who have scattered broadly since graduation. But I feel that websites like facebook and myspace keep us too connected. It creates this false sense in us that we're better people if we spend more time on our computers keeping connected with long lost friends. But maybe we're not supposed to be doing that. Maybe these long lost friends are holding us too much in the past, or that these websites are keeping us too much in online world. Sure, these friends are wonderful, but isn't there such a thing as being too in touch? Does it really make us better and happier to spend so much time staring at a screen?
So don't get a facebook profile, I'm sure is what you're thinking. The reason I hold onto it is because I do enjoy getting updates and photos, and it's quicker and easier than email. And it's fun! I like sending little messages every now and then to my friends. But whenever I go on it, I just feel so overwhelmed. There are so many pictures and names and questions and notifications and requests from all throughout my life, and I feel guilty that I'm not keeping up with all of it. And interjection -- zombie wars? What? There are all of these crazy ways, like zombie wars, or sending virtual hugs and pokes, that keep us sucked in. We live our lives and celebrate our friendships and enjoy our hugs via the internet.
Isn't that weird to anyone else? It just seems so natural to most people, that of course we check our email from our phones, text message our friends while we're eating dinner with other friends, then go home and post photos and write to our re-newfound BFFs from Kindergarten.
I don't know, I guess I'm being harsh. On my generation and on myself as well. I mean, I'm the text message queen. And like I said, I have myspace and facebook profiles that I check definitely three times a week. Hell, I write in this blog every few days! It just feels like I spend so much time on the computer already, but in comparison to most others my age (and almost all others younger than me), my computer time is very minimal.
But no matter how weird or sheepish I may feel about this burst of technology, it's only bursting further. Angela is DYING for a facebook profile. She sends instant messages from her phone and knows more about the internet than I ever will. Marie grew up playing computer games and has friends who create webpages. Part of TechEd now is to learn how to make flash animations! In the field of technology, I am old. And my attitude is even older; I'm in a minority, I think. And this is the direction our society is headed in, no matter who's protesting or supporting. And there are many good things we can gain from technology. Our knowledge is increasing in amazingly rapid ways, and we're learning how to make life better.
But on the other hand...we're also learning how to make life worse. With every good thing there's a bad side (balance, there must be balance) and I just worry about the children who are growing up in the bad side of technology. And honestly, I feel most of them are. So many kids would rather be inside gaming than playing outside and experiencing nature, or even than playing with their friends. In 20 years, we're going to have a society of technologically savvy adults who can program any shit they think of, but don't know how to communicate face-to-face and have no idea how to cuddle their babies. I'm worried. Our society is evolving at such a rapid pace that I wonder if our minds can keep up. One day, this gap is going to be so intense that we fall apart. What will the world be like then?
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Car Grease and Perfume, Hairy Dolls and Printer Paper
Today was quite a day at work.
First off, Marie was in an amazing mood and we had our most fun day yet, goofing off on the walk home and making silly jokes. We had to stop by the parking garage in order to pick up something and the workers were supposed to bring the car up from the deep down below where it's parked. However, it wasn't on the upper level but they told us we just needed to go down a little and it was right there. Marie was like, "I'll just go down and get it, real fast," and since I've never been there, I asked, "Wait, are you sure you can go alone? Where is it?" Both she and the worker replied that it was right below and was totally okay, and since I was holding my stuff and Marie's amazingly heavy books (I refuse to carry her backpack for her, but sometimes I carry a few of the books because it really is too heavy...even a few books made my arms hurt!), I figured it was fine.
Well, ten minutes later, Marie finally appears with car grease stains all over her school uniform. Apparently she went down many levels and had to squeeze between three cars to even get to hers. When we got home, she called her mom, who was very upset with the garage men and wanted to speak to me about the situation. When she found out I let Marie go alone, she got a little angry and said, "That is not a safe place for children to go alone! They have to climb over lifts and everything!" (Which wasn't true, but I totally see her point.) I explained the situation, that I was given the impression by both Marie and the worker that it was safe and quick, and apologized for my role in all of it. She was very nice, telling me it wasn't my fault, and that she was going to "call the garage and give them a piece of my mind." And, "Could you please put stain remover on those clothes? I have no idea how we're going to get it out and her new uniforms aren't coming for another week!"
The next hour was me scrubbing grease stains out of a skirt, while Marie, thankfully, zipped through her homework. But when she was taking a break and I was still scrubbing, she got an idea in her head that their adorable dog needed to smell better, and that her mom's perfume was just the remedy. All the way from the laundry room across the house I could smell the overwhelming odor of fake flowers, so I knew something was up and walked to the living room. I was struck with an immediate headache from the amount of perfume she had sprayed, and while she was explaining just why this had happened, the dog started licking herself! Marie flipped out, worried that her dog would get sick from ingesting perfume, and scrubbed her fur with a wet washcloth. But even later that night when I took the pup out for a walk, she still smelled like gross fake flowers.
Despite these stressors, Marie was in awesome spirits and we honestly had a really good time together. Once she finished up the work, we went to this really fun store and picked out a present for her friend's upcoming bday party. I was looking through these funny dolls called "Ugly Dolls," and came across an octopus with little threads on his head and chin. I picked it off the rack when Marie came over, so I told her I was thinking about giving it to my boyfriend. She started squealing, "Because he's so hairy!" So I got it, and then when I called him later to arrange plans for meeting up that night (he came to visit me!!!!), she took the phone and rambled to him about how I got him an ugly doll because I thought he was ugly and the doll had hair because he has too much hair and hee hee hee hee hee! Dave's a good man.
Anyway, Angela came home later after sports practice practice and we all ate soup and sandwiches (I am now a PRO at making grilled cheese sandwiches). Marie has introduced me to popcorn with salsa, which is actually very yummy, so we had a bit of that, too. Then Linda came home and didn't bring up the grease, so I was in the clear.
