Your newest Examiner

Hey guys. I've started writing for Examiner.com. as the NY Walking Examiner. If you haven't heard of the site, it offers a wealth of citizen journalism, from serious public policy issues to celebrity gossip fluff.

As your NY Walking Examiner, I'll be guiding my readers through the adventures to be found on foot, both within the city limits and beyond, in places easily accessible by public transport. Please be sure to check my Examiner page for updates. You can find that here: http://www.examiner.com/x-62240-NY-Walking-Examiner.

My first article for Examiner.com can be directly found here: http://www.examiner.com/x-62240-NY-Walking-Examiner~y2010m8d5-Next-stop-adventure.

Comment away, and please share with others!

Thanks loves!

XOXO

A

Adventures in second-hand

For the majority of human beings-- who, for the most part, remain eternal adolescents-- sometimes it takes a disaster for us to remove our heads from the sand (for those whose heads are planted firmly up their own arses, nothing, really, will ever cause their removal). I am speaking, specifically, of the Deepwater Horizon disaster. Realistic implications of the damage we so casually inflict on our habitat become visceral every once in a while-- the Exxon-Valdez oil spill, steep increases in gas prices, my brother encountering polar bears ever-more-frequently on land in the Arctic Circle. Our attention, unfortunately, is still so easily diverted, at least for those not living on the Gulf and not feeling the effects daily. Who knows why-- ADD? Ignorance? Wayward optimism? The majority of Americans-- 59%-- remain optimistic that the U.S. will find a satisfactory alternative to oil as a fuel for our energy needs within 25 years. With a history of inadequate funding and with a bleak future where real change in energy policy remains unlikely thanks to partisan bickering, that reality is doubtful.

It comes down, for now at least, to the individual to do his or her own part to decrease our reliance on oil-- to become less of a consumer, really, in the face of mounting pressure to exceed the Joneses and buy buy buy. I, personally, am doing my best to not let the Deepwater Horizon spill to be a blip on the radar, something I discuss at my version of the water cooler and then forget about. I've been trying hard to think of ways to decrease my carbon footprint. I take public transit, I sleep with a fan, not AC, until it's unbearable, I shorten my showers, I turn off lights, I recycle. I can do more: I can take the train instead of a taxi late nights, I can bring along my Nalgene instead of buying bottled water when I'm out, I can bring home recyclables from the office, which doesn't have recycling. The biggest way in my own life to reduce my carbon footprint, to become less of a consumer, however, involves my penchant for clothes and shoes. It's an addiction, really, and it won't cease entirely anytime soon. Still, there is a way for me to decrease my carbon footprint within this aspect of my life, in a big way. My decision to make a concerted effort to do so was sealed with a recent piece about the environmental, and human, impact of fast fashion on one of my favorite blogs, Jezebel.com. It is a worthy, and disarming read.

And that was it: I live in a giant city, one of the biggest in the world, where thrift shops and consignment stores and vintage stores and markets with artists selling their own hand-made designs abound. I am not limited to moth-ball-ridden clothing from the Salvation Army. And I need to take advantage of that. So I made a decision.

I will spend the next year consciously trying to not be such a consumer. I will do my best to purchase as much as I can second-hand. It won't be cold turkey (full disclosure: I bought a dress and shoes, new, today), but I will make a fully concerted effort. An added bonus: it will get me out of the house and exploring this amazing city more. I already spent one afternoon doing so, in the East Village. The afternoon proved bountiful. Here, the fruits of my labor:

Dolce and Gabbana peep-toes. A fine beginning for a new adventure: a year of second-hand shopping. I will continue to post the fruits of my labor here.

In Praise and Celebration of Buses

There is a lot of research that shows that changing one's routine, for example, the route to work, stimulates creativity. This, though, was not the reason I chose to switch things up on my way to work yesterday.

No, as I walked over to Cup, a cute little coffee shop near the train in my neighborhood, in the warm sunshine, I just couldn't bear the thought of descending down into the dank subway. I needed to extend my time in the sun.

As I crossed the street to the subway entrance, a glance over my shoulder revealed the B62 bus heading my way. The bus stop was just next to me-- impeccable timing, and my out for staying in the sun a bit longer. I hopped on, juggling iced coffee, magazine, two bags, wallet and metro card, per the usual routine, and plopped down next to the window, channeling my cat as I Buddha-smiled in the sunshine.

For most New Yorkers, the bus is a bit of an anathema. Nobody takes the bus. I was at a comedy show in the Lower East Side once with a friend. While I had stepped away momentarily to use the restroom, the comic made a mention of the MTA cutting bus routes. "What loser takes the bus anyway?" he asked. Good thing I was in the bathroom-- I had taken the bus there that evening. I was probably the only person in the room who had, and my friend most certainly would have pointed me out.

I don't quite know how to explain the hate. Perhaps the preference to travel underground relates to the New York neurotic sensibility. Perhaps it's because of the traffic. Maybe it's a socio-economic thing.

