Jury Duty - Take 1

The State of New York got their money's worth out of me recently when I got nabbed for jury duty. Remember, awhile back I had to go downtown to account for my absence at an earlier session.  

Feeling annoyed, I showed up at the appointed place, at the appointed time, dreaming of ways to "get out of it."  I mean, what kind of fresh hell was this?  First of all, I was worried about what to wear. I had googled myself gaga the night before trying to find a dress code. I'm pretty sure they have this in Texas. No dice.  I went with warm and comfy.  Second, I couldn't determine the coffee situation, i.e. whether I could bring Starbucks into the building.  I did.  Third, jury duty appears to be another of those no-buffer-seat-zones. So even though I arrived promptly, even early, I ended up having to give up my bag holder/buffer seat because I couldn't stand watching the infirm and cane-wielding older folks amble up and down the aisles looking pained. I mean, I'm not an animal. Finally, my indignance reached its high when I found out how this crazy New York jury system works. Despite my hopes, this was not going to be over quickly.

See, in Texas, you show up, you read a few book chapters, you likely don't get called for the jury, and you go home, hyper with the knowledge that you just got out of something truly repugnant, like cleaning the litter box.  As with so many of life's petty activities, this was not to be the case in New York City.  Although it is not disclaimed on their site, you can expect to commit AT LEAST two days to jury duty. The system is kind of like rolling out dough for cookie cutter cookies. You roll it out, cut the cookies, then roll the waste back in and re-roll another batch. The jury system keeps re-rolling and re-rolling the potential jurists, assuring that most folks called are going to get chosen for one trial or another. If you don't get chosen for a jury by the end of the second day, you're free to go. It wouldn't play out like that for me.

I got called up in the first group of potential jurors, and, of course, because the universe is a snarky old biddy, I got chosen. For a rape trial. That's right. It's an episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, and i'm playing the role of Juror #11. 

Blow Hards

"I haven't taken a subway since January," pronounced the investment banker sitting at the table next to me.  I know exactly what he said because a) the tables were so close I could have jacked him off without leaning over, and b) he was speaking so loudly I would have had to stuff my ears with the generous cup of bread sticks not to hear him.  He apparently lived in the neighborhood around Blue Hill, the restaurant I dragged The Boy to for dinner. He'd just gotten back from Japan. He was going to Florida on Monday, but would be home for Easter. As a boy, he fell down while playing soccer. Annoying? Yes. Pretentious? Also yes. The Boy and I hovered in the corner next to them, praying for a hasty exit. The waitstaff was, sadly, on the side of the Loud Talker. They. Moved. At. The. Pace. Of. Snails.  Thankfully they didn't leave a glistening trail behind, although that might have been cool. 

It's the economy, stupid

Spring is supposed to be a time of growth and rebuilding. And though technically it's not quite spring, Manhattan is in a perennial winter, both literally and figuratively. The weather can barely stay above freezing, and businesses around town are closing up every day. I came across the deliberate and careful disassembling of a furniture store's marquee sign today, the giant letters resting in nests of bubble wrap on the street. I think the whole world wishes it could curl up in a bolt of bubble wrap until this giant mess is resolved. 

Xmas Time Is Here

Retailers aren't waiting until next week to get the city all gussied up for what I'm sure they are hoping will be a less than dreadful Black Friday. On my walk home tonight, I noticed designers in the shop windows of Club Monoco, Bergdorff Goodman, a jewelry store and a furniture store making magic. The city is beginning to sparkle. Now if only the economy would follow suit.

Poo, on you

So I guess the universe was listening yesterday when I railed on people who overuse cabs. I guess the universe believes in punishing judgementalism. 

This morning on the subway, it smelled like poo. I mean REALLY. It smelled very bad. And it didn't dissipate at any point during the ride. I am pretty certain there was a little pile of poo somewhere in the car. I even kept checking my shoes, you know, like you do when you're walking through grass and you smell something foul. Anyway, I never did find out for sure what was causing the smell. I just left the car. I think that was the best course of action, all things considered. I didn't take a cab though.  Take a little poke in the eye, universe!

Obnoxious Commuting

In these more thrifty times, I have recently heard something that horrified me! Several of my co-workers, even those who live far uptown from our office, sometimes or even daily take cabs to work. Cabs! In this era of layoffs and economic meltdowns and mortgage foreclosures. Just to give you some perspective, it probably costs at least $18 one way to take a cab downtown to my office. That's with no traffic! That's almost $40 a day both ways! $200 a week! That adds up to more than you people in Texas are paying for gas in a month. 