But in the clear for only a minute. After putting Marie to bed, she asked me, "Did you remember to pick up the printer paper? I have to do some more work from my home office tonight."
SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT! She asked me to get paper four days ago (I run errands and do the shopping for the family) and I totally forgot. So, I spent the next 25 minutes running around the Upper East Side with my boyfriend who had come to greet me after work, having no idea he walked into a crisis and would be racing all around with his girlfriend who was freaking out. We went to five stores, three which were closed and two that didn't have it. I kept exclaiming that I was too spacey, and why did this have to happen the same day as the grease?
When I got back to the house and explained my empty hands, Linda was a little annoyed but really sweet about it and appreciative I had put in effort, even if it was a little late. I scavenged the house and came up with enough paper for her to complete the work left for the night, and promised an armload for the next day. But you know what? She smiled, cracked a joke about it, and told me not to worry. Turns out, my Upper East Side employer is more chilled out than me!
And it also turns out that my boyfriend didn't care, either. He made fun of me as we walked through Central Park, pointing out the tops of beautiful buildings we could see above the trees. A raccoon ran down a tree trunk beside us, the autumn leaves trickled onto our heads, the full moon shone brightly on the path in front of us, and I started giggling, just from happiness.
Oh New York, New York.
First off, Marie was in an amazing mood and we had our most fun day yet, goofing off on the walk home and making silly jokes. We had to stop by the parking garage in order to pick up something and the workers were supposed to bring the car up from the deep down below where it's parked. However, it wasn't on the upper level but they told us we just needed to go down a little and it was right there. Marie was like, "I'll just go down and get it, real fast," and since I've never been there, I asked, "Wait, are you sure you can go alone? Where is it?" Both she and the worker replied that it was right below and was totally okay, and since I was holding my stuff and Marie's amazingly heavy books (I refuse to carry her backpack for her, but sometimes I carry a few of the books because it really is too heavy...even a few books made my arms hurt!), I figured it was fine.
Well, ten minutes later, Marie finally appears with car grease stains all over her school uniform. Apparently she went down many levels and had to squeeze between three cars to even get to hers. When we got home, she called her mom, who was very upset with the garage men and wanted to speak to me about the situation. When she found out I let Marie go alone, she got a little angry and said, "That is not a safe place for children to go alone! They have to climb over lifts and everything!" (Which wasn't true, but I totally see her point.) I explained the situation, that I was given the impression by both Marie and the worker that it was safe and quick, and apologized for my role in all of it. She was very nice, telling me it wasn't my fault, and that she was going to "call the garage and give them a piece of my mind." And, "Could you please put stain remover on those clothes? I have no idea how we're going to get it out and her new uniforms aren't coming for another week!"
The next hour was me scrubbing grease stains out of a skirt, while Marie, thankfully, zipped through her homework. But when she was taking a break and I was still scrubbing, she got an idea in her head that their adorable dog needed to smell better, and that her mom's perfume was just the remedy. All the way from the laundry room across the house I could smell the overwhelming odor of fake flowers, so I knew something was up and walked to the living room. I was struck with an immediate headache from the amount of perfume she had sprayed, and while she was explaining just why this had happened, the dog started licking herself! Marie flipped out, worried that her dog would get sick from ingesting perfume, and scrubbed her fur with a wet washcloth. But even later that night when I took the pup out for a walk, she still smelled like gross fake flowers.
Despite these stressors, Marie was in awesome spirits and we honestly had a really good time together. Once she finished up the work, we went to this really fun store and picked out a present for her friend's upcoming bday party. I was looking through these funny dolls called "Ugly Dolls," and came across an octopus with little threads on his head and chin. I picked it off the rack when Marie came over, so I told her I was thinking about giving it to my boyfriend. She started squealing, "Because he's so hairy!" So I got it, and then when I called him later to arrange plans for meeting up that night (he came to visit me!!!!), she took the phone and rambled to him about how I got him an ugly doll because I thought he was ugly and the doll had hair because he has too much hair and hee hee hee hee hee! Dave's a good man.
Anyway, Angela came home later after sports practice practice and we all ate soup and sandwiches (I am now a PRO at making grilled cheese sandwiches). Marie has introduced me to popcorn with salsa, which is actually very yummy, so we had a bit of that, too. Then Linda came home and didn't bring up the grease, so I was in the clear.
But in the clear for only a minute. After putting Marie to bed, she asked me, "Did you remember to pick up the printer paper? I have to do some more work from my home office tonight."
SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT! She asked me to get paper four days ago (I run errands and do the shopping for the family) and I totally forgot. So, I spent the next 25 minutes running around the Upper East Side with my boyfriend who had come to greet me after work, having no idea he walked into a crisis and would be racing all around with his girlfriend who was freaking out. We went to five stores, three which were closed and two that didn't have it. I kept exclaiming that I was too spacey, and why did this have to happen the same day as the grease?
When I got back to the house and explained my empty hands, Linda was a little annoyed but really sweet about it and appreciative I had put in effort, even if it was a little late. I scavenged the house and came up with enough paper for her to complete the work left for the night, and promised an armload for the next day. But you know what? She smiled, cracked a joke about it, and told me not to worry. Turns out, my Upper East Side employer is more chilled out than me!
And it also turns out that my boyfriend didn't care, either. He made fun of me as we walked through Central Park, pointing out the tops of beautiful buildings we could see above the trees. A raccoon ran down a tree trunk beside us, the autumn leaves trickled onto our heads, the full moon shone brightly on the path in front of us, and I started giggling, just from happiness.
Oh New York, New York.
Monday, September 24, 2007
The Job
I figured more news about the job is long overdue, so here it comes.
Marie, the youngest, and I are both trying hard to figure each other out, and so far have established that we definitely like each other but sometimes have trouble communicating. Meaning, a lot of times she argues and refuses to do her homework and I have to be jerk-nanny. I've tried various techniques with her but have yet to find the perfect one. However, the more she gets to know me, the more comfortable she feels, the more she listens, and the more fun we have together.
