Mihow » new york

8.4 Million New Yorkers Suddenly Realize New York City A Horrible Place To Live

mihow — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 20:10:29 +0000

Y’all, it’s just me and the kid these days, so time has been limited, hence the lack of updates. I’ll be back shortly. (He starts school soon!) In the meantime, I just had to share this amazing article with you.

It’s hysterical on so many levels, I don’t even know where to begin. Enjoy!

8.4 Million New Yorkers Suddenly Realize New York City A Horrible Place To Live

NEW YORK—At 4:32 p.m. Tuesday, every single resident of New York City decided to evacuate the famed metropolis, having realizing it was nothing more than a massive, trash-ridden hellhole that slowly sucks the life out of every one of its inhabitants.

No Strollers Allowed!

mihow — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 14:17:43 +0000

I wrote the post below instead of doing what I should have done which was to call the establishment directly and ask them about the sign. Instead, I did what I can’t stand and got passive-aggressive about it on the Internet. (I am currently punching myself in the face for this, btw.)

I’ve decided to leave it as-is. But wanted everyone to know that I was the one in the wrong here. And I apologize for how I handled the situation. Furthermore, I would like to thank Amy 2 for actually doing what I should have done in the first place.

Yay, sweet stranger!

______________

I usually stay away from topics like this one because I’m too much of a pussy anymore to deal with online backlash, but I can’t help it this time.

My lollipop adventure has me frequenting a baking supply store in Manhattan. This store has everything I need and at relatively decent prices. Plus, they sell in bulk. They’re also fairly convenient for me to get to—a mere 8 blocks from the 6th Avenue stop on the L.

A few weeks ago, Toby Joe, Emory and I headed into the city together. It was a Saturday morning. When we arrived, I saw the following sign:

I was annoyed, but fine—whatever. Toby Joe was there, so they waited outside while I rushed around for what I needed.

Fast forward to this week. I had rush order that had to get out. I wanted to get there quickly and immediately. I was preparing to take Emory into the city on the subway with me (I only have the nanny for a few hours each week) and remembered the sign. Since parking in that area during the week is impossible, I had three choices: I could leave the stroller behind and make him walk the 8 blocks from the subway which, as many of you know who’ve spent time with a 2-year-old, would take us forever; I could bring leave the stroller outside and hope that it doesn’t get stolen; or I could just not go and wait until I had someone to watch him.

I opted to wait. The order would have to wait. This is a “First World” problem. I know that.

But this is what I kept thinking: Why? Why are strollers banned from the store. Would a wheelchair be banned from the store? How about a walker? Why just strollers. And so I started to get upset about it—probably a little too upset because, considering in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t that big of a deal.

Someone suggested I ask the store owner if I could fold the stroller up and leave it just inside the store somewhere. And I could try that. I’m not sure they’d agree but I could try.

A few people suggested I leave the stroller outside and use a bike lock. Which, yes, is a great idea, but that adds one more relatively heavy item that I must carry around with me. Navigating the subway with a stroller and a toddler is hard enough, adding a paperclip into the mix can sometimes tip the scales.

See, that’s the thing: it’s when you start to add it all up—all the hoops you have to jump through when you have kids, that seemingly irrelevant situations like this one turn into the straw that breaks the sherpa’s back.

I understand why bars want to ban strollers. I’ve written about this before. There was a bar here in Brooklyn that put up a sign and were met with quite a backlash from those in the community with children. Granted, on the flip side of that fight (and boy was it heated for a while), there were a great number of people singing the bar’s praises because a lot of people believe that babies or toddlers should not be in bars. And I get that. I may not agree all the time, but I get it. But baking supply stores? There really aren’t many of them.

Here’s the bigger deal, however. I don’t believe this is about strollers. I believe this is about children. And if my cynical assumption is true, that’s discrimination discriminatory in nature.

I know myself. I won’t say a word to this establishment and hopefully once I figure out what I need every month, I’ll start ordering everything online. But I’m still annoyed. I’m annoyed that additional and unnecessary hurdles like this one are out there waiting us when I think we have enough to deal with.

Adopt a Kitty! Empty Cages Event This Weekend.

mihow — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 15:49:18 +0000

Hey, New York City! You should come to Williamsburg this Saturday and adopt a cat. Empty Cages Collective is holding an adoption event. It will be held at PS 9 Pets on North 9TH Street. Please? Pretty please?

ECC is a no-kill shelter. They work to trap, neuter and spay Brooklyn’s feral kitties (among other things). But sometimes, the cats aren’t actually feral and so they take them in and those guys need homes. Need a little love in your life? Adopt a kitty! Wanna give a little love?Maybe you’d like to make a donation?

In related news: Matt is a 9-year-old tiger kitty who is set to be killed tomorrow at another shelter. Let’s try and save him.

Overcoming His Fear of the Subway

mihow — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 19:07:12 +0000

There was a time not so long ago that Emory was terrified of the subway. All we’d have to do is get near an entrance and he’d begin screaming, “NO CHOO-CHOO! NO, MAMA!” Whenever Toby Joe left for work, he’d ask that he not ride the choo-choo. And on several occasions we’d wake in the middle of the night to him screaming about it. It was a little sad.

Something had to be done. It’s downright impossible to live in New York City and not use the MTA. The subway is a must. My son was going to have overcome his fear. But how?

We’ve been working on him slowly over time. At first we just talked about it a lot. Toby would get home from work and talk about how great the choo-choo was. (Which is hilarious for reasons I’m sure you are all aware.) We’d discuss its tracks and where it would take us. We told him there was nothing to be afraid of. We compared them to Thomas and his brood. And then we started taking him on it again.

At first, he was guarded and pensive. But we talked him through it and once he was on, all was well. That took a couple of weekends of riding it together as a family.

On Saturday, we set out early to see the ice skaters and tree at Rockefeller Center. We rode the L train to 6th Avenue and then the F Train uptown. He loved it. He loved every minute of it. When we arrived at our destination, he didn’t care about the tree or the skaters; he wanted to continue riding the choo-choo.

My son’s fear has folded in on itself and has turned into a passion. Instead of throwing fits for suggesting he ride the subway, he’s throwing fits when we’re done for the day.

Now, Mama has to overcome her biggest fear: maneuvering toddler and stroller all by myself, up those stairs, and safely.

NaBloPoMo: My Fair Lady

mihow — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 17:24:12 +0000

If there’s a perfect season to visit New York City, it’s the fall. The sky is alive and vision feels crisper. The trees are raining with color. There’s a leafy crunch on the ground that’s not snow! I love this city in the fall.

There are also some pretty outstanding sunsets. I’m not sure why this is, but every year the fall brings with it a canvas of color. I only wish I could capture them better! Digital cameras just don’t do justice. (Or maybe it’s a user error. Yeah, probably that.)

That’s the view from our living room window. It’s pretty great, isn’t it? I mean, if you like city life. Believe me, there are many days where I’d rather have this view but this one is pretty great as well—at least for now.

I feel pretty lucky these days, Internet. And I just wanted to write that down.

NaBloPoMo: Lionel Electric Trains At Rockefeller Center.

mihow — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 18:23:03 +0000

I’m not sure if I’ve ever mentioned this here before, but my son LOVES trains. He’s obsessed with choo-choos. I know, that’s probably pretty common for kids his age, but trains are his favorite thing ever. That said, I wanted to extend this great opportunity to anyone living in the area. Maybe we can hang out!

Lionel Electric Trains has opened a pop-up retail store in Rockefeller Center for the first time ever! To help spread the word about the store, Lionel is inviting awesome NYC Mommy’s to a special event on Saturday, November 14th at 10 AM. The Party will let you and your kids look around the store, get a demonstration of the trains, a sneak preview of Lionel’s new CGI movie “LIONELVILLE Destination: Adventure!”, have refreshments and leave with a gift bag for your children. The only thing that Lionel asks is that if you have a good time, please spread the word via blogs, twitter or however you think is appropriate.