Now I admit to taking a cab from time to time, especially after an evening of rambunctious frivolity. But to get to work? Whatever it's faults, the subway system in New York beats sitting i traffic any day, is better for the environment, and is CHEAPER at about $2 per ride (even less if you have a monthly pass). I like to spend money just as much as the next manhattan goddess (just ask The Boy if you need confirmation), but cabbing it to work from uptown just strikes me as lazy and economically moronic.

Guilty Pleasure

The West Side Beauty met up with us Sunday night for an over the top dinner at Del Posto. This is one of Mario Batali's joints, and it was ah-mazing. The service was attentive, if a little overbearing. Our waiter hovered over us like Lord Voldemort surveying his chances for evil takeover, which was, frankly, a bit creepy. But the wine steward helped us pick a lovely red wine, and then made quite the show of opening it, and swishing a small amount in our three glasses to clear them of any impurities, I guess. The bulbs of the glasses were almost as big as my calves! You could almost stick your whole face in there.

Then came the food. We got the tasting menu which consisted of an appetizer, a couple of pastas, an entree and dessert.  They also piqued our pallets with a selection of small hors d'oeuvres- a shot of broth, fried cheese medallions and balls of mortadella bologna - as well as a basket of the most glorious breads. Along with butter was a spread of pork fat that took me back to my Granny and Big Daddy's house. Yum.

For our entrees we had a veritable Old McDonald's Farm reunion with pork (not The Boy, of course), duck and lamb. I had the duck, medium rare and just right.

Dessert was a challenge. I really wanted the dark chocolate thing, and I knew I didn't want the apple thing. But Daryl wanted the dark chocolate thing, so I ordered the pumpkin thing, with low expectations. Turns out, in my mind at least, I made the best choice. I ate every bite, and didn't share a crumb. It was one of the best desserts of all time.

Overall, Del Posto was an expensive, but pleasurable experience. Tomorrow, we'll start living la vida recession. 

Salty, Sweet and Surreal

 My sis, the Dainty Dug Dealer, made another surprise visit to New York to help me celebrate being old! 

So she, The Boy and I headed out to the West Village for a late night dinner at Perilla, the new hot spot opened awhile back by Top Chef winner Harold Dieterle. My view on the place was mixed. The service was pretty good. But my food and sis's food were both a little too salty. Dessert, ahh. Not that great.

The real main course didn't occur until after dinner. In one of those classic only-in-new-york situations, we happened by a maudlin art exhibit framed as a pet store. An automatronic rabbit preens in a mirror, chicken mcnuggets peck in a chicken coop, hot dogs wiggle under a heat lamp. It was surreal and lovely. 

Me 1, Friends 0

So for the big ole birthday celebration, I wanted to do something "old New York". Plus, I didn't want to be bothered by extreme crowds or ridiculous bouncers. So I chose the King Cole Bar at The St. Regis Hotel on 5th Avenue.

The Chef had arrived first and graciously commandeered several corner booths. That ensured our comfort for the night - especially since many of us were wearing shoes only fit for sitting down! All the usual suspects arrived in their late night New York finery - the Little Nolita Lady and her beau Abs, the West Side Beauty, T-Rex and the Platinum Bombshell.  We enjoyed our $15 drinks cool bar snacks delivered to us with somber professionalism by our tuxedoed waiter.

While everyone enjoyed the frivolity, I had a plan. There were bets about how long I would last given I usually was close to passing out after just one drink. But not tonight. Oh no way. I was prepared. I ate a full bagel and peanut butter for breakfast, both halves of a curried chicken salad sandwich and Fritos (yes, Chef, I know they aren't natural and full of chemicals, but they were a necessary evil.) For dinner I inhaled an extra large slice, and downed it with a can of Red Bull. I was on FIRE! 

So three martini's (yes, count them, three!) and half a beer later - I was still going strong. I made it past the under/over time of 11 pm easily. Even made it to a second bar. So all if have to say is Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. 

Subway Altercation

I was involved in an A-1, blogilicious subway altercation today. It was about 10 after 8 this morning. A subway rolled up to a large crowd of commuters, and against my better judgement, I crowded in alongside them, my body twisted unnaturally against half a dozen strangers. Even after the next stop the car was still bursting. We were like strands of straw haphazardly bundled up in a bale of hay. No one wanted to be there, but one guy - a bulky, meaty dude with a little turd of a ponytail - began fussing at the tall, preppy guy next to him. The meaty guy was pretty scary looking, all shoulders and biceps. But he was really going off and it irritated me. He was telling the guy to give him some room, that he was crowding him. The preppy guy was trying to explain that there was nowhere to go, but the meaty guy just kept on fussing. Here we all were, all in the same boat as him, nowhere to go, and he was acting like he was the only one whose personal space was being violated. So even though it goes against the New York code of conduct, I spoke up.