The oldest girl, who I'll call Angela, is quite the opposite; very laid-back, a little shy and quiet at first. But she's so much fun! She randomly busts out in song, or shares totally out there ideas the very moment they pop into her head. Example... "I just thought of a good line. But it would have to be about a blind woman. Here it is, 'She lost her sight, but she still has vision.' Like, you could put that in the thingie that you write when a person dies. That would be a good thing to say about someone. Or, you could make it a song lyric."
Though Angela definitely gets annoyed, mostly she thinks her sister's dramatics are funny. The two of them sometimes remind me of one intenso young lady (me) and her laid-back older brother who laughed at her. Overall, they enjoy each other's company and very much like one another, but would never be caught saying that in public.
Interesting story from so far:
Marie left a book at school that she needed for homework, but the assignment wasn't due for two more days so I told her we'd just get the book the next day. She was upset about a lot of other things going on and took it out through an explosion of tears about how she HAD to go back and get this book and I was being SO unfair and mean and she was going to have A TON of homework the next day and to think of having to put this off until then, how could I do that to her? Talking about it now makes me laugh, but she has this way of saying things that grinds on me in the moment; I'm learning how to be more patient!
So anyway, she rolled her eyes at me and kept insulting me util I turned my meanie voice on. I told her she could be mad all she wanted but she could not disrespect me, and it honestly stopped her dead in her tracks. I don't think a nanny has ever said that to her before. She rolled her eyes, stomped back to the table and didn't speak to me for THIRTY MINUTES.
Thirty minutes! What the hell do you do as a nanny when your child of only two weeks DOESN'T SPEAK TO YOU? I tried various phrases, all the way from, "I'm sorry that the situation upset you so much, and we can talk about going back for your book, but only if you're ready to talk calmly about it," to "Marie, are you ready to talk?" to "Marie?" to "What number are you working on now?" Finally I accepted the silence but had no idea what to do. I waited 15 more minutes and then out of the blue, she asked me a question and the next few hours were the best we'd had yet.
An Angela highlight:
I was telling Angela about the bag I wanted to buy (the one I mentioned in my first post) and how it was sold out, and she told me about this website called etsy.com, where artists post all their work and buyers can buy directly from the artists through paypal or whatever. So she spent half an hour picking out all these awesome bags and made a wish list of ten of them, then the two of us spent another 20 minutes discussing and eliminating until I chose this awesome, green corduroy bag with a black alligator on the outside. The website is awesome, I love my bag, and I got paid for this entire experience.
So, I'm liking it a lot so far. Linda is very sweet to me, pays really well, and often expresses her appreciation of me and my work. She's a genuinely nice woman. And, I've befriended one of the other nannies! We had a wild night out this past weekend, and are planning a more chilled out night together soon. I have such a friend crush on her!
Overall, I'm very happy. I view the difficult parts as a project for me, and I'm challenging myself to take everything in stride instead of getting worked up or stressed out. I think that with time we will all have much easier days.
Or, at least, I hope so!
Marie, the youngest, and I are both trying hard to figure each other out, and so far have established that we definitely like each other but sometimes have trouble communicating. Meaning, a lot of times she argues and refuses to do her homework and I have to be jerk-nanny. I've tried various techniques with her but have yet to find the perfect one. However, the more she gets to know me, the more comfortable she feels, the more she listens, and the more fun we have together.
The oldest girl, who I'll call Angela, is quite the opposite; very laid-back, a little shy and quiet at first. But she's so much fun! She randomly busts out in song, or shares totally out there ideas the very moment they pop into her head. Example... "I just thought of a good line. But it would have to be about a blind woman. Here it is, 'She lost her sight, but she still has vision.' Like, you could put that in the thingie that you write when a person dies. That would be a good thing to say about someone. Or, you could make it a song lyric."
Though Angela definitely gets annoyed, mostly she thinks her sister's dramatics are funny. The two of them sometimes remind me of one intenso young lady (me) and her laid-back older brother who laughed at her. Overall, they enjoy each other's company and very much like one another, but would never be caught saying that in public.
Interesting story from so far:
Marie left a book at school that she needed for homework, but the assignment wasn't due for two more days so I told her we'd just get the book the next day. She was upset about a lot of other things going on and took it out through an explosion of tears about how she HAD to go back and get this book and I was being SO unfair and mean and she was going to have A TON of homework the next day and to think of having to put this off until then, how could I do that to her? Talking about it now makes me laugh, but she has this way of saying things that grinds on me in the moment; I'm learning how to be more patient!
So anyway, she rolled her eyes at me and kept insulting me util I turned my meanie voice on. I told her she could be mad all she wanted but she could not disrespect me, and it honestly stopped her dead in her tracks. I don't think a nanny has ever said that to her before. She rolled her eyes, stomped back to the table and didn't speak to me for THIRTY MINUTES.
Thirty minutes! What the hell do you do as a nanny when your child of only two weeks DOESN'T SPEAK TO YOU? I tried various phrases, all the way from, "I'm sorry that the situation upset you so much, and we can talk about going back for your book, but only if you're ready to talk calmly about it," to "Marie, are you ready to talk?" to "Marie?" to "What number are you working on now?" Finally I accepted the silence but had no idea what to do. I waited 15 more minutes and then out of the blue, she asked me a question and the next few hours were the best we'd had yet.
An Angela highlight:
I was telling Angela about the bag I wanted to buy (the one I mentioned in my first post) and how it was sold out, and she told me about this website called etsy.com, where artists post all their work and buyers can buy directly from the artists through paypal or whatever. So she spent half an hour picking out all these awesome bags and made a wish list of ten of them, then the two of us spent another 20 minutes discussing and eliminating until I chose this awesome, green corduroy bag with a black alligator on the outside. The website is awesome, I love my bag, and I got paid for this entire experience.
