Thursday, December 13, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Lessons Learned
(1) There will always be critics. I need to develop a thicker skin if I'm going to be able to blog.
(2) While my hat is off to those men and women who can keep up the demands of daily blogging, I don't have it in me yet. Whether that's a lack of material or a lack of energy or a lack of confidence, I'm not there just now. I think that forcing myself to post every day come hell or high water was tantamount to biting off more than I could chew so early in the game. I'm glad I gave it a shot, but I think that the publish or perish threat forced me to blog something -- anything -- and resulted in diluting quality of content in favor of volume. I'll know for next time.
(2) While my hat is off to those men and women who can keep up the demands of daily blogging, I don't have it in me yet. Whether that's a lack of material or a lack of energy or a lack of confidence, I'm not there just now. I think that forcing myself to post every day come hell or high water was tantamount to biting off more than I could chew so early in the game. I'm glad I gave it a shot, but I think that the publish or perish threat forced me to blog something -- anything -- and resulted in diluting quality of content in favor of volume. I'll know for next time.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Hiatus?
It's amazing how quickly having your little sister ridicule your blog will motivate you to contemplate not blogging.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
So It's Thanksgiving...
Amazingly enough, no food coma. I exercised something resembling self-restraint, and didn't need to pick up my belly and carry it home with me. Of course, now it's 9:45pm and I'm peckish. But no matter -- we have leftovers. So if my hunger gets the better of me, I can help myself.
But I don't want to talk about the meal (good), the company (better than good), or any other traditional Thanksgiving details. The thing that left the biggest impression on me today was a near run-in with a homeless man on the ride out to my mother's Thanksgiving dinner.
Coincidentally, my husband (fine, since he's dispensed with pseudonyms on his website, I'll just call him by his name), Brent, blogged about an encounter with a few homeless men earlier this week. I don't intend for our blogs to serve as point/counterpoint or anything of the sort; I think my writing might suffer by comparison were that the case. It's just inevitable that I'll reference things he thinks about and says, as our lives intertwine pretty inextricably.
Anyway, Brent and I were headed out to Queens from our apartment in Midtown Manhattan. We rode an E train to get there. While en route to the subway station, we actually remarked to one another how dead -- how preternaturally empty -- the City seemed. The subway, however, was anything but.
Unlike the streets above, the subway car we entered -- at the front of the train where, even during weekday rush hours, you can usually find at least a few empty seats -- was packed. All sorts of folks were headed in the same direction we were, which meant that neither of us was able to get a seat of our own.
The ride to my mom's place isn't too long; at worst, it runs maybe 45 minutes. Tonight, we were only going to a stop by my grandmother's apartment, and then my mother was going to pick us up and give her a lift, killing multiple birds with one stone, so the ride was even shorter -- maybe 25-30 minutes. Even so, I wound up spending a very long ten-minute stretch on the subway.
Considering how packed the car was, I was startled when I noticed that, between stops, such that there'd be no incentive to give up one's seat, a slew of people (European tourists, if I had to guess; none of them speaking English) scurried out of their seats and crowded the corner of the car where Brent and I were standing. Because we were both carrying heavy containers of food, for about a half a second, I thought about taking one of the recently-vacated seats. Only half a second. I came to my senses pretty quickly.
While New Yorkers are surprisingly polite about some aspects of subway travel (e.g., giving directions to evidently-lost tourists, and waiting for folks to exit subway cars before entering the cars themselves), they are not so generous-of-heart as to relinquish perfectly good seats en masse for no good reason. So that large an exodus had to be motivated by something inappropriate and unseemly taking place near them. Upon reconsideration, I knew better than to try to grab a seat. I just didn't know what in particular I didn't want to be seated next to, even though I knew without a doubt that I was better off standing.
Brent saw him first; my view of the fellow was largely obstructed by a fellow traveler. There was a middle-aged, hard-living homeless man reclining on the subway seats. He had just dropped his trousers to half-mast (towards what end, I knew not, nor did I care to inquire). Folks were both recoiling in horror and staring at him, like the cliched train wreck off which you cannot pull your eyes. The tourists near me laughed nervously.
I couldn't see much of this man; just enough to see that he didn't seem to be threatening anything more disruptive than airing out his equipment. Eventually, he lit and smoked a half-used cigarette. The stench was overpowering. But he didn't make any fuss, didn't make any advances, and kept to himself, for all the commotion he was causing.
At the next stop, half-sickened by the stench of the cigarette, I convinced Brent to switch cars with me. We moved one car over, and that was that.
Except it wasn't. I can't help but pity the man. I imagine that anyone who has sunk so low as not to car (or not to realize) that he's disrobing on mass transit is in a very bad way indeed. I don't know where he came from, how long he's been like this, or what's going to happen to him. I know that I didn't have the power to help him -- not with Thanksgiving leftovers, and not with spare change. This guy needed Help with a capital "H."