Space is limited so please RSVP now by emailing Emily_Saltzman [at] dkcnews.com

Lionel Electric Trains Party
Saturday, November 14th at 10 AM
The Lionel Store
30 Rockefeller Plaza
50th Street, near 6th Avenue (directly across from Radio City Music Hall)

I get the feeling my boy’s head is going to explode with awesome.

NaBloPoMo: ING NYC Marathon

mihow — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 21:32:45 +0000

Today is the first day of National Blog Posting Month. What does that mean? That means I’m going to try and write every single day in the month of November. I tried to do this once before (right after Emory was born) and I completed all but one day. This year I’m shooting for all 30. Wish me luck.

Today also marks an amazing international event: The ING New York City Marathon. I get really emotional during large gatherings of people and the marathon is no exception. I weep during live sporting events, political speeches, protests, marathons–you name it. I love the marathon. Every year it’s the same, I stand near mile 12; I weep, cheer, scream and clap. By the end of the day my hands feel like runner’s feet. It’s a fantastic feeling.

This year we took Emory along with us. He loved it. He sat in his stroller and watched in awe, clapping a bit. Then it was nap time and it showed on his face—the sheer exhaustion of it all, like he ran it himself.

And now he asks if we’ll take him back outside to see the runners.

“Where the runners go, Mama?”

And we try to explain to him that the race is now over—the runners have all gone home—they are eating, sleeping, celebrating and that they’ll be back next year. And I see it in his eyes as he tries to process this information and I wonder if he’s thinking that the runners aren’t 40,000 individuals running in unison, but are instead a singular entity that exists in that exact form and returns once a year like a comet or a tide of hope and human integrity.

Now THAT’S A Giving Tree.

mihow — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 15:51:04 +0000

I promised yesterday that I’d get a picture of the vagina tree of McCarren Park. Thoughts on the matter?

Usually there’s a great deal of vaginal adornment inside of it. But today it was empty. One big empty vagina tree. I reckon tonight, being a Friday and all, the tree will get some play. (I’ve already taken this too far, haven’t I?)

NYC Mom Takes Her Anti-Sweets Too Far.

mihow — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 22:46:47 +0000

It’s possible to take it too far. Just ask MeMe Roth resident of the Upper West Side.

When offered any food at school other than the school lunch, Ms. Roth’s children — who shall go nameless since it seems they have enough on, or off, their plates — are instructed to deposit the item into a piece of Tupperware their mother calls a “junk food collector.”

I am all for regulating what my child consumes, but the occasional cupcake, ice pop, or brownie certainly isn’t going to hurt him, nor is going to make him fat. Telling him it’s absolutely forbidden? That’s where I think problems arise. Have we learned nothing from Catholic school girls?

All jokes aside, NPR recently interviewed Matthew Amster-Burton, author of Hungry Monkey. The segment was called “Let Them Eat Sugar: A New Guide For Feeding Kids.”

I agree more with what Amster-Burton said regarding the sweet stuff:

“If you’re brave enough to let it be, it’s kind of self-regulating. Efforts to restrict sugar in kids tend to backfire and tend to make kids look for sugar anytime the parents aren’t looking.”

Do parents like Ms. Roth exist everywhere? Or are they based solely out of New York City. I know the answer to this question, but I am a little surprised at just how many parents there are like Ms. Roth in the area. (Granted, there are also a great number who suffer from the opposite problem: they ignore their children to the point of neglect and still others are just simply abusive.)

When it comes to sweets, I let my son indulge fairly regularly. He also loves broccoli, peanuts, every fruit grown on planet earth, and eggs. I think the only food we haven’t given him yet is fast food and highly processed packaged food, although, should he one day discover a Twinkie, I certainly won’t take it away.

Her extreme methods have earned her attention before: The police were called to a YMCA in 2007 when she absconded with the sprinkles and syrups on a table where members were being served ice cream. That was Ms. Roth who called Santa Claus fat on television that Christmas, and she has a continuing campaign against the humble Girl Scout cookies, on the premise that no community activity should promote unhealthy eating.

One must wonder if there’s something else eating (or not eating!) at Ms. Roth.

March Of Dimes: Walk For Maddie

mihow — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 16:48:55 +0000

The moment I heard about Maddie Spohr’s tragic death, I knew I had to do something. So, whenever Isabel Kallman of AlphaMom wrote on Twitter stating that she’d be walking for the March of Dimes in honor of Maddie, I decided to join her.

Neil, Isabel, and Jen

It was completely out of character for me to do something like that. I normally shy away from people I don’t know and events full of new faces. And before Sunday, I hadn’t ever met any of these people before. I’m so glad I overcame any anxiety I had, because I had the best time.

Up until Sunday, I had no idea what I’d been missing.

I honored Maddie on Sunday the best way I knew how, through laughter, conversation, and good old fashioned work. We walked three miles through the streets of New York City. And once we arrived at our destination, I gathered every last bit of strength I had left and ran the remaining 5 miles home.

I thought of Maddie the entire way. Every time I thought about giving up (it was 90 degrees, after all!), I pictured her smiling face and kept on going.

And when I got home and I felt that I could change the world.

So, you’ll have to forgive me if this post comes off as selfish, I know no other way to express my gratitude at this point, and I simply don’t understand what it means to lose a child, but I need to take a minute and thank the March of Dimes, Marinka, and everyone I walked beside that day.

Most importantly I need to thank Madeline Alice Spohr.

On sunday, I not only felt proud calling myself a blogger, a March of Dimes Mom, and a mother; I felt proud calling myself a human being.

Thank you, Maddie.

Photos From The Bronx Zoo

mihow — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 17:25:11 +0000

We went to the Bronx Zoo on Saturday. I can’t put into words how awesome of a day we had. It was probably one of the best days of my life.

Here are a few pictures from our visit.

We rode the insect merry-go-round. Em was fine at first, but it started to freak him out toward the end. We had to hold him for the last couple of rotations. And it made Toby Joe sick, which is hilarious.

We took him to the bird pond. He loves birds, especially ducks. He quacked at them. And I find it particularly amusing that he was most impressed with an animal that crashed the place.

Here he is looking at the ducks and diving birds.

We stopped by to say hello to the giraffes and, I’m sorry, but giraffes are the weirdest looking creatures ever. Plus, how can something survive by only sleeping 20 minutes per night? Deep sleep or not? They’d make excellent new parents! Anyway, we stood there in awe of them.

Now that it’s spring, we’re going to make this a regular weekly thing. The New York Aquarium is on our list of places to visit, as well as the American Museum of Natural History, Central Park, and The Brooklyn Botanical Garden. I’m really looking forward to watching Em’s eyes light up on a regular basis. It’s like being a kid all over again.

Astra Taylor: Examined Life

mihow — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 20:36:00 +0000

We’re dealing with an extremely sick baby (again). I haven’t had time to shower let alone write anything (but had every intention on doing so!) Anyway, I stole a minute and wanted to pass along a very special link. Our friend, Astra, was in the New York Times this weekend! Read all about it here. And then you should totally go see her movie. It’s wonderful, thought-provoking and inspiring.

The Drama Never Ends

mihow — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 23:30:00 +0000

So we’re in the new place, right? And things are great. It’s really nice and I’m hosting playdates and getting the hang of things. Life’s pretty great, right?

And then this morning on our way home from the gym we’re stopped by two building inspectors who ask us if we live here and if they can come take a look. Now, I’m not sure what I would have done had Toby not been with me. Would I have let them in? Would I have panicked and just started running? Would I have broken into song?