So, I'm liking it a lot so far. Linda is very sweet to me, pays really well, and often expresses her appreciation of me and my work. She's a genuinely nice woman. And, I've befriended one of the other nannies! We had a wild night out this past weekend, and are planning a more chilled out night together soon. I have such a friend crush on her!
Overall, I'm very happy. I view the difficult parts as a project for me, and I'm challenging myself to take everything in stride instead of getting worked up or stressed out. I think that with time we will all have much easier days.
Or, at least, I hope so!
Friday, September 21, 2007
Frida Bat the Slinkster Cat
I would like to give a shout out to Frida Bat the Slinkster Cat, my beautiful cat who might just be the coolest pet in the world.
A brief history, for those of you unfamiliar:
Frida was found as a 3-month-old kitten, stranded in the streets of Allston, Mass, with an injured paw that she couldn't walk on. The founder took her to a shelter in Brighton, where I fell in love at first sight when I saw her as a 5-month-old. When I picked her up off the ground, she curled up immediately into my arms and chest, and purred. We were a pair.
I brought her to my house in Cambridge, where I debated at length about her name while watching her bat around my bobby pins, shred my shoelaces, and aggressively shove her head into my hand for some lovin'. The name I settled on comes from Frida Kahlo, Weetzie Bat (the main character in one of my favorite books), and Weetzie's dog, Slinkster Dog. It fit her well, and we quickly fell in absolute love.
However, as I got busier and was around less, Frida got a little bit snottier. Whenever I would come home after a weekend away, she would run when I tried to pick her up, but then stop further away from me and look back like she wanted me to come pet her. But then when I would advance toward her, she would run away and do the same thing again, making me chase her all around the house. Finally, she would jump onto my bed after the chase, squint her eyes and purr, purr, purr when I started to pet her.
She's a very strange kitty; she has tons of little quirks. She's scared of unfamiliar people, but totally bold and bossy with unfamiliar cats. Once she has decided to let a new person in, for a while they can't be seen together in front of me. I.e., my roommate is one of Frida's "let in" but for the first month of this letting in, whenever I walked into a room where Liz and Frida were cuddling, the cat would run away and start doing something else as if she had been doing that other thing all along. It's kind of hilarious, but I wonder what she's thinking.
Frida also has an incredibly long, loud and detailed process of covering up her pee and poop and then cleaning her paws in the litter box. It's so long and loud that it wakes me up at night and I sometimes have to throw something at the box to scare her out of it, or else she'd go on for 10 minutes. And she's wildly curious. As she's getting older (but still young...only 1 1/2 years as of October!), her curiosity is overpowering her fear of people as she's checking out everything. And you can tell by her face that there's a ton going on inside that almost-human head of hers; she is quite expressive.
Frida also is an athlete. She's an enormous cat with a huge frame, long legs and big paws. She can jump from the floor to the top of a 7-drawer-dresser, run speedily over and under whatever obstacles, and twist around to chase things. However, this past week she went above and beyond any expectations one could have of a cat.
In my room, I recently installed an Ikea, steel-framed loft bed. I was concerned that she wouldn't know how to get up it, so I put a shelf by my dresser and the dresser by the bed, like stairs for her. Then I carried her up the ladder with me and cuddled a bit, and she loved it! It's like our little clubhouse. Later, she figured out how to jump to the dresser and then down (completely ignoring the shelf), and how to reverse it to get back up. But the second night, I heard the creaking of the bed and then a thud. I looked down and Frida was sitting by the ladder with her little ears perked up. I laid back in bed but then felt it shake and heard it creak again, so I sat up, and saw my cat's paws and head pop up over the side of the bed. She had climbed up the ladder.
This ladder has six, steel rungs leading up to the rickety bed that's over 5 1/2' tall, and shakes whenever it's being climbed. But Frida has perfected it; now, this is her preferred method for getting up to bed. I've watched her from the bed and from the floor, and it's pretty incredible. She puts her front paws around a rung above her, then pushes with her hind legs so that she jumps and catches herself a bit higher. After a week of practice, she's so fast that she just scrambles right up. It's pretty great - my cat freakin' climbs the ladder to our loft bed!
So, I fear I've already established myself as a weirdo cat lady, but will retain some kind of dignity and stop rambling about her now.
Meow!
A brief history, for those of you unfamiliar:
Frida was found as a 3-month-old kitten, stranded in the streets of Allston, Mass, with an injured paw that she couldn't walk on. The founder took her to a shelter in Brighton, where I fell in love at first sight when I saw her as a 5-month-old. When I picked her up off the ground, she curled up immediately into my arms and chest, and purred. We were a pair.
I brought her to my house in Cambridge, where I debated at length about her name while watching her bat around my bobby pins, shred my shoelaces, and aggressively shove her head into my hand for some lovin'. The name I settled on comes from Frida Kahlo, Weetzie Bat (the main character in one of my favorite books), and Weetzie's dog, Slinkster Dog. It fit her well, and we quickly fell in absolute love.
However, as I got busier and was around less, Frida got a little bit snottier. Whenever I would come home after a weekend away, she would run when I tried to pick her up, but then stop further away from me and look back like she wanted me to come pet her. But then when I would advance toward her, she would run away and do the same thing again, making me chase her all around the house. Finally, she would jump onto my bed after the chase, squint her eyes and purr, purr, purr when I started to pet her.
She's a very strange kitty; she has tons of little quirks. She's scared of unfamiliar people, but totally bold and bossy with unfamiliar cats. Once she has decided to let a new person in, for a while they can't be seen together in front of me. I.e., my roommate is one of Frida's "let in" but for the first month of this letting in, whenever I walked into a room where Liz and Frida were cuddling, the cat would run away and start doing something else as if she had been doing that other thing all along. It's kind of hilarious, but I wonder what she's thinking.