New Yorkers talk about the "Homeless Problem" -- something that is called increasingly to our attention as the weather turns colder. It's that time of year when those who can't find shelter take to the buses and, more often, subways for warmth and a little protection from the elements. This guy we saw tonight? Sure, he's part of the problem. But he was -- he is -- human, too. And I'm totally flummoxed over what to do. I had the good sense not to point and giggle. But my pity won't change anything.
I don't write to propose any grand solutions. I don't have any. I just want to express how useless, how helpless I feel at observing this man tonight in this condition.
I learned recently that my brother's girlfriend has made a habit over the last few years of volunteering on Thanksgiving at the Bowery Mission. I don't know her all that well yet, but I was really favorably impressed to learn that about her. Even though it's important to focus on family during this holiday, she has made a policy of helping folks who need it. Again, given what I said above, I know that cooking or serving a warm meal for some homeless people won't solve the Homeless Problem, either. But it's a lot more admirable, a lot more meaningful, a lot more money-where-your-mouth-is than blogging about it.
I used to make a habit of volunteering with New York Cares. I think it's time to get started being involved again. My family nurtures me. Hell, this City takes good care of me. I ought to give something back.
But I don't want to talk about the meal (good), the company (better than good), or any other traditional Thanksgiving details. The thing that left the biggest impression on me today was a near run-in with a homeless man on the ride out to my mother's Thanksgiving dinner.
Coincidentally, my husband (fine, since he's dispensed with pseudonyms on his website, I'll just call him by his name), Brent, blogged about an encounter with a few homeless men earlier this week. I don't intend for our blogs to serve as point/counterpoint or anything of the sort; I think my writing might suffer by comparison were that the case. It's just inevitable that I'll reference things he thinks about and says, as our lives intertwine pretty inextricably.
Anyway, Brent and I were headed out to Queens from our apartment in Midtown Manhattan. We rode an E train to get there. While en route to the subway station, we actually remarked to one another how dead -- how preternaturally empty -- the City seemed. The subway, however, was anything but.
Unlike the streets above, the subway car we entered -- at the front of the train where, even during weekday rush hours, you can usually find at least a few empty seats -- was packed. All sorts of folks were headed in the same direction we were, which meant that neither of us was able to get a seat of our own.
The ride to my mom's place isn't too long; at worst, it runs maybe 45 minutes. Tonight, we were only going to a stop by my grandmother's apartment, and then my mother was going to pick us up and give her a lift, killing multiple birds with one stone, so the ride was even shorter -- maybe 25-30 minutes. Even so, I wound up spending a very long ten-minute stretch on the subway.
Considering how packed the car was, I was startled when I noticed that, between stops, such that there'd be no incentive to give up one's seat, a slew of people (European tourists, if I had to guess; none of them speaking English) scurried out of their seats and crowded the corner of the car where Brent and I were standing. Because we were both carrying heavy containers of food, for about a half a second, I thought about taking one of the recently-vacated seats. Only half a second. I came to my senses pretty quickly.
While New Yorkers are surprisingly polite about some aspects of subway travel (e.g., giving directions to evidently-lost tourists, and waiting for folks to exit subway cars before entering the cars themselves), they are not so generous-of-heart as to relinquish perfectly good seats en masse for no good reason. So that large an exodus had to be motivated by something inappropriate and unseemly taking place near them. Upon reconsideration, I knew better than to try to grab a seat. I just didn't know what in particular I didn't want to be seated next to, even though I knew without a doubt that I was better off standing.
Brent saw him first; my view of the fellow was largely obstructed by a fellow traveler. There was a middle-aged, hard-living homeless man reclining on the subway seats. He had just dropped his trousers to half-mast (towards what end, I knew not, nor did I care to inquire). Folks were both recoiling in horror and staring at him, like the cliched train wreck off which you cannot pull your eyes. The tourists near me laughed nervously.
I couldn't see much of this man; just enough to see that he didn't seem to be threatening anything more disruptive than airing out his equipment. Eventually, he lit and smoked a half-used cigarette. The stench was overpowering. But he didn't make any fuss, didn't make any advances, and kept to himself, for all the commotion he was causing.
At the next stop, half-sickened by the stench of the cigarette, I convinced Brent to switch cars with me. We moved one car over, and that was that.
Except it wasn't. I can't help but pity the man. I imagine that anyone who has sunk so low as not to car (or not to realize) that he's disrobing on mass transit is in a very bad way indeed. I don't know where he came from, how long he's been like this, or what's going to happen to him. I know that I didn't have the power to help him -- not with Thanksgiving leftovers, and not with spare change. This guy needed Help with a capital "H."
New Yorkers talk about the "Homeless Problem" -- something that is called increasingly to our attention as the weather turns colder. It's that time of year when those who can't find shelter take to the buses and, more often, subways for warmth and a little protection from the elements. This guy we saw tonight? Sure, he's part of the problem. But he was -- he is -- human, too. And I'm totally flummoxed over what to do. I had the good sense not to point and giggle. But my pity won't change anything.
I don't write to propose any grand solutions. I don't have any. I just want to express how useless, how helpless I feel at observing this man tonight in this condition.