"If you don't like being crowded, then don't take the subway," I said. "We're all crowded."

So he said, "Shut up, BITCH! Mind your own business. No one wants to hear your problems."

So I said, "That's right. So why don't you shut up."

He said, "Suck my DICK!"

I said, "No, thank you."  I said it serious too. Even though I was quaking in my shoes a little, I kept my snark going.

He said, "I bet you would like it. It's really big."

"I doubt it," I said, snorting.

"Do you want me to take it out right here and show you?" he asked, threateningly.

I thrust my nose into the air. "Absolutely not."

Then we rode in awkward silence until I got off the train, 3 stops later.

No one jumped in or made eye contact. New York style.

Later, I felt kind of bad. Clearly he was having a bad day and was acting out. Perhaps I should have given him a hug and drawn a unicorn on his wrist. Or a butterfly. I'm sure that would have helped.

Mighty Man

It took us FIVE hours to reach Montauk from Manhattan. It is far on the tail end of nowhere. We passed what seemed like dozens of Hamptons villages before we reached it. We arrived at 10 after 8 for check-in that was supposed to end at 8. We were freaking out that we were going to miss it, and were driving lost up until the moment we spotted the Pizza Primavera, which was a key landmark. We pulled up to the registration tent with our tires smoking.

After check in, we scoped out practically the only available grub at a nearby pub. Then it was lights out in preparation for our 5 am wakeup call.  After being jolted awake by fireworks around midnight or so, we rolled out of bed and down the street to the Mighty Man Triathlon transition area about 5:45. My start time was 6:43 am. After a little bit of drama on the swim, I cruised to a finish a little after 8 am, followed closely by The Little Nolita Lady and T-Rex.

When we got back to the hotel, we realized we were right by the ocean. It had been so dark when we checked in that we didn't realize it.

Then we showered and headed to Bridgehampton for breakfast at the Candy Diner. They also sold homemade ice cream, so we got some for the road.

We were terribly impressed with our car packing expertise. We fit three bikes, three sets of luggage and three girls into my Land Rover. Sweet. The only drawback of the trip (other than the traffic and my near drowning) was that I couldn't find Chili Cheese Fritos, the perfect road trip food. But I tried to make it up with A&W Root Beer and a homemade chocolate chip ice cream shake. We passed several farmers markets, orchards and corn mazes on the way home. We were too bushed to check them out, though. All in all, not a bad way to spend a weekend.

Montauk or Bust

Heading to Martha Stewart's hood this weekend to flail around in the water, do a little cycling, and run along the sand at the Mighty Montauk Tri. The Little Nolita Lady and T-Rex will be in tow. If we don't bonk, we'll be back in Manhattan in time to party.

A Law and Order Day

I had occasion to go to the courthouse this week, and the one that is showcased on the TV show Law and Order. A passerby helped me grab a shot of myself on the steps.  Later in the day, T-Rex and I were headed to Chelsea Piers to check out the pool. We took a wrong turn and ended up at the Law and Order casting studios. Perhaps it was a message to me that I shouldn't shirk jury duty or face the consequences . . .

Room with a View

So The Little Nolita Lady is searching for a new apartment. One of the options for her and her new roommate is a two bedroom in the financial district. Unfortunately, one of the bedrooms doesn't have windows, which is a cause of concern for the new roommate (which also, The Boy is urging me to point out, is illegal. All bedrooms must have windows. Anyway . . .) I told The Little Nolita Lady her roommate shouldn't worry about it. We've spent hundreds of dollars to completely block out our bedroom windows, effectively creating a cave. 

In fact, in New York, sometimes a bedroom view isn't that great of a thing. Just ask the West Side Beauty. Her new neighbors have taken to spending time on their roof, with a perfect view of her bedroom. She can see and hear what they are doing and . . . well, you see the problem. 

So my message to The Little Nolita Lady's future roommate - take the apartment and rejoice that you don't have to buy shades.

Houston, we have STORAGE!

After two years in the big city, we have reached a turning point - extra storage. I know to people in other parts of the country, storage is no big deal. You have extra closets, or a garage or an attic. For New Yorkers, closet space is limited and precious. Many apartments only have one closet for the whole space. That means it must store clothes, shoes, coats, suitcases and everything else. We built some extra closets into our space, and when our linen closet was finished, I cheered!  But we still had a bunch of junk we were storing in our fire escape on the sly. So when we found out this week that a storage bin in the basement had opened up, it was huge, and very welcome, news. 