Frida also has an incredibly long, loud and detailed process of covering up her pee and poop and then cleaning her paws in the litter box. It's so long and loud that it wakes me up at night and I sometimes have to throw something at the box to scare her out of it, or else she'd go on for 10 minutes. And she's wildly curious. As she's getting older (but still young...only 1 1/2 years as of October!), her curiosity is overpowering her fear of people as she's checking out everything. And you can tell by her face that there's a ton going on inside that almost-human head of hers; she is quite expressive.
Frida also is an athlete. She's an enormous cat with a huge frame, long legs and big paws. She can jump from the floor to the top of a 7-drawer-dresser, run speedily over and under whatever obstacles, and twist around to chase things. However, this past week she went above and beyond any expectations one could have of a cat.
In my room, I recently installed an Ikea, steel-framed loft bed. I was concerned that she wouldn't know how to get up it, so I put a shelf by my dresser and the dresser by the bed, like stairs for her. Then I carried her up the ladder with me and cuddled a bit, and she loved it! It's like our little clubhouse. Later, she figured out how to jump to the dresser and then down (completely ignoring the shelf), and how to reverse it to get back up. But the second night, I heard the creaking of the bed and then a thud. I looked down and Frida was sitting by the ladder with her little ears perked up. I laid back in bed but then felt it shake and heard it creak again, so I sat up, and saw my cat's paws and head pop up over the side of the bed. She had climbed up the ladder.
This ladder has six, steel rungs leading up to the rickety bed that's over 5 1/2' tall, and shakes whenever it's being climbed. But Frida has perfected it; now, this is her preferred method for getting up to bed. I've watched her from the bed and from the floor, and it's pretty incredible. She puts her front paws around a rung above her, then pushes with her hind legs so that she jumps and catches herself a bit higher. After a week of practice, she's so fast that she just scrambles right up. It's pretty great - my cat freakin' climbs the ladder to our loft bed!
So, I fear I've already established myself as a weirdo cat lady, but will retain some kind of dignity and stop rambling about her now.
Meow!
Monday, September 17, 2007
The Purchase of Cloth
I had a big realization as I was unpacking during these past few days that the majority of my wardrobe is not at all work appropriate. So, I went on a bit of a shopping spree. And damn, was it fun! For the first time ever, I have extra money to spend on things. And to think I'm working far less now than I did this summer, but making far more! After serious financial difficulty, it feels really nice to not stress out about money.
However, I am by no means a rich woman. Let's not forget about the student loans and dental debts, or the savings account that really should have more than its current (and measly) $3. So when I go on shopping sprees, it's not like I go to expensive stores or little boutiques. It's more like Forever 21, Filene's Basement, Old Navy and the like. But these have always been my stores, and I've always been quick to criticize the woman that spends hundreds of dollars on a single dress. In fact, in my previous blog entry I commented on the ridiculousness of spending tons of money on one article of clothing. But, after a recent experience shopping at one of the above stores, my opinions on such matters have begun to change.
So, I was rifling through a rack of purple-y sweater dresses at Forever 21 and couldn't find my size. I was mumbling to myself, almost at the end and empty-handed, when I came upon one that was missing its price tag. I pulled the collar out to examine the inside tag and saw the "S" I was hoping for. But then I looked a little further down and, below the ever-handy washing instructions, read the words, "Made in Indonesia."
I paused, but then unhooked it and tried it on to find a perfect fit. I felt kind of shitty as I waited in line, wondering what kid in Indonesia worked last week for some unfair, small amount of change to make my fun, flirty sweater dress. I paid for it, stuffed it in the bag and stepped outside, only to be swallowed up by the lively atmosphere of Union Square that quickly switched my mental focus from child labor and underpaid workers to my exciting life in NYC.
There were men dressed in togas, handing out tubs of Greek yogurt. There were Chinese tourists rambling in Mandarin and taking tons of photos. There were college students lounging in the grass, smoking cigarettes (imagine myself as an 18-year-old coming to college here!). Then I stopped and watched some incredibly talented street musicians, a brass band jammin' out on the sidewalk. They were eight black men with dance moves to die for, wailing on their trumpets, trombones, baritones and tuba (I've never seen a person play such a large instrument while moving around in such a smooth, sexy way before). As I walked down the subway stairs, their bouncy tune faded out and the sounds of cellos accompanied by a hand drum faded in. A young quartet with three cello-ists and a djembe-ist were playing in the main walkway. Further below them as I navigated through the underground maze, I saw a tap-dancer working her magic. Then I got on the subway, looked down at the bag I had set in my lap, and remembered.
When I got home, I looked at the tags of my other recent purchases and discovered that lots of my clothes are Made in Cambodia, Thailand, El Salvador, etc. Those women with money and egos spend hundreds of dollars on a dress and then brag to others about the name of their designer. But you know what? Those women actually know the name of the person that designed their dress. And chances are, they know who sewed them, too. Which means that these women who I so heavily criticize know exactly who makes their clothing and where it's made. They know who designed it, and they probably know where the material comes from, too. I don't even know where to begin looking in order to find out who sewed my sweater dress from Forever 21. Or my long-sleeved tee from Old Navy. Or my skirt from Filene's Basement.
So here's my dilemma: I don't have enough money to buy one-of-a-kind clothes in one-of-a-kind, designer shops. I barely have enough money to buy the clothes I need for work from Indonesian sweatshops. And like I said, I'm making more money now than I've ever made. But throw in all my expenses (let's not even get started on health insurance), and I definitely don't have the bucks for boutiques. And if I did buy a $400 dress, would I feel good about it? It seems like a lot of money that could go toward a lot of other causes. And, in ways, it feels a little materialistic and silly to focus so much energy on who and what type and where. It's just clothing!
So that brings me to the second dilemma: should I rag on myself for happily getting distracted from these issues? For wearing these affordable clothes to the amazing jazz festival that's currently happening in Williamsburg, and not thinking about anything but the amazing jazz music? For accepting compliments with a smile from cute little hipsters on my "adorable sweater?" There's a line somewhere between living my life and worrying about others' lives.