I am not sure what I would have done. But Toby was with me and so it’s all moot.

We didn’t let them in. Instead we stood there like buffoons—lying buffoons, as they informed us that it’s illegal to be living in the building. And then I said, “I have to go move the car.” Even though same-side parking rules are suspended today and they know this because they work for the city. And I said it even though we clearly had just returned from someplace and were clearly entering the building to return home.

But I’m sure they’re used to this type of nonsense since there are thousands of people living in illegal lofts and commercial spaces all over New York City.

They’re used to lying buffoons.

But the part that sucks is that I had no idea up until this morning that we were living here illegally. I don’t mind lying if I know I may have to. But lying on demand? Impossible!

Apparently things are going to be OK. I’m not holding my breath, but I’m also not going to freak out. Surely this will end well. It must. But then I’m reminded of all the those times my car failed inspection—my perfectly (relatively speaking) decent car—and not a block out of NYS Inspection Station I’d see some rusted out, wheelless vehicle being driven 95 miles per hour on the BQE with a plume of smoke shooting out of its windows and exhaust pipe.

And I’d rant like a champ about it—the injustice!

There’s NO WAY this building is going to fail, right? I mean, given what I’ve seen people live in, given where we’ve lived in the past, there’s just no way.

But rules are rules.

I like living in New York. Most days. Most days I think about how much I’ll miss should we ever really need to leave town, but today is not one of those days. Couple those douchebags and their fake badges with the “wintery mix” we were blasted with last night, and I am tapping my heels together, muttering, “There’s no place called home. There’s no place called home.”

And I thought that posting this might be a dumb idea, because, well, we’re apparently outlaws, but the city knows what’s up. So who am I trying to hide this from?

God?

I think not.

The Update About Living.

mihow — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 00:13:00 +0000

This post has been a long time coming. It’s been so long, and so much has happened, I am not even sure what the Internet knows, thinks or wants to know (if anything) anymore. But for the sake of history, I feel that this needs to be written.

Granted, trying to catch my blog up on everything that’s taken place over the last three months is like trying to update someone on Lost (which is precisely how I felt back then). But I have to try. The good news is, this story doesn’t include polar bears. (I have never seen an episode of Lost but I do recall someone mentioning polar bears on a tropical island. I think that’s the moment I decided that I’d probably go my whole life without ever watching that show. Sorry, lovers of Lost.)

But I digress.

We almost moved to Washington, D.C. in November. We came so close, we even looked at houses in College Park, Maryland. We even loved a few of them. But they were costly! And we realized that by moving back there, we’d be in the exactly the same position we’re in here (unable to afford anything and barely able to pay the mortgage.) You see, DC has become a lot more expensive since we left in 2003—at least in the places we wish to live.

We almost moved to Boston, too, and probably would have had our landlords not informed us we had to be out on the 31st. Originally they told us we had until March, which would have given us enough time to figure out how to move there, and where to move to. Naturally, we were a little blindsided by their having changed their minds. But perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. Toby Joe and I have always had a hell of a time making decisions. We can’t even decide what to eat at night let alone where to live.

Boston seemed like a perfect option because the firm Toby works for is based there. That particular transition would have only included one major life change instead of two, which is what the DC option would have held. We read that the public schools are good, it’s relatively safe, and we know people there.

But we didn’t really have the time to do it right.

Out of frustration and worry and uncertainty, we even talked about moving somewhere small like State College or Media, PA. Both of us have this dream of living somewhere sweet and quaint, but neither of us can find jobs in these idyllic places. We’re tied to a city of some sort. And I do like the city—particularly New York, Boston and DC. But I also wish my kid could play outside and we could afford a house (within an hour commute). I also kind of like the idea of country and/or suburban life (ease of parking, shopping, getting the most basic things done), as bizarre as that may seem.

We realized right away that places like State College and Media are going to remain idyllic because they are unattainable to us—at least for now.

But that’s OK.

All of our indecision was taking place alongside one of the worst financial eras our country has ever seen. It seemed that every day we got word of yet another failing business or crumbling financial institution. Naturally, I began to freak out. I used to be terrified of nuclear disasters. (I lived about 10 miles from Three Mile Island when it leaked. I was six at the time. I had reoccurring nightmares well into my teens.) Now my fears surround money (or lack thereof), our society, and the fact that I am now accountable for another human being.

The news and our uncertainty made me do things I am not very proud of. Instead of internalizing it, writing stuff down, working it out on my own, I began dragging other people into it—people I have known for a long, long time. I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. No joke. I am embarrassed by my behavior. The damage I have done to some relationships is astronomical. And I will probably spend years trying to repair it, if I have a chance at doing so at all.

I have had now what feels like a 2-month long hangover. It was like one of those hangovers where you wake up the next day and you think, “Oh my goodness, I have to call everyone and apologize for the way I acted!”

It’s like that. Only I was drunk on fear.

The last week of November was spent scrambling, and so we decided—three weeks before our lease was up—where we’d be living.

Toby Joe loves his job. I have said from the get-go that he probably works for one of the best companies I have ever known. I think I’ve even said as much here before, so we decided staying put was our best option. Had we decided this months beforehand, however, I’d have a lot fewer mistakes under my belt and we’d probably been able to find a more affordable apartment. (As it is, we’re cutting a lot of extras out of our lives but that’s OK. We should have done that a long time ago.)

In the end, we moved 10 blocks away from our old apartment into a new building with an elevator, a washer and dryer. Plus, the walls are level to the floor. It’s nice. For now. But it’s not ours.

The irony of all this is we were trying to save in order to one day buy a place. And every single option we faced (after finding out we could not renew at our previous place) required spending at least 10 grand in savings. (Security deposits, plus moving costs add up.) And to make it even further absurd, we are now paying so much in rent, saving isn’t going to be possible, not until Em’s first (and only) semester is up.

This post, I can assure you, is not me complaining. I am far too embarrassed and tired to whine about any of this. Our problems are relatively small compared to what much of America is going through right now. I know that we have it really great.

We’re lucky. I know this.

But I figured that maybe if I put this out there someone might learn from my mistakes. Because I made a lot of them and they didn’t only affect me.

Maybe if I put this one out there I’ll figure out how to become a better person and find a way to apologize to all those I included in our 3-month long drama.

I don’t know.

But I do know this, if I were one for making New Year’s resolutions, I’d make this one my own: Be a better person to your friends and family. You are lucky to have such great people in your life and you simply do not treat them like you know it.

So, where does this leave us? Well, we’re broke again, but used to it. And I think there are a lot of people in our position. Not that that makes it any better for anyone but misery does love a little company. We like where we’re living now and we’re happy to stay here until we really can’t afford it any longer.

I’m happy. I think. But I’m not able to brag about it because the chemistry in my brain is boasting otherwise. Once those levels get worked out, I will say definitively that I am happy.

The forecast looks really good. That’s all I can say at this time.

Goodbye, Russell Street.

mihow — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 00:00:00 +0000

Today was the last day we had access to our old apartment, an apartment we lived in for four years.

The picture below was taken the first few days we moved in, before our furniture arrived from San Francisco. Tobyjoe was hijacking the neighbor’s wireless network.

That same network is open and available today.

So much happened while living at Russell Street. I saw my early 30s under that roof. I got a job on Madison Avenue and quit it too. I met some lifelong friends. I got pregnant and had my first child while living under that roof. I said goodbye to a dear friend, as well as a beloved member of our family. I became a mother while living there, a fact that still blows my mind.

All in all, it was a nice home. Sure, its walls were totally uneven to the floor and everything leaned to one side. Our son’s toys often rolled north. But nothing in Brooklyn is perfect.