I understand the traffic concern. I usually limit my bus-riding to the outer boroughs, where traffic tends to be sparer. Still, two summers ago when I was interning in the 50s on the west side and then commuting to my second job in the 50s on the east side, I quite frequently took the very convenient crosstown bus, and even in thick traffic, it got me to my destination in minutes.

I've on the whole found buses to be timely, reliable and clean. And, of utmost importance, they're ABOVE GROUND! They also offer good alternatives for travel, so you can easily shake up that commuting routine and get the creative juices flowing.

As for me, I arrived to work yesterday smiling and energized, with no need for a second cup of coffee. I did ultimately have to hop on the subway during my morning commute, but those few extra minutes in the sun for sure made a difference in what turned out to be a very productive day.

Surgery

I am stealing an idea from Becca and posting work I do in my Creative Writing class here. Please feel free to comment. Constructive criticism is welcome.

***

In-class assignment: Take something that happened to you, using only the facts, but making it suspenseful.

I sit alone in a chair. My bare skin squeaks against the cold blue vinyl. My clothes are locked away somewhere in a locker, down one of these mazes of corridors. If I were to escape, I would have to do so naked but for this robe that barely covers my ass.

They've pulled a curtain around me and I can't see beyond the two-foot compartment in which I am sitting. I hear voices-- two people, mid-conversation, have flowed into the room beyond the curtain. I draw myself up in the chair, as though improving my posture somehow makes up for my bare ass. I try to wipe the sweat from my palms onto my robe, hiding any sign of fear.

I jump at the sound of metal on metal as the curtain is wrenched open.

"Hello dear," the nurse says, feigning geniality. I know the real deal.

My suspicions are confirmed as a long needle and a ribbon of rubber emerge from behind her back.

"Just try to relax," she says. "It's easier to find your vein that way."

That's what they all say.

Houdini Cat

At my old apartment, we had a roof deck. We lived on the top floor, and the deck was up a ladder and through a hatch. When we first got my cat Dixie, we decided to get her a leash and buy some clothesline to fix up a sort of cat run on the roof, so the little urban kitty could enjoy some outdoor time.

Dixie ended up hating the leash, but was actually quite well-behaved off the leash on the roof, so we ended up bringing her up with us and letting her hang out and enjoy her freedom. She loved it-- every time the door opened, she'd try to dash out, at times succeeding. She'd dash down the first set of stairs, then hang out abashedly, rubbing against the metal spindles of the stairway railing.

She loved being outside so much, in fact, that one day she decided to make her escape.

It was a lovely morning, mid-July, during the only month of summer weather in New York. I awoke happily, sunshine streaming in the window. Rolling over to my left side, I looked out the window, taking in the beautiful day.

Like most apartments in New York, the window looked out onto our fire escape. Metal safety bars outside the window had a pop-out for an air conditioner. We had put a flower box on top of the pop-out, and the morning glories had finally started to bloom.

My gaze drifted to the flower box to check the morning glories' progress. I saw something that didn't belong.

It took me a minute to determine what this figure was. It looked like... a cat. There was a cat sitting in the flower box. I looked more closely. It was a Dixie-shaped cat. In the flower box. OUTSIDE. Four stories up. What the...??!!

Sitting up suddenly, I yelled, "Dixie!"

And the Dixie-shaped cat jumped into the window and onto the bed, rubbing against me in greeting.

Our windows opened from the top. The damn cat, at some point during the night, had figured out how to open the screen, dragging it down with her claws and releasing herself into freedom. Who knows how long she'd been hanging out on the fire escape, four stories up.

Maybe she didn't use up one of her nine lives that day, but with the fright she gave me, I most certainly did.

There's a good joke in here...

I grew up in a suburban neighborhood, like any other. Squared in by 2 commercial streets to the north and west and a park to the south and east, it was fully residential. Its grid of blocks was lined with duplexes, ranches, colonials.

On one block, Annie Street, stood a building that was somewhat, then, out of place-- the Polish Social Club. It was somewhat odd to randomly have, essentially, a bar situated smack dab in the middle of a bunch of single-family homes, but there you go.

Growing up, my dad would often go with his friends to "the club" to socialize. When I was a kid, I never really deduced the function of a social club. Which I suppose is a good thing, but it also meant that I came to the confident conclusion that my Dad must be going to the Polish Social Club for the single reason that made perfect sense to me.

I was in high school before I realized that I wasn't, actually, Polish.

The Hero

This one's a classic from the teaching days, and is dedicated to my Spanish 3H kids, and to Leigh in particular.

---

The foreign language department at B.F. was relegated to the far end of the hallway on the basement floor. The classrooms on the north side of the building were lucky, with full length windows looking out to the woods behind the building (well, with the faculty parking lot in front of said woods, but still...) Those of us on the south side were not as lucky. The ground outside came up to within 2 feet of the ceiling of the classrooms on the south side. We were left with a ribbon of glass that let in minimal sunshine. Pipes ran up the wall, preventing 3 of the 6 windows in most of the classrooms from even opening.