But it hurts to read headlines about the increasing civilian death toll in Iraq, or the brutality behind the diamond business, or the latest refugee camp set up outside of Sudan. The hurt makes me want to do something, but I don't know what that something is. Nor do I know if I can even do it.
But you know what else? The hurt also sometimes encourages me to just stop reading the headlines and go on about my happy life. Which clearly isn't the right answer. But nor is it right to continually brood and worry. Where, oh where, is this elusive line?
Aside from these worries, which is just part of being American these days (or should be, at least), I am in love with New York City. I am happier and happier each day. I feel like every corner I turn is a new discovery. I love walking down the street and hearing five different languages and seeing five hundred different styles of clothing. I love passing from one live musician to the next, just on my walk to the subway. I love learning about high society and the amazingly intense pressures that come along with being a working, single mother in the midst of it. I love that I can sit at a bar and analyze the live sound with my drink-maker ("too crackly" we all decided). I love that I come home and talk about art with my new apartment mates while searching for the escapee kitty (who was found, thankfully). It's a stimulating, exciting, adventurous ride here, and I am happily and completely ridin' it.
However, I am by no means a rich woman. Let's not forget about the student loans and dental debts, or the savings account that really should have more than its current (and measly) $3. So when I go on shopping sprees, it's not like I go to expensive stores or little boutiques. It's more like Forever 21, Filene's Basement, Old Navy and the like. But these have always been my stores, and I've always been quick to criticize the woman that spends hundreds of dollars on a single dress. In fact, in my previous blog entry I commented on the ridiculousness of spending tons of money on one article of clothing. But, after a recent experience shopping at one of the above stores, my opinions on such matters have begun to change.
So, I was rifling through a rack of purple-y sweater dresses at Forever 21 and couldn't find my size. I was mumbling to myself, almost at the end and empty-handed, when I came upon one that was missing its price tag. I pulled the collar out to examine the inside tag and saw the "S" I was hoping for. But then I looked a little further down and, below the ever-handy washing instructions, read the words, "Made in Indonesia."
I paused, but then unhooked it and tried it on to find a perfect fit. I felt kind of shitty as I waited in line, wondering what kid in Indonesia worked last week for some unfair, small amount of change to make my fun, flirty sweater dress. I paid for it, stuffed it in the bag and stepped outside, only to be swallowed up by the lively atmosphere of Union Square that quickly switched my mental focus from child labor and underpaid workers to my exciting life in NYC.
There were men dressed in togas, handing out tubs of Greek yogurt. There were Chinese tourists rambling in Mandarin and taking tons of photos. There were college students lounging in the grass, smoking cigarettes (imagine myself as an 18-year-old coming to college here!). Then I stopped and watched some incredibly talented street musicians, a brass band jammin' out on the sidewalk. They were eight black men with dance moves to die for, wailing on their trumpets, trombones, baritones and tuba (I've never seen a person play such a large instrument while moving around in such a smooth, sexy way before). As I walked down the subway stairs, their bouncy tune faded out and the sounds of cellos accompanied by a hand drum faded in. A young quartet with three cello-ists and a djembe-ist were playing in the main walkway. Further below them as I navigated through the underground maze, I saw a tap-dancer working her magic. Then I got on the subway, looked down at the bag I had set in my lap, and remembered.
When I got home, I looked at the tags of my other recent purchases and discovered that lots of my clothes are Made in Cambodia, Thailand, El Salvador, etc. Those women with money and egos spend hundreds of dollars on a dress and then brag to others about the name of their designer. But you know what? Those women actually know the name of the person that designed their dress. And chances are, they know who sewed them, too. Which means that these women who I so heavily criticize know exactly who makes their clothing and where it's made. They know who designed it, and they probably know where the material comes from, too. I don't even know where to begin looking in order to find out who sewed my sweater dress from Forever 21. Or my long-sleeved tee from Old Navy. Or my skirt from Filene's Basement.
So here's my dilemma: I don't have enough money to buy one-of-a-kind clothes in one-of-a-kind, designer shops. I barely have enough money to buy the clothes I need for work from Indonesian sweatshops. And like I said, I'm making more money now than I've ever made. But throw in all my expenses (let's not even get started on health insurance), and I definitely don't have the bucks for boutiques. And if I did buy a $400 dress, would I feel good about it? It seems like a lot of money that could go toward a lot of other causes. And, in ways, it feels a little materialistic and silly to focus so much energy on who and what type and where. It's just clothing!
So that brings me to the second dilemma: should I rag on myself for happily getting distracted from these issues? For wearing these affordable clothes to the amazing jazz festival that's currently happening in Williamsburg, and not thinking about anything but the amazing jazz music? For accepting compliments with a smile from cute little hipsters on my "adorable sweater?" There's a line somewhere between living my life and worrying about others' lives.
But it hurts to read headlines about the increasing civilian death toll in Iraq, or the brutality behind the diamond business, or the latest refugee camp set up outside of Sudan. The hurt makes me want to do something, but I don't know what that something is. Nor do I know if I can even do it.
But you know what else? The hurt also sometimes encourages me to just stop reading the headlines and go on about my happy life. Which clearly isn't the right answer. But nor is it right to continually brood and worry. Where, oh where, is this elusive line?