This morning I went over there by myself to finish cleaning and to remove the few remaining items. I went alone.

It was nice being there by myself. I spent most of that time lost in thought, walking from one end of the railroad apartment to the other—a physical timeline—inspecting our years with my hands, trying to remove our fingerprints, erase any proof of our having lived there.

A person can build up a heckuva lot of proof over four years. And that much proof is almost impossible to erase. But I tried.

Change, whether it be good or bad, has always been a funny thing for me. It almost always brings with it a side order of depression. So the last couple of weeks have been difficult. I admitted to Toby Joe just yesterday that I haven’t felt this sad, this emotionally troubled, since the months following Emory’s birth.

This is chemistry I’m talking about here. I have no control over it.

After we hand over our keys today, I imagine that soon they will coat the place with yet another layer of paint. They will cover up Schmitty’s paw prints that sit underneath our old bedroom window. They’ll cover up the holes we drilled into our bedroom door in order to install a latch. They’ll paint over the ghosted picture frame edges, our fingerprints—proof of our having been there at all.

But I reckon that no matter how hard one works to cover it up, pieces of us will remain there forever.

And so I think it’s time I move along, albeit sighing slightly.

Goodbye, Russell Street.

And hello, 2009.

Craziest Week Ever

mihow — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 20:50:00 +0000

This week is likely to turn into the most insane week ever. We’re scheduled to move in seven days. (I have been working on a post for a while regarding the move, but can’t seem to find the time to finish it. In a nutshell, we’re staying in Brooklyn but moving to a less contaminated, easier to use 2 bedroom, two bathroom apartment. It’s a long, long story. I will share it soon.) Toby’s birthday is Thursday and I have not one, but TWO freelance projects to finish up this week. Oh, I’m also a full-time mom, one who has yet to find a local babysitter.

I may have gotten myself in over my head. Cross your fingers for me, Internet.

The good news is we’re moving out of the highly toxic area of Greenpoint and into the wallet-raping Williamsburg area. But hey, we’ll have a view, a washing machine AND a dishwasher. (The article above is from the NYT and it’s a little disturbing.)

If I make it through this week in one piece and without the use sedatives, I will reward myself with another piece of chocolate covered carrot cake from Fabiane’s, which may sound truly disgusting, but is actually quite delectable. I have been craving it every day since we met.

Calling All New Yorkers

mihow — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 20:44:00 +0000

If you happen to see someone giving out the fake copy of The New York Times, I’d love it if you grabbed one for me. I’ll pay you in cupcakes, love and whatever else. No joke. Cupcakes. Homemade and awesome. The love is pretty awesome too.

(Thanks to Gothamist for the heads up.)

Voting As A Primary Caregiver.

mihow — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 23:34:00 +0000

Here in New York we weren’t allowed to hit the polls early. I’m anticipating long lines tomorrow. I’m wondering how other stay-at-home-moms are doing it (or have done it). Do you have a story to tell? Ideas? Suggestions? I have to bring Em with me. And while I’m hoping he behaves himself as long as we’re in line, I can’t promise anything.

Perhaps Election Day should become a national holiday, so that whomever goes to work for a living can stay home while the primary caregiver gets out to vote. While employers face charges if they don’t give their employees time off to vote, babies don’t have to follow the law.

If they can’t give the nation the day off, maybe they should have a “Fast Track” option for those of us with toddlers who really don’t enjoy being confined to a stroller for very long. Not that I’m looking for special treatment or anything. ;]

Edited to add: Early voting could go nationwide. Maybe in four years, this won’t be an issue for SAHMs and Dads after all.

I Hate New York.

mihow — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 20:19:00 +0000

I had a professor in college whose job it seemed was to make every one of his students as stressed out and angry as possible. The night I was accepted into the Graphic Design program I got a phone call from one of the seniors. He said, “Congratulations! You will cry. You know that, right? He makes grown men cry.”

Our professor worked hard at making our lives absolutely miserable. We lost sleep. We worked through days and nights. We had nose bleeds from darkroom chemicals, spray adhesive, fixative. It was like boot camp only without all the potential death and war. (Ok, maybe a little war.)

Naturally, we hated him. Everyone bitched and moaned about how difficult he was and how he was going to kill us all. We collectively hated him. And we collectively talked about it.

And then one day, right before I graduated, I realized something.

There were 23 in my graduating class. We spent countless hours together, sometimes not bathing for days at a time. Sometimes we went 48-hours without brushing our teeth or washing our underarms. We all did this in a studio together, sometimes working over top of one another in the darkroom or the computer lab. Yet, we rarely fought.

Under most circumstances, 23 people living that closely and for that long would have fought. But we spent almost all of commiserating about how much we hated our professor (who was a very smart man and an even better teacher). Did he do it on purpose? Was he merely acting as the tyrannical drill sergeant? Was he getting the best work out of his students by having us direct all of our stress at him instead of at one another?

The idea blew my mind because (even if he didn’t mean to do it) it worked.

I complain a lot about living in New York. I complain on here, to friends and to family. My friends and family (I think) know that I’m just blowing off steam most of the time. But there are some who probably just think I’m a resentful, hateful, cranky bitch.

And I am all those things sometimes, but not most of the time. I am only just now realizing that I may not have painted a very accurate portrait of myself. And judging by the email I receive and some of the comments I get, I know that many people have it very wrong.

So. Here goes nothing.

I’ve given some people the impression that I don’t have any friends who are mothers. That’s untrue. I have actually met several local mothers whom I really like. We try and hang out regularly although nap schedules, partners’ schedules, and overall exhaustion tends to get in our way. But whenever we do find time, we hit the park and gab as our little ones run around for an hour or two. I really enjoy their company and if our living conditions were slightly easier, I think we’d get to spend even more time together. I’m going to miss them so much whenever we leave here, so very much.

I don’t write about them for a number of reasons. The main reason is that I try and respect their privacy. I also don’t have very much time anymore to write coherent essays (or essays at all).

I realize how annoying it can be—trying to fill in the blanks. I get annoyed that people even try. There are far too many blanks to fill in! On here, lately, I paint the smallest portion of a picture representing my life. That may change soon and I hope that it does, but for now, I just don’t have the time. For what it’s worth, I don’t think I’m a bad mother. I don’t think everything is falling apart around me. I am not suffering from self-hatred most of the time. I just tend to bitch a lot on here I guess.

I know that one thing is for certain, I simply need to illustrate somehow that I have a lot of joy in my life. Most urgent, however, since we’ll be leaving New York soon, I must, for the sake of history, illustrate just how much I’m going to miss this place. (I am wiping a tear from my eye as I write this.)

It occurred to me recently that Greenpoint, Brooklyn is the one place that I have lived the longest. (When you add in the time I spent living here before I met Tobyjoe). I love this place. After all, I think (hope?) that it’s pretty safe to say that this is the only place I’ll ever live where I’ll be able to watch a hobo take a dump in my backyard and then wipe his ass.

What’s not to love about that? I mean, as sick as it may be, it’s temporary and slightly hilarious, so I might as well file it under the “Things I Tolerated And Even Laughed About When I Was Younger” category. Also in this category is my difficult and absurd parking fiascos, the half naked man I watched snort heroin at 1 PM at the local public track, and the crack bag I intercepted from my son on the children’s playground. I tolerate the smell of the human waste facility not too far from here and the fact that it wafts up from our sewers at least twice a week making morning walks downright third world. I deal with the loud construction taking place out back now that the hobos are gone. (Is it wrong of me to miss them?) I tolerate the toxic waste dump in our backyard as well as the water bugs (American Cockroaches, you ain’t foolin’ no one, New York) the size of small cats. I even tolerated the crack head that ripped my antenna off of my car so he could smoke up. I even tolerate the insanely high rents and even higher mortgages.