Ratta-ewwie

Two vermin-related stories for you kids today. First, a memorable first date for one of The Boy's co-workers. He was on a date in Madison Square Park, home of the venerable Shake Shack. The couple was sitting on a park bench, below a tree in the middle of conversation, when a rat fell THWACK! right in the girls' lap! Despite this auspicious beginning, the two continue to date.

The second story begins below ground in the subway tunnels, home to hundreds (maybe thousands?) of rats. A friend of mine was waiting for the F train at the 23rd street station. She noticed that a rat had boldly moved from the subway tracks, where they usually scurry around disconnected from the human passers by, onto the platform, realm of the two legged. My friend and the other people in the station steered clear of the interloper. They began to talk among themselves, pointing and laughing skittishly.  A man told my friend that rats on the platform were common at this station, and that they had an even more startling habit. He said he had seen rats on the platform crawl into the subway car when it arrived and ride away. And in fact, when the subway pulled up, my friend watched it twitch it's nose as it stepped into the last car. Perhaps it was meeting someone at the next stop.

Everything Sucks, Let's Get Drunk

Ventured out to Ulysses in the Financial District tonight. Thought it might be slow because of all the financial turmoil going on, but it was hoppin'. Perhaps everyone figured they might at least enjoy the coolness of the late summer evening and a foamy brew, even as their investments and careers tanked. Economic crises blow.

Summer Sounds

The crickets and cicadas making their evening music remind me of home. It is a uniquely southern summer sound to me, signaling the end of warm weather and the onset of Fall. Funny that it triggers that feeling in me since a Texas Fall is not that dissimilar from a Texas Summer. Nevertheless, when I hear that insectual orchestra, I long for home.

Go Bag

Well, well, well. Vindication is definitely sweet.  For months I've been talking up the idea of a "Go" Bag. You know, this would be a bag, at the ready, that contained a change of clothes, copies of important papers, extra glasses, non-perishable food, water and money that could be grabbed at a moment's notice should there be some kind of emergency.  My friends teased me endlessly about being Chicken Little, but it looks like Hurricane Ike has proved me right! The destruction started to hit before so many folks were prepared to leave. A "Go" bag might have proved useful. 

Indeed I have spent endless hours discussing possible escape routes and safe house possibilities with The Boy. I've wondered whether we should take our car or public transportation, or whether either would be futile. In which case I determined we should be ready to pack up our bikes and ride up to Yonkers. But that got me thinking about Meow - I couldn't leave her behind! I went so far as to decide maybe I should get one of those fancy cargo stroller things that you attach to the back of your bike, so I could stick the Meow in it. Finally I decided that the Meow might have to tough it out in a backpak. 

Chances are I won't ever have to use my "Go" bag, but it's nice to feel prepared. Just wish those folks at home didn't have to learn that lesson so hard.

Sober-fest

So we checked out the All Points West Festival last week. Our objective was to see Radiohead, and hopefully discover a few new bands. All we really discovered was that we hate standing in lines. 

The festival was at Liberty State Park in New Jersey, so we had to take that much-loved PATH train/Light Rail combination that we used to take when we lived in Jersey City. Over an hour later, we arrived. But the park was still a 30 minute walk away. Drat! By this time, my pre-event hydration therapy had yielded an imperative situation. I needed a bathroom fast!  Fortunately when we finally made it to the grounds, the line wasn't too long, AND there was toilet paper. A good sign.

Alas, that was the high point of the day. From there we experienced long lines to get into the show. By the time we got in, I just wanted a beer. My longing would not be satiated, however. At least not for the next hour. We waited for 45 minutes in a line just to have our IDs checked. Then we waited 30 more minutes in the beer line. For our trouble, we were rewarded the opportunity to drink our beers corralled in the beer garden. There would be no casual sipping of a luke warm frothy beverage while listening to any of the bands. Oh, and lest anyone got greedy, there was a 5 drink limit for the whole day, and beer sales ended at 8:30, the same time Radiohead hit the stage.

Mind you, I wasn't looking to get toasted.  But seriously. I'm almost 40 years old. I don't need to have my alcohol consumption tempered. It's just not Rock and Roll!

Anyway, by the time we drank our beers and got some grub, it was just about time for Radiohead to begin. So much for seeing new music.  And then the final coup de gras: after all that, when the band came on, I couldn't see.  I won't be checking out this ill conceived event again.