Aside from these worries, which is just part of being American these days (or should be, at least), I am in love with New York City. I am happier and happier each day. I feel like every corner I turn is a new discovery. I love walking down the street and hearing five different languages and seeing five hundred different styles of clothing. I love passing from one live musician to the next, just on my walk to the subway. I love learning about high society and the amazingly intense pressures that come along with being a working, single mother in the midst of it. I love that I can sit at a bar and analyze the live sound with my drink-maker ("too crackly" we all decided). I love that I come home and talk about art with my new apartment mates while searching for the escapee kitty (who was found, thankfully). It's a stimulating, exciting, adventurous ride here, and I am happily and completely ridin' it.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Midtown Madness
Good grief I do not like midtown Manhattan one bit. I actually like ritzy Park Ave more than Herald Square or Madison Square Gardens or Times Square or any of those. And "Fashion Ave" is just scary. First off, it's wrong for any street to be better known as Fashion Avenue than its actual name. Secondly, there are far too many people there. Thirdly, it smells bad. And fourthly, it's the mecca of corporate chain stores. I was overwhelmed. And not in a good way, like when I'm walking through Williamsburg and I see tons of clubs and I wanna check 'em out but I just can't remember all their names and locations (nor do I have enough money). But bad overwhelmed, like shit, my heart is racing and I have to poo and there are people everywhere and THAT CABBIE ALMOST RAN OVER MY TOES!
So why did I venture to such parts? The culprit: Taylor, my beautiful blonde friend who invited me to lunch at midtown hell where she has to work every freakin' day. We met up for sushi and though it was wonderful to see her, arriving early to scope out the area was not smart. I was charged $4 for a cup of Dannon yogurt (I was misled to believe it was a bowl of yogurt with fresh fruit!!) and $2 for a small glass of really bad iced coffee. Then I got yelled at for not crossing the street as soon as the stop hand turned to the little walking man. Then I bumped into someone and, while apologizing, bumped into someone else. Then I decided that I needed a cigarette, but you know what? A pack of Marlboro's costs $7! No one ever needs a cigarette that badly. And damn those cab drivers are vicious. They don't care at all about the feet of pedestrians who are rightfully crossing in a supposedly safe crosswalk.
So anyway, I found peace inside the 4-story Old Navy, mainly just because it was smaller and more contained than the outside insanity (though it did bother me that being inside an Old Navy made me feel better...I guess I felt calmer just 'cause it was familiar). I found a few cheap and work appropriate shirts, since my long-sleeved tees with thumb holes and Goodwill tees from the boys section don't quite meet Park Ave standards. Then I finally found the blonde bombshell herself and was instantly calmed by her soothing voice inflection and the serene sushi bar she picked. I made a bee-line for the subway upon parting ways, and that was that.
Yet somehow I committed myself to weekly lunches with Mama Tay. Perhaps they'll be postponed during Christmas season.
After this lunch date, I went back uptown to pick up the youngest girl, who from now on I will refer to as Marie. Her adorable friend came home with us and they hung out until it was time to hail a cab and hit up gymnastics lessons. I walked home after dropping them off and explored 90th St, all the way from York back to Park. It's actually kind of pretty, and fun to peek into the windows of all the crazy boutiques and try to imagine my house looking as frumpy as some of the furniture store displays. Or to picture myself in a $900 designer dress. I'd prolly drop ketchup on it or something the first day.
Oh, which reminds me that not only did they charge me $4 for that damn yogurt, but when I opened the top, a bit of pink goo jumped onto my shirt! That's strike three for the Tick Tock Diner!
Anyway, we're all getting ready for bed now because I have to wake up at 6:30 to escort Marie to school. Yup, that's right, I'm already doing overnights. Monday was my very first day, and Tuesday night was my very first overnight. Their mom, who I'll call Linda, had a last minute meeting come up in London so I'm here from Tues afternoon until tomorrow evening. It feels a little nuts, but at least Linda is very appreciative and thankful and paying me extra.
What a first week! Or a first few days rather! And I totally forgot to mention the craziness that erupted in my apartment when all these workers showed up to install everything at the same time and the landlord was mean to me so I yelled at him. I don't think he appreciated it but he's at least been nicer to me since.
And lastly, I highly recommend the book, "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time." I just finished it today and it's a great story while also providing a one-of-a-kind and very accurate look into the life of an autistic child. Well done, Mr. Mark Haddon. When I'm a famous author, I'll invite you to my parties.
So why did I venture to such parts? The culprit: Taylor, my beautiful blonde friend who invited me to lunch at midtown hell where she has to work every freakin' day. We met up for sushi and though it was wonderful to see her, arriving early to scope out the area was not smart. I was charged $4 for a cup of Dannon yogurt (I was misled to believe it was a bowl of yogurt with fresh fruit!!) and $2 for a small glass of really bad iced coffee. Then I got yelled at for not crossing the street as soon as the stop hand turned to the little walking man. Then I bumped into someone and, while apologizing, bumped into someone else. Then I decided that I needed a cigarette, but you know what? A pack of Marlboro's costs $7! No one ever needs a cigarette that badly. And damn those cab drivers are vicious. They don't care at all about the feet of pedestrians who are rightfully crossing in a supposedly safe crosswalk.
So anyway, I found peace inside the 4-story Old Navy, mainly just because it was smaller and more contained than the outside insanity (though it did bother me that being inside an Old Navy made me feel better...I guess I felt calmer just 'cause it was familiar). I found a few cheap and work appropriate shirts, since my long-sleeved tees with thumb holes and Goodwill tees from the boys section don't quite meet Park Ave standards. Then I finally found the blonde bombshell herself and was instantly calmed by her soothing voice inflection and the serene sushi bar she picked. I made a bee-line for the subway upon parting ways, and that was that.
Yet somehow I committed myself to weekly lunches with Mama Tay. Perhaps they'll be postponed during Christmas season.
After this lunch date, I went back uptown to pick up the youngest girl, who from now on I will refer to as Marie. Her adorable friend came home with us and they hung out until it was time to hail a cab and hit up gymnastics lessons. I walked home after dropping them off and explored 90th St, all the way from York back to Park. It's actually kind of pretty, and fun to peek into the windows of all the crazy boutiques and try to imagine my house looking as frumpy as some of the furniture store displays. Or to picture myself in a $900 designer dress. I'd prolly drop ketchup on it or something the first day.
Oh, which reminds me that not only did they charge me $4 for that damn yogurt, but when I opened the top, a bit of pink goo jumped onto my shirt! That's strike three for the Tick Tock Diner!