I have tolerated all of this and I continue to do so. And I do think it’ll end up being hilarious one day (assuming that none of us get leukemia from the benzine leak in our backyard).

You simply must tolerate the good, the worse, and the vile if you wish to live in New York. (Switch the city, however, and people might call you insane for putting up with such nonsense.)

But this is New York! New York gets away with being the drunk aunt at the wedding party, the rich 90-year-old with the 24-year-old wife, the strange 7-year-old boy who touches himself too much in public, the gassy grandfather at the dinner table. You shrug it off as expected, maybe joke about it to a few people and get on with your day.

I’m going to miss it. I am going to miss all the weirdness and grime. I am going to miss the fodder for stories to tell people whenever I see them. I am going to miss the defecating hobos, the laughing hipsters with stupid haircuts, the Polish kids who collect sticks.

New York is tolerated because it’s New York and it has a stigma attached to it, whether you agree with it or not. And New Yorkers get to bitch about New York and blame everything bad going on in their lives on the city, like it’s a living thing (or a graphic design professor). At the end of the day New Yorkers all have one thing in common: we get to collectively bitch about how much we hate the city we love.

^{Photographs are from this series.}

Edited to add: I have gotten a lot of email asking where we’re moving and when. We don’t know yet and we don’t know yet. But we know we have to leave here. I’m sorry I have been so vague. It’s not intentional. I am vague because I don’t know the answers yet myself.

Empty Cages Collective

mihow — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 21:45:00 +0000

It’s been a couple of weeks since I wrote about Empty Cages Collective. Since then quite a bit has changed. Thanks to many of the people who graciously visit this Web site, ECC received a great number of donations. Lisa has had her arms full with kittens, cats and adoption events, but she expressed to me several times how grateful they are.

Thank you so much.

They also got some press! I’m hoping that’s just the beginning. The more people in New York City who hear about what they’re trying to do, the better life will be for all of us, fuzzy or human.

Last but not least, ECC held an adoption event at The Beehive recently and 7 cats were adopted! Seven. That’s outstanding! They still have a lot more and there are many other colonies out there breeding and breeding, but that’s pretty remarkable for a one-day event.

Anyway, ECC is holding another adoption event this Saturday at Muddy Paws here in Greenpoint. Stop by if you are in the area. We’ll be there as well!

Francisco DeFlaviis – The Lone Juror.

mihow — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 23:24:00 +0000

Joseph Petcka, the man arrested for beating a 7-pound cat to death, had his day in court recently. The jury came back hung: 11 to 1. After five days of deliberations eleven people were in favor of convicting Petcka of aggravated animal cruelty. A lone juror by the name of Francisco DeFlaviis did not believe that Joseph Petcka killed the cat on purpose.

Joseph Petcka weighed 205 pounds at the time. He and his girlfriend had just had a fight. The cat, Norman, weighed 7 pounds. Norman was declawed.

Petcka said he kicked the cat to death in self defense.

I could go on about how I feel regarding animal cruelty in this country. I could go on about how unbelievably angry his actions and this mistrial makes me. But I won’t. Instead of stating the obvious, instead of ranting without resolve, I’m hoping that something positive might come out of this.

Please don’t forget to donate to the ASPCA. Help them put an end to animal cruelty. Help them spread the word that beating an animal to death will not be tolerated in this country.

CNN Outside Lehman Brothers Headquarters.

mihow — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 19:55:00 +0000

Forgive me for the horrible quality of this video. I don’t have the fancy equipment needed to do this. Plus, our TV died last week, so we’re using the 70-dollar tube we purchased from a Radio Shack in San Francisco. But it’s clear enough that I think you’ll get the point.

The United States woke up with a wicked financial hangover today. But I’m happy to see that at least these two guys are enjoying themselves. The nipple slurping is particularly unsettling.

Moving Pictures.

mihow — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 01:20:00 +0000

The year was 1998. I was living in Washington, D.C. in a small, one bedroom apartment on 16th Street. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of 2 years. In less than 24 hours, our apartment was nearly emptied. I was living alone for the first time in my life.

Missy and I decided to go away for the weekend and visit our alma matter in order to spend some valuable time reminiscing with people around a keg. It was during that trip, I decided that to buy a massive, 2-ton television set.

I met Toshiba at Sears.

The TV weighed a lot. So the strong men working for Sears helped us get it into the back of the car. I never once thought about how Missy and I would get it into my apartment back in D.C. The building had an elevator, but how would we get it to the elevator? And then how would we get it to my door? And then how would we get it onto the TV stand? These were not questions I thought about until much later when we pulled up to my apartment building.

“How are the two of us going to get this out of the car and into your building?” Missy asked.

“Great question.” I said. “Maybe we can do it?”

Missy looked skeptical.

But we managed. Somehow we got it out of the car. I have no idea how. After that we rolled the box from door-to-door hoping the styrofoam casing would protect it. We rolled it onto the elevator, down the hallway on the 4th floor, and then rolled it right through the front door. And with every last bit of our strength, we hoisted it onto the pedestal.

All I had to do was never, ever leave.

In 1999 I began dating a guy whom I had been friends with for well over a year. And while our friendship may have lasted indefinitely; our romantic relationship ignited, sparked, exploded, smoldered and then fell to the ground in a heap of black ash in less than 5 months. Our main goal at that time was entrusting ourselves with the task of not trusting one another. That was imperative, and a relationship destined for failure.

But he did have the same TV and used to joke that the only reason I got mine was to one-up him because mine was like an inch larger. TV Envy, is what he called it.

We broke up. And it was tumultuous. It was harrowing. And I decided one night for no reason whatsoever that I was going to move to New York City.

Just like that.

A day before I was scheduled to move, I asked a friend of mine—a very strong friend of mine—if he’d help. I told him I’d buy him dinner, drinks, and give him a place to stay. I’d even pay for his train ticket to get back to D.C. He agreed.

Getting the TV into the truck at the DC end wasn’t difficult for him at all. He simply had to lift it up once, move it to the cart we had borrowed from U-Haul, and then lift it onto the truck. I helped. But barely.

I hadn’t thought to tell him about having to get it up the three flights of stair once we got to Brooklyn.

When we pulled onto my new street, it was already after 8 PM. And it was raining. We hustled and moved everything we could upstairs as fast as we could. The rain steadied as we began to wobble. I had hit that point during a move where giving up seems probable. I began leaving boxes and items on the street for passersby.

“How are we going to get the TV up three flights of stairs?” Todd asked me scratching his head.

“Us?” I answered stupidly.

“Are you kidding me?” He looked shocked. And he should have been. I couldn’t even hold the TV set let alone bring it up three flights of stairs.

“Missy and I rolled it into my DC apartment. Maybe we could do that?”

“UP the stairs? Roll it? Are you fucking crazy?”

I stood in the rain and kicked at nothing with my feet. I felt stupid in my new city. What was I thinking? Breaking up with him was a great move, but uprooting everything and moving to a new city was not the best way to be alone.

Todd went to the truck and got the TV out onto the sidewalk. The rain fell down onto its plastic casing. I didn’t care.

He lifted the TV up the three steps that led to the front door and stopped. “I can’t do this alone. There’s just no way.” He was out of breath.

We waited on the stoop in front of two propped open doors, which tossed 40 watt foyer light at us as the rain continued to fall. We were to meet friends for dinner in less than an hour. I was starving, cold and damp. I was tired from moving and driving all day. And it was suddenly becoming very clear to me that I had just uprooted my entire life—TV and all—and moved to New York City.

And that’s when I made up my mind. We had to breakup. This was going to be my third break up in 1 year.