I learned recently that my brother's girlfriend has made a habit over the last few years of volunteering on Thanksgiving at the Bowery Mission. I don't know her all that well yet, but I was really favorably impressed to learn that about her. Even though it's important to focus on family during this holiday, she has made a policy of helping folks who need it. Again, given what I said above, I know that cooking or serving a warm meal for some homeless people won't solve the Homeless Problem, either. But it's a lot more admirable, a lot more meaningful, a lot more money-where-your-mouth-is than blogging about it.
I used to make a habit of volunteering with New York Cares. I think it's time to get started being involved again. My family nurtures me. Hell, this City takes good care of me. I ought to give something back.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Inching Ever Closer
...to the end of NaBloPoMo. As of this post, I'll be 7/10ths of the way done with my daily posting obligations. For now, at least, I think it's an experiment that will end with the conclusion that posting qua posting is maybe not the best way to go.
It doesn't make sense, to me at least, to be prolific if I sacrifice quality for volume. I'd rather have less content but have each post say more.
In fairness, it's possible that I've been uninspired because I've been overwhelmed. I've worked ten days straight now, and I'm worn out.
Thank goodness Thanksgiving is right around the corner!
With respect to family-face-time at the holidays, we've gotten into the habit of dividing our time between Thanksgiving in New York with my family (specifically, Thanksgiving dinner with my mother's side, and the ensuing weekend with my dad's side), and Christmas in Tulsa with my in-laws. It works out well. Not raised to celebrate Christmas, I'm happy to forsake the City for biscuits, red meat, and relaxation. Christmas in Tulsa is a good time.
Thanksgiving is a changeable thing these days. It used to be a big gathering; now it's just my grandmother, mom, her beau, and my sibs, their spouses, my husband, and I. Even though we total nine people, that's a pretty modest crowd compared to years past.
In any event, while our ranks are somewhat diminished, there is an up side to the holiday. It's becoming more collaborative. Since my grandmother no longer has a full working kitchen of her own, my mother has stepped up and does the majority of the cooking. But, more each year, my sister, brother, and I supplement the staples with our own contributions.
This year, I'm bringing a chocolate peanut butter pie (bought at the Green Market yesterday; who has time to bake when you're working without cease?) and green veggies -- brussel sprouts, to be precise. My husband is bringing a family recipe: cranberry fluff, which tastes incredibly good, albeit somewhat Midwestern for our table. It'll be a few years before we have the space and means to prepare a turkey, brisket, and the rest of the fixin's, but it's nice to be able to say that we're contributing meaningfully. Add to that my sister's apple pie and brownies, and my brother's (fine, my brother's girlfriend's) vegetarian dish, and it looks like we're ready for some grade-A gluttony.
If I don't post tomorrow, it'll be because I'm still coasting off a postprandial high.
It doesn't make sense, to me at least, to be prolific if I sacrifice quality for volume. I'd rather have less content but have each post say more.
In fairness, it's possible that I've been uninspired because I've been overwhelmed. I've worked ten days straight now, and I'm worn out.
Thank goodness Thanksgiving is right around the corner!
With respect to family-face-time at the holidays, we've gotten into the habit of dividing our time between Thanksgiving in New York with my family (specifically, Thanksgiving dinner with my mother's side, and the ensuing weekend with my dad's side), and Christmas in Tulsa with my in-laws. It works out well. Not raised to celebrate Christmas, I'm happy to forsake the City for biscuits, red meat, and relaxation. Christmas in Tulsa is a good time.
Thanksgiving is a changeable thing these days. It used to be a big gathering; now it's just my grandmother, mom, her beau, and my sibs, their spouses, my husband, and I. Even though we total nine people, that's a pretty modest crowd compared to years past.
In any event, while our ranks are somewhat diminished, there is an up side to the holiday. It's becoming more collaborative. Since my grandmother no longer has a full working kitchen of her own, my mother has stepped up and does the majority of the cooking. But, more each year, my sister, brother, and I supplement the staples with our own contributions.
This year, I'm bringing a chocolate peanut butter pie (bought at the Green Market yesterday; who has time to bake when you're working without cease?) and green veggies -- brussel sprouts, to be precise. My husband is bringing a family recipe: cranberry fluff, which tastes incredibly good, albeit somewhat Midwestern for our table. It'll be a few years before we have the space and means to prepare a turkey, brisket, and the rest of the fixin's, but it's nice to be able to say that we're contributing meaningfully. Add to that my sister's apple pie and brownies, and my brother's (fine, my brother's girlfriend's) vegetarian dish, and it looks like we're ready for some grade-A gluttony.
If I don't post tomorrow, it'll be because I'm still coasting off a postprandial high.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Day 20
Like Eden, I'm getting worn out with this daily posting. Especially as a blogging newbie, I've found that, while NaBloPoMo gets me to be prolific, and while the increase volume of posts has caught my husband's attention, it means that I have less energy to devote to cultivating a truly thoughtful, thought-provoking post.
So today is something of a cop-out. Inspired by Gothamist, I'll link to this page. I encourage you to check it out.
I thought I was being creative by passing on the pumpkin pie in favor of the atraditional peanut butter pie, but