Anyway, we're all getting ready for bed now because I have to wake up at 6:30 to escort Marie to school. Yup, that's right, I'm already doing overnights. Monday was my very first day, and Tuesday night was my very first overnight. Their mom, who I'll call Linda, had a last minute meeting come up in London so I'm here from Tues afternoon until tomorrow evening. It feels a little nuts, but at least Linda is very appreciative and thankful and paying me extra.
What a first week! Or a first few days rather! And I totally forgot to mention the craziness that erupted in my apartment when all these workers showed up to install everything at the same time and the landlord was mean to me so I yelled at him. I don't think he appreciated it but he's at least been nicer to me since.
And lastly, I highly recommend the book, "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time." I just finished it today and it's a great story while also providing a one-of-a-kind and very accurate look into the life of an autistic child. Well done, Mr. Mark Haddon. When I'm a famous author, I'll invite you to my parties.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Day 3 as a New Yorker
I'm sitting in a cozy coffee shop with old fashioned shelves full of old fashioned books, and lovely, upbeat jazz music dancing out of the speakers. I'm envious of all the outfits being worn around me; I definitely need to step up the fashion. First purchase will be a tote bag big enough for my laptop that has black silhouettes of birds and tree limbs, currently hanging from a silver hook down the street at a store called the Minimarket. It's $28, and I feel like that's splurging. My thrifty tendencies will definitely be shocked by the adjustment to NY prices.
Life is so different in just a few days, yet it feels weirdly comfortable. Taking the subway that once scared me shitless (um, once meaning only two years ago), transferring at Union Square to the 4/5/6 to go nanny on the Upper East Side. What a different life those people live! My parents will be so confused when I tell them the stories of 10-year-olds with Iphones, birthday parties at rented out laser tag mazes, and all the teeny tiny dogs sticking out of thousand dollar Gucci bags. It seems as if everyone on the Upper East side has a ridiculously small dog!
Fortunately, the family I'm working with is quite nice, and more down-to-earth than the others. And they have a very cute, medium-sized dog. The mother is sweet and appreciative of me, and the kids fun and silly. I'm caring for two girls, a pre-teen (or tween?) and a freshman in high school. Quite a large leap from the baby I cared for in Boston! But I like it, and it's an interesting opportunity for a close-up look at the life of Mannahattanites without subjecting myself to the whims of crazy mothers. And wow are they crazy. After one day, I already feel inducted into the "Nannies for Rich New Yorkers" club, having met a few during pick-up at the super fancy private Catholic school. One nanny was frantically handing out party invitations, another complaining about her pay being docked in order to purchase said Iphone for the child. It's indeed an interesting job!
My apartment is located two blocks from the center of Hipsterville, also known as the Bedford L stop. I walk around slightly in wonder, with open eyes and absolute delight at the amount of strange people, fun clubs and weirdo restaurants I pass. Then I remember that I'm in the land of hip and hipsters aren't wide-eyed, so I try to turn my looks of glee into looks of uber coolness. Usually I fail and end up laughing at my own ridiculousness. I wonder if I fit in or if it's obvious I'm from Mt. Washington, KY! Not that I completely care. I'll admit that I care a bit, but more than anything it's a fun game to dress up as Miss Hip and see if I can pull it off successfully. And I do like me some vintage clothes.
I think about lying by a bonfire on my friend's horse farm as a bored, 15-year-old in KY, wondering how the hell I would ever get out of my drugged-up town. Never dreaming New York, this mysterious city I saw in the movies that seemed so terrifyingly large and, according to my United Baptist parents, so naughty and sinful, would be my home one day. To all high schoolers out there: I swear it gets better.
Life is so different in just a few days, yet it feels weirdly comfortable. Taking the subway that once scared me shitless (um, once meaning only two years ago), transferring at Union Square to the 4/5/6 to go nanny on the Upper East Side. What a different life those people live! My parents will be so confused when I tell them the stories of 10-year-olds with Iphones, birthday parties at rented out laser tag mazes, and all the teeny tiny dogs sticking out of thousand dollar Gucci bags. It seems as if everyone on the Upper East side has a ridiculously small dog!
Fortunately, the family I'm working with is quite nice, and more down-to-earth than the others. And they have a very cute, medium-sized dog. The mother is sweet and appreciative of me, and the kids fun and silly. I'm caring for two girls, a pre-teen (or tween?) and a freshman in high school. Quite a large leap from the baby I cared for in Boston! But I like it, and it's an interesting opportunity for a close-up look at the life of Mannahattanites without subjecting myself to the whims of crazy mothers. And wow are they crazy. After one day, I already feel inducted into the "Nannies for Rich New Yorkers" club, having met a few during pick-up at the super fancy private Catholic school. One nanny was frantically handing out party invitations, another complaining about her pay being docked in order to purchase said Iphone for the child. It's indeed an interesting job!
My apartment is located two blocks from the center of Hipsterville, also known as the Bedford L stop. I walk around slightly in wonder, with open eyes and absolute delight at the amount of strange people, fun clubs and weirdo restaurants I pass. Then I remember that I'm in the land of hip and hipsters aren't wide-eyed, so I try to turn my looks of glee into looks of uber coolness. Usually I fail and end up laughing at my own ridiculousness. I wonder if I fit in or if it's obvious I'm from Mt. Washington, KY! Not that I completely care. I'll admit that I care a bit, but more than anything it's a fun game to dress up as Miss Hip and see if I can pull it off successfully. And I do like me some vintage clothes.
I think about lying by a bonfire on my friend's horse farm as a bored, 15-year-old in KY, wondering how the hell I would ever get out of my drugged-up town. Never dreaming New York, this mysterious city I saw in the movies that seemed so terrifyingly large and, according to my United Baptist parents, so naughty and sinful, would be my home one day. To all high schoolers out there: I swear it gets better.
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