“Let’s just leave it here. The fucking thing is too heavy. I hate how heavy it is. I don’t need a TV. I definitely don’t need that TV. I’m going to be too busy here and I can’t afford cable. Just leave it. Let it be somebody else’s problem. I’m sick of it.”

Just as I was getting to the meat of my sermon about how the TV and I weren’t meant to be together and that the TV and I never got along anyway, a 7-foot tall, muscular monster of a man walked up to the stoop.

“Can I help you?” The man said. He was German. “Looks like you could use help some.”

“You sure you want to do that? She’s on the third floor!” Todd answered.

“Not is problem.” He assured us. “It’s rain. Let’s go.”

And just like that, the gentle German giant and a friend named Todd brought the TV and I back together again.

That night we joked about whether or not our German was real.

(It’s been 8 years and I’m still not sure.)

On a day in September of 2001 I witnessed the worst day of my life so far. A month later (to the day) I met the man of my dreams. He and I were inseparable. We watched movies from my love seat. The first movie we ever watched together was “You Can Count On Me”.

We knew each other for three weeks before deciding to move into a loft together. The loft was roughly 4 blocks from that apartment, but it was zoned commercial and was on the fourth floor. There was a freight elevator but the hallways were long (almost a block from door to door).

I hired movers.

Moving day arrived. Three men showed up in a big white truck. One of the men was knee high to a grasshopper, Jamaican and dark as night. He was by no means someone I’d call muscular. The other two were much bigger in size. I worried about the smaller man. I worried about him right up until I watched him carry that TV set on his shoulders by himself down three flights of stair.

“He’s a fucking beast!” Said a taller man.

When we got to the loft, he carried it up into the freight elevator and then down the long hallway and into our loft.

I suggested twice that he be careful, that his back would surely break beneath that TV. He said, “Oh, you seely gurl, muh grandmummy could carry this TeeVee.” And he had a mighty chuckle. As did I.

I have for years wondered what would one day separate the two of us, take that TV down once and for all. After 2001 it moved back to DC and then again to another apartment in DC. In 2004 it was boxed up by movers and loaded into a wooden Door-to-Door Mover’s storage bin. It made it to San Francisco three weeks later unharmed.

Six months later it was loaded into a big wooden container once again and then shipped back to a slightly larger railroad apartment in Brooklyn where it has lived ever since.

My 10-year-old Toshiba died sometime late Sunday night. The last thing it saw was a member of the Colts fumble a football. I was in bed at the time. I heard Tobyjoe mutter a few OHMYGODS! at the TV. He then shut it down for the night. The next morning it projected nothing more than a thin white line.

Tobyjoe beat it a couple of times and it was able spit out one final image before taking its last breath. It projected a weather map of the United States.

Smart Indeed

mihow — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 20:41:00 +0000

This is for egirl because of what she responded with on this post. The trucks were there last night with a big ol’ spot in between them. We woke up to this:

I actually left a note on their car letting them know they made our morning. Hopefully they get to it before Hanna does.

There are so many massive cars living on this block. The juxtaposition here astounds me.

If You Get Caught Between a Loan and New York City.

mihow — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 20:12:00 +0000

I wrote to HGTV on Friday night. Can you believe that? I am desperate. We were watching House Hunters. I turned to Tobyjoe and said, “Call them and tell them to find us a house.”

“Do it. Write them.”

“Nah. Kidding.”

“That’s how it happens. People are sitting around, frustrated, they send an email and then the get on TV. Write them.”

So I did. I sent an email that will end up in the digital equivalent to a dead letter office.

Here’s the deal. To many living elsewhere, we actually can afford a pretty expensive house. There are many New Yorkers who would disagree, however, because the market here is so insanely resilient nothing ever goes down in price and instead continues to rise. It’s an enigma really. Manhattan was one of the only cities this year to rise where real estate is concerned. Pittsburgh was another. (Hello, Pennsylvania! My first love!)

To people living almost everywhere else in America, we probably sound like a big bunch of babies. And believe me, there are days where I have to stop myself from throwing a temper tantrum. To those who can afford to buy near Manhattan, however, we’re actually at the low end of the financial spectrum. To prove this point, I called a Westchester based Weichert agent last week and when I gave her our price range, she hurried our call. But not before reassuring me she’d call me back the following day. She never called. This isn’t the first time this has happened. We’ve been ignored by several agents because of how little we can afford when you compare it to the majority of the buyers around New York. Just today we were told by another agent that we simply must stop looking in her area based on our price range.

Agents just don’t want to waste their time on us. I can’t say I blame them. But my goodness does it ever make me angry sometimes. I feel totally defeated.

In order to buy a house in the city or close by, one must sacrifice safety, (in most cases) the quality of schools, the house’s structure, size or both. A lot of “affordable” options are total gut jobs. The house across the street from our apartment (which was advertised as a total gut job) sold for 800,000.

We don’t have that kind of money or time to devote to our living quarters.

We did discover some neighborhoods in New Jersey that worked but we were scared off by the taxes (one of the houses we looked at had an annual property tax of 12,000), the crime rate and/or the school system. Plus, like what you see happening here in Brooklyn, most all of the time the houses we could afford out that way needed a lot of work.

Again, we don’t have the money right now or time to renovate or even upkeep, which is precisely what we were looking at in Maplewood.

Then there’s the loan/down payment fiasco. In the city, you need at least 10% down, a lot of the time 20%. Most houses in our area sell for 700,000 and up. Even if we could afford that (which we can not) we don’t have the down payment. We don’t have 100 grand to put down on a house in order to make our monthly payments close to affordable.

If we buy in a safer neighborhood outside of the city (we’re talking an hour’s commute by train) and forego the down payment (which I’m not sure any bank will allow for these days) we would suddenly qualify for a jumbo loan. The interest rate is phenomenally high. That’s irresponsible and quite frankly, we simply can’t do it. If anything were to pop up (an appliance dies, flooding in the basement, termites, whatever) we’d have to use credit to pay things off. I think that’s irresponsible.

On Saturday we went even further out. And guess what? The houses are still very expensive. In some cases, the property taxes went down, and the houses were in much better shape, but they were a lot smaller and more expensive than what we were seeing in Maplewood, South Orange, and West Orange. We liked several of the homes we saw. But again, the lack of a sizable down payment to keep us out of jumbo loan territory stops us every time.

We have discussed downsizing our rental here in Brooklyn and buying a house two hours or more outside the city just to get some equity. But the rents here have gone up almost as much as the mortgages. We can’t afford both a mortgage (even a really cheap one) and rent. And since the rents have gone up so much in our area, finding another rental would mean not being able to save defeating the purpose entirely.

We’re stuck. Not to sound dramatic, we’re basically being asked to leave.

Why am I writing today? I’m not sure. Perhaps so I can one day look back on all of this and say, Thank goodness that’s all over! Because the indecision is killing me. Our inability to buy a place in a city that I have called home since 2000 is really just heartbreaking. Perhaps I’m writing because I hope that someone out there is in the same situation, misery does love a little company, after all.

And I’ll admit it. There’s a small part of me (the same part of me who buys a lottery ticket once every three years) who hopes that by some magical twist of fate my words will fall upon the ears of some real estate bigwig, someone who can step in and assist us, let us know what we may be overlooking. Because I have no idea how to make this work. This just isn’t my area of expertise.

Our lease is up in December and we still have no idea where we’ll be living. I can’t even begin to explain the amount of stress Tobyjoe and I are enduring based on that fact. And all the while we’re trying to raise our astonishingly happy son.

If houses were bought on smiles alone, we’d have thousands thanks to him.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 56)

mihow — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 16:56:00 +0000

Murray was orphaned at a very young age. I’m sure many of you know that already. He was so young he had to be bottle-fed by human hands. I talked over Chapter 56 with Murray and he agreed that those human hands are what I need to write about today.

