I Heart NY

Tonight a friend of a friend of mine will be hosting not a Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza or even festivus party, but rather a celebration of all things New York complete with hotdogs, Nathan's mustard and bagel chips. He’s dubbed it an “I Heart NY” party and I wouldn’t miss it for the world, because, well, I really do.

In one of my favorite Sex and the City episodes Carrie explains that she’s in essence, been dating the city; for seven years now, so have I. That’s quite a commitment for someone who felt like bangs asked a lot out of me. Seven years - it’s a desk set.

To be honest, it wasn’t love at first sight. In fact, when we first met I believe I called him as a monster. How anyone could settle down with someone so rude, so full of himself and lacking in basic personal hygiene, was beyond me.

But just like any other love of mine, New York snuck up on me. Keeping tabs on him from California I wondered what he had been up to. Who was he seeing and when we might run into each other again?

When we finally did reconnect it was mad hot love. I introduced him to all my friends, took an interest in all his interests, even changed my wardrobe.  I got lost in him.

Today we’re both a little older, a little bigger and I hope a little wiser. I no longer need him by my side at every moment to feel he’s mine.

New Year’s is coming and he has plans to go out with some friends which is fine, because I know the truly special occasions, the everyday moments - like a fire at home on the year’s first snow or a saxophonist serenade during a stroll through the park - are all ours.

Maggie the Cat

As a single woman living in a 350 square foot studio in New York I did something on the no-no list. I took up knitting.

I thought it would be calming; something to keep my hands busy on the subway; cheap presents for the fam come Christmas time. I had read somewhere that Julia Roberts knitted on set. Clearly knitting would be fabulous.

Knitting can also be exactly what you’re thinking though– kind of sad. “Look at that poor spinster knitting her social life away.” Well in for a penny in for a pound, that same year I decided to get a cat.

Despite the fact that my friend Todd said I would never get laid again I began the search for my future feline friend. With my work hours and the fact that for me responsibility meant remembering to get the mail, I knew I couldn’t have a dog. Problem was, I didn’t really want a cat. 

I had had two cats growing up. One was named Spy and she was your average cat: hid when the door opened, lurked around corners and contorted her body to avoid physical contact with human kind. If you ever did actually manage to pet her, she would then drool all over your hand.  I was not looking for another Spy.

I was looking for a Sam. I’m sure you’ve had your own Sam: the pet that was your best friend; the one who knew all your secrets. You know, the one you would have given a kidney for. Why is it that were stuck with people for so long, and pets have such a short time on earth? I can think of more than a few folks where 10 years together would have been plenty.

Sam wasn’t a cat. He was more like a dog, or a person - a familiar as the poets call them.

I started to make the rounds on adoption days at Petco. Peeking in at the cages, hoping for a sign. Drooler or dog cat? So hard to tell. After an unsuccessful run at the ASPCA I decided to enlist some friends and we headed to the annual adoption event Broadway Barks in the theatre district.

Our first trailer offered a few cat candidates including one rather handsome 5 year-old. By no means was this Old Deuteronomy, but his kitten days were far behind him, which was fine by me. My kitten days were behind me too and my couch was from Bloomies. “What do you think, “ I asked my best friend. “I think this could be it.” Her response: a face.

“But nobody’s going to take him, “ I said. “Everyone wants the cute little ones and I can help give him a home.” Erin had been with me the night Sam passed though and suggested that perhaps the farther away we could get from having that night again anytime soon would be better. Noted.

We wandered around for another hour or so, in and out of doors, and I was beginning to think this sure was a lot of work for social suicide. Our last trailer of the day though we discovered a redheaded female giving some multi-color kittens a bath. I stuck my hand in her cage and she gave me a bath too.

“We’re not sure if those are her kittens,” the attendant said. “She’s just been taking care of them since they all got here.” “That is SO your cat,” Erin replied and she was right. I had been looking for someone to rescue, and instead found Maggie to look after me. 

Jesus Take the Wheel

A Thousand Words Worth

Sometimes you don't need a whole story. Sometimes a picture (or a Coke billboard) says it all.

“You can have a town, why don’t you take it?”

I moved to New York a week before my birthday in 2005. I have no memory of boarding the plane, which is odd considering I probably had my mother’s heart bleeding in my carry on luggage, but I do remember the flight itself. I recall looking around and wondering if anyone else on my flight was moving to Manhattan that day. How many other people had chosen March 6^th to begin their lives and would there be an orientation?

Have you ever been on a plane when the captain gets on the loudspeaker and congratulates a couple of newlyweds or welcomes someone aboard who is celebrating their 21^st birthday (as if any of us were ever that young)? It felt like that. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for flying JetBlue today and a special shout out to Ms. Amanda McDorman who’s leaving behind everyone and everything she knows for delusions of grandeur in Oz.” Applause. Applause.

I thought that everyone should be aware. It felt like they might.

Perhaps they could tell because I was still clutching my purse the way they tell you to in instructional videos from the 80’s for Japanese tourists travelling to big bad New York. My biggest fear was not that I wouldn’t find a place to live, job, friends, but rather that someone was going to steal the three immovable 70 pound duffel bags I came with. I have no idea how I got them from the curb to my walk up room, but I was just glad the cab driver didn’t take off with them. After that I didn’t have much of a game plan.

It must have been important to me at the time to do this alone, but Lord knows why. Simple math would have proven that to be a challenge. Two arms, three bags, one fool.

My mom had a friend who had a friend who owned of all things a bed and breakfast on the Upper West Side. Yes, they exist. I rented a room there for a week. Essentially it was a brownstone studio that had a kitchen stocked with cereal. Bon Appetit! The room was just what I wanted it to look like though, all 300 perfectly claustrophobic square feet of it. (Why is exposed brick so romantic? I mean really, shouldn’t it be just the opposite?)

By the time I carried by body bags upstairs I was famished and it was late. Not knowing anyone or anywhere to go I walked around the corner to the first place I saw that was open. Original Ray’s Pizza. It would be another year before I realized Ray’s questionable originality. I ordered a slice and a Coors Light to take away (although I imagine at the time I still said “to go”) and brought them back up to eat on the little balcony extending from my room. I remember thinking how it all looked like a movie set; staring at the backs of apartments facing me and rows of windows filled with New York stories. Someone had even taken the time to perfectly place a water tower on the roof for effect. Cut. Scene and Print.

When I was leaving the golden state, anytime I told someone I was moving to New York, from my boss to my dry cleaner, they all had the same inevitable response. Not “I have a lead for you at this great non-profit” or “Call my niece when you get there,” but “Oh! Just like Mary Tyler Moore,” and then…that damn hat. “You should toss yours in the air when you get there,” they all suggested. Sure thing. I’ll make a note.

In fairness not everyone had the same suggestion. Some of them thought it was a scene from “That Girl”. I had, for the record, never seen either program, but the hat appeared to be key.

That first night was so cold, not California cold, when you say it's freezing as a descriptive term, but actual cold, when freezing means your drool could potentially turn to ice on your face. It didn’t matter though. I was flushed. I inhaled my slice (I’ve never been able eat California pizza since that day) finished my beer, wished I had another and tossed my knit cap in the air.

Turns out they were right.