During the winter, it was hot and dry. In the summer months, it was hot and unbearably humid. At all times it was stuffy and stale. Still, there were a few precious weeks, in October and late April/ early May, when the light was perfect, and the breeze from the open window and an oscillating fan made everyone refreshed and, if not alert, then at least not asleep (usually).

Our story takes place on just such an afternoon, in early spring. The weather was perfect. It was the second-to-last class of the day, when freedom was within reach and the heavy sleepiness that proceeded lunch had worn off. The faces looking up at me were open, smiling. I was feeling creative, brisk, alive. The energy was perfect.

We were all ready, then, teacher and students, to explore the wonder that is the imperfect subjunctive.

Today, the particular subject was emotion. It was a perfect day for emotion, and happiness in particular. "Estaba contenta que...," I started to write on the board.

My body reacted before my brain did-- my reflexes like a cat. The blackboard-- the old, heavy blackboard that had been in place since the 50s and still the remnants of some random prayer etched at the top as it had when I was a student-- had started falling away from the wall.

The classroom was small. The first row of students was less than a foot away from where I stood. The kids! I had visions of concussions, bloody heads, cracked skulls.

I jumped, spreading my legs on the floor, reaching my arms out, fingers extended, to hold the heavy blackboard up. I was a hero! I saved not only the precious brains of my students, but also the school from the financial ruin of numerous lawsuits.

The beating of my heart as it tried to pounce out of my ribcage seemed deafening within the hush of the classroom. Time stood still.

And then, whispers. Scattered murmurs. Muffled laughter.

I looked up.

Have you ever been on a train, when the train next to you was moving, and it made you feel like you were moving?

See, I had this scarf hanging at the top of the blackboard. It was a Real Madrid scarf-- the football (soccer) team in Madrid. It was tacked to the strip of bulletin board that was above the black board. Also, it was waving in the breeze from the fan and the open window.

I had thought the blackboard was falling down. It was really just the scarf waving. It was a mistake in perception. You know, like when the train next to you is moving...?

I tried to explain this to my students. They had just witnessed their teacher go from droning on about some weird perfect subjective thing, whatever that is, to jumping out and pressing herself spread-eagle against the blackboard, and now she's rallying on about trains? Dude, give me some of whatever she's having.

My sanity may have lost some credibility that day, but at least I got my students' attention. Hey, as teachers, we do what we gotta do.

The Underwear Nazi

In my quest to realize that I do, actually, have things in my life worth writing about, I hereby commit to post a story a day, no matter how short, on this thing. I will start with the infamous, in my circle of college friends, story of the Underwear Nazi, a nickname which makes zero sense whatsoever, but has remained hysterical throughout the years.

----

Freshman year. South Hall-- a monster of a dorm, the newest constructed on the campus, where the golf course originally stood.

In the cavernous basement, a place where you nervously glanced over your shoulder while walking to the stairs, trying to play it cool until you shrugged off the act and bound up to the first floor, praying your story doesn't end up on an episode of SVU, there were about 10 washers and 10 dryers. South Hall has 158 doubles and 51 singles. Competition for the laundry room was fierce and the price was steep. It costs less to do my laundry in New York City over a decade later.

I was relieved, then, to find an empty dryer on a Saturday afternoon. There were even people in the basement rec room, so no need to bound upstairs (needlessly) fearing for my life. It was my lucky day, then.

Which made it all the worse when, an hour later, keen on being timely and polite so as not to piss off whomever needed to use the dryer next, I gathered up courage to descend to the cavern and retrieve my laundry.

Which I found. On the laundry room table. Soaking wet. There were 2 minutes left in my dryer. Where someone else's clothes were spinning around. On my dime.

I was furious. Jerking open the dryer door, I grabbed the clothes of this evil, rude stranger and threw them on the table. This was not satisfying revenge. I now had to pay a further 3 bucks or however insanely much those dryers cost to dry my clothes, AGAIN, and waste another hour of a precious Saturday, because some b**** stole my dryer time. This person deserved more than just their clothes thrown messily on a table.

I poked through the pile of clothes. What could I do? There were an overwhelming number of granny panties in the pile. The answer became clear. It was like an enlightenment. I promptly picked out all of the ugly undergarments, walked over to the trash, and tossed them in.

An hour later I returned diligently to retrieve my clothes. There was a girl, folding the clothes I recognized as the evildoers. (Really? She was an hour late to get her clothes out of the dryer? Laundry room etiquette, anyone? Were you raised by wolves?)

It was my good friend's girlfriend.

If anything, then, I did him a service by throwing out all her god-awful underwear.

And that, my friends, is the true tale of the Underwear Nazi, who, incidentally, I see quite frequently, and randomly. She still has no idea.