Murray was nurtured by two people: Lisa and PJ. Though PJ doesn’t quite remember Murray (due to the number of cats he’s cared for before, and since) he is responsible for much of Murray’s trust of humans.
When Murray was a few weeks old, Lisa took over. Because Murray is unable to thank them personally, I’m going to try and do it for him.

PJ and Lisa have dedicated themselves to starting a unique animal advocacy group, and I’m attempting to contribute what I can to their effort.

THEIR MISSION

“The Empty Cages Collective (ECC) is a New York-based animal and environmental advocacy organization. ECC aims to cultivate a culture where animals are recognized as fellow sentient beings worthy of respectful and compassionate treatment. Through advocacy, education, hands-on rescue and assistance, the ECC envisions a world free of animal exploitation, abuse, and ecologically destructive behavior.”

WHAT THEY’VE BEEN DOING

They Trap, Neuter and Release animals back into their natural habitats. Here’s where being a realist can actually make a difference. As opposed to someone like me, who can only see the big picture, someone who wants ALL animal abuse to stop, all homeless cats to be adopted, all things to wrap up perfectly. It’s never going to happen that way. Instead of doing something, I get overwhelmed and give up.

PJ isn’t like that. Neither is Lisa. Sure, they want all of those things as well, but they’re a bit more level-headed about it. They take it day by day. They’re hoping that with every cat they trap and neuter, a dozen less will be born next season. They’re hoping that we city-dwellers can one day coexist with our city-dwelling friends. They’re hoping to teach people that animals living within the city aren’t a nuisance and that it’s not necessary to kill every stray or feral or wild animal you come across.

There’s room for all of us. Hell, they were probably here first anyway.

The problems they’re facing is that they’ve found so many adoptable kittens during their trapping efforts that they’re running out of room and resources to continue with their TNR efforts. To put it bluntly, they need some help.

HOW WE CAN HELP

When I asked PJ what they needed the most, he gave me the following list: donate, volunteer, and adopt. He reiterated twice to me that donate and volunteer are head-to-head in urgency. Granted, if they can get the cats they have in-house adopted soon, they might have more money to use for TNR. Obviously, adoption is important as well.

I’m writing this today on behalf of Murray and all the critters out there that are needlessly killed. Can you help Lisa and PJ and their cause? Do you have a dollar to spare? Do you have some time to donate? Do you have a Web site you can use to help get the word out? Can you write them some kind words? Anything will help, any amount, any number of hands or hours, any advertisement—big or small.

If you have some extra paypal cash and/or an Amazon gift card you’re not using, visit this link and send some stuff their way. (Some of the items on that list run as low as 4 bucks.)

If you’re interested in adopting a cat, here are the animals they have up for adoption. I’m going to put up some pictures as well.

And if you got some old balled up dollar bills you washed in that pair of jeans from last winter, they’ll take monetary donations as well.

For those of you who have some cash but don’t have a lot of time and just want to click a button and be done with it, here’s a link to their paypal account.

To read more about what they’ve been doing click here.

From here on out, I’m going to be donating as much as I can out of the money I make from advertising on this Web site. It’s not much, but it’s something. I purchased 90 pounds of cat litter for them yesterday. Like I said, every little thing matters right now. It doesn’t have to be a huge sum—or cash at all.

At some point in the near future, I plan on designing some banners for them so that other bloggers can add them to their site. I hope that you will join me getting the word out for them. I realize that they’re Brooklyn based right now, but if this works out—this model—it could become a nationwide advocacy group.

If you have a dime or or some time to spare, do it for Murray. He wouldn’t be here had it not been for these two people and their great big hearts.

Digital Sausages

mihow — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 22:18:00 +0000

There’s a digital clock at the top of our stove. Each number is made up of digital sausage links. They’re curveless and rigid but they do the job. Twos look like backwards fives, threes like eights without Western borders.

When we first moved in, the stove was brand new and so the clock was as well. It worked well. Each sausage did its job. Together, they made up numbers.

About three years ago, our oven just stopped working. For no reason, just stopped working one day. I turned it on to 400 degrees gleefully anticipating a homemade pizza, and a half hour later it was still cold. We did what all renters do, we called our landlord.

When the repairman arrived, he sold our landlord on a warranty. Included in that warranty was the clock, which had had recently lost the top digital sausage making up the second number. I remember when it happened too. I remember trying to figure out why it was so dark at 4 PM.

The repairman didn’t have the parts to repair the clock. “You’ll have to schedule another visit. But you should know that you have a warranty. The clock’s included.” He said. “The light, too.”

Due to my Easy Bake Oven and Shrinky Dink days, and the fact that I really enjoy watching things cook, change, grow, shrink, melt, move, and brown like old paper, the light burned out a few months after we moved in.

It’s been dark ever since.

We’re outgrowing our apartment. And for the life of me, I cannot figure out who is buying up all the real estate in our neighborhood, who can afford to. I have asked a few people and no one ever really gives me a straight answer. I’m still asking.

Who is buying up all these condos and houses?

I’m still very much in the dark waiting for an answer.

But it was only recently that I began to realize that we actually have to leave here, that it’s not really a choice anymore. It’s becoming a necessity. We don’t have the room here for a toddler. And it’s not safe.

But I think the moment that I realized that we simply had to leave, was right around the time my son turned 9 months old. We were two hours north of the city and we watched him touch green grass for the very first time.

I said to Tobyjoe, “Do you realize this is the first time Em has touched grass?”

Neither one of us said another word.

Truthfully, I have no idea how to make this work. As much as I want to, as much as I’d like to, as much as we should be able to, we have no way of making this work. And up until recently, I haven’t been willing to accept that fact.

The clock on our stove has become a failure at its only function. We don’t even try and guess what time it is anymore. And at some point during the last two years, three more digital sausages burned out. I always thought I might catch one of the sausage’s final, parting moments. But other than that minor amusement, it’s been useless for a while.

What good is a clock that can’t tell time? What good is a clock that’s slowly dimming over time—quite literally?

Last night I was baking a homemade pizza when I paid our barely functioning clock a brief glance. I noticed that yet another link had gone dark. And with a chuckle it occurred to me that I may have had its function wrong all along. Perhaps it’s not there to tell us what time it is at all, or, at least not in the usual sense. Perhaps it’s letting us know in its own special way—through the dimming and eventual darkness of individual digital sausages—how much time we have left.

Where Should We Eat?

mihow — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 21:00:00 +0000

We have reservations at Gramercy Tavern tomorrow for 7 PM. But we just found out that we can get in to Le Bernardin tomorrow at 8 PM. (Toby knows people and those people pulled some strings for us.)

So, if you’re reading this and you’ve been to either, or you know anything about either restaurant, please help us decide.

We so rarely get to go out these days alone. I’d like to make the very best of it.

(Email me if you can suggest either.)

It’s Crazy What I Could’ve Had

mihow — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 22:04:00 +0000

I wandered around Manhattan (for the first time since Em was born) with my dear friend Nico on Saturday. We had lunch outside at a café near Union Square and shopped until near exhaustion. (It was damn hot.) I got home just in time to watch the sky attack Brooklyn for several hours; the thunderstorms were awesome.

Unfortunately, due to uncertainty about where we’ll be living come December, I came home with only a ten dollar pair of sunglasses from Feline’s Basement and a small Father’s Day gift for Toby. (He enjoys making us both jam and cheese plates. I thought the nerd in him might find it funny as he sometimes writes code on graph paper.) I wanted to buy a whole lot more.

We had lunch with Brad and Laura yesterday. They are expecting a baby in July. She looks amazing, far better than I whenever I was that far along. Even her ankles looked great! Being with a pregnant woman made me realize how much I miss being pregnant. (Did I just write that out loud?)

I think I’m feeling this way lately because I’m nearing the time Em was born and will therefore fully exit a year of no longer being pregnant. I’m not sure if that makes any sense at all. I call this “The Overlap”. And usually, it’s a good thing. It usually helps me to get over something. For example, say a certain song reminds you of someone whom is no longer in your life making it difficult to hear. “The Overlap” requires listening to that song under new circumstances, with new people so that new memories are created.

I do this with food, smells, songs, periods of time, breakups, vacations, friendships, loyalties, bars, cities, towns, and now apparently pregnancies.

In this instance, however, it makes me a little sad. I’m really going to miss not being able to say, “Last year at this time, I was fully of happy hormones” or “Ndugu was kicking the shit out of me last year at this time!”

I’m not sure if that makes any sense. Maybe I’m a little nuts.

(Note to self: Must bookmark this post so that if I ever do become pregnant again I can go back at 8 months and read it and make fun of myself.)

This week should prove pretty pleasant. On Thursday we have dinner reservations at Gramercy Tavern. My mother is going to come for the day and watch Em. Toby and I are both looking forward to the night out, so much so, we passed on two R.E.M. tickets because the show conflicted with our dinner plans. A younger me would have kicked my ass for this. I simply adore R.E.M. I can’t even begin to tell you how much they mean/meant to me. But I think perhaps my older brother is the only person who will realize how crazy the choice I made really is.

I know this doesn’t make me very popular, but right now, I’d much prefer a quiet night out with my husband at a fine restaurant over standing in Madison Square Garden surrounded by thousands of other people who may or may not really give a damn about the band before them.

The times? They have a-changed, whether I agreed or not.

Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 46)

mihow — Wed, 28 May 2008 05:22:00 +0000

PRELUDE

I had a great deal of trouble putting aside a post I’ve been writing for weeks in order to keep with Tuesday’s theme. The post in question is about how I plan on ending this Web site. It includes reasons why as well as ideas for what I could do with it. I’m still very much unsure about its future. I know only one thing for sure: mihow.com the “mommy blog” part will cease to exist.

And so I battled with this. I contemplated taking the day off.

But it’s TUESDAY! I thought. It’s Murray’s day. You have to write about Murray!

TUESDAYS WITH MURRAY

I receive a lot of email about Tuesdays With Murray. Even email not specifically about Murray usually includes a mention of how much the person loves him or how much they enjoy reading stories about him. Several people have told me Tuesdays With Murray is their favorite part about mihow.com. I’ve had people write letting me know how much their cat has in common with Murray. I had one person ask if Murray could be her lady cat’s baby daddy (a suggestion I may have entertained had he not been fixed). I guess the email boasting love for Murray shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. My stats alone speak volumes. For a year now, Tuesday has been my busiest day. I receive thousands more individual visits on Tuesday than any other day of the week.

Murray is loved. How can you not love something so much that loves so much for nothing?

I also get a lot of email asking me why I seem to like Murray more than the other cats. Some folks aren’t even aware of the fact that we have two other cats. I guess I do kind of give off that we-keep-two-red-headed-step-cats-chained-up-in-the-basement sort of vibe. But I assure you all, we love all three of our cats, and yours as well.

But this has me thinking about why Murray is kind of special to me. It’s not that I don’t love my other two cats—I do, I love them very much. But I think I take Murray love to Nicole Kidman, stalkerish levels. And I think I finally know why.

Let’s talk about the book this series was inspired by.

TIME TRAVEL

(This is part of the story where if it were a motion picture the image before you would fade a bit, a sepia-like tone would envelope the screen. There might even be some Wayne’s World “doodly doodly” music to stress that we’re going back in time.)

When I was 23-years-old I was doing an internship with Lifetime Television. I stayed in South Brooklyn with a friend from college. He and his girlfriend let me sleep in a small storage room off their bedroom for the duration of my stay.

My boyfriend remained in State College. We talked late at night and on weekends over the telephone. I paid for our chats whenever the bill came. There were no cell phones boasting rollover or unlimited nighttime and weekend minutes. There were no consumer Macintosh laptops to purchase (at least not that I knew of) which meant there was no email. He was studying to be a chef. His hands were too busy stirring pots of Hollandaise sauce to type an email, anyway. I was too busy commuting to and from a temporary job, all the while lining my shoes with Band-Aids and toilet paper to pad the blisters I grew during grueling lunchtime job searches.

I got turned away from so many different design firms. So many Art Directors shrugged and said, “We just don’t do many logos here.” I was so perplexed as to why good logo work meant I couldn’t do direct mail, brochures and annual reports but these folks were wiser than I.

“Get some experience first!” They’d say. “We’ll hire you after you get some experience.”

How does one get experience if everyone wants it first?

I was in New York. I was 23. I was in search of my own professional identity. I was full of hope, pipe-dreams, and excitement. I was naive but happy.

And I didn’t find a job.

My internship came to an end on a Friday. I took the F Train uptown one last time that morning, put in a full day’s work, and then took it back into South Brooklyn later that day. The following morning, I packed my bags and headed for Midtown. Along the way, I grabbed something to read, hopped on a bus and headed for central Pennsylvania.

It was during that bus ride I read “Tuesdays With Morrie”.

RIGHT NOW

I, like many people who spend a lot of time online, wrestle with it constantly. When my 23-year-old self looks at the me now, there’s a part of her who wants to slap me a few a times, knock some sense into my head. On the one hand, I am happier now than I’ve ever been. On the other hand, somewhere along the way I become a person living in fear, indecision, anxiety, cowardice, and (during my weakest hours) jealousy.

I’m in neutral. I’ve been in neutral for long time.

I have known for a while that once Emory got to be a certain age I’d shut this site down, at least in terms of how much and what I write about him. And the meat of this paragraph really demands much more attention and care than I am giving it now. I will go into it soon. I promise. But I will say this much: Emory shouldn’t be exposed the way he has, sans consent. I just don’t feel right about it.

THE REALIZATION

And so that brings me back to Murray, the book this series is based on, my life and me when I read it, and all three of my cats.

Tucker is The Orange One. He’s a bit skittish, paranoid and at times vindictive. A lot of the decisions he makes are fueled by jealousy. I still love him and he’s still very needy, but he can be a real bastard. Tucker is sneaky. Tucker is not to be trusted. This is how he got the name “Orangemani Terrorist”.

I’m a little bit like Tucker whenever I spend too much time away from doing the things that I love. I act like Tucker whenever I’m having a “nobody-likes-me!” kind of day. I may come off as unapproachable, mean and bitchy, but all I really want is a great big hug and some lovin’ behind the ears. I act like Tucker right before I act like Pookum.

Pookum is old and grumpy and at some point she kind of lost her ability to laugh. She’s overweight and lives in fear of the other cats. She thinks they’re out to get her even if they’re playing. Unless we break inertia for her, she just sleeps, eats, and poops. And I reckon that if we were to let her she’d probably give up on all the things that make her happy; she’d give up on life entirely.

I’ve been Pookum before. (Hold on, I have to go pet her.)

And then there’s Murray.

Murray is the hand stirring a pot of Hollandaise sauce, the smile that moves across a person’s face when no one else is looking. Murray is New York City before 9/11, the sound of the teenagers skateboarding out back. Murray is laughter among friends, that first sip of white wine, lightning bugs at dusk.

Murray is me before I exchanged my naivety and hope for experience and cynicism.

Murray is youth.

Murray is a fixed number of minutes and a computer you leave at home.

Murray is joy.

Murray is the you you thought you would be, and the you you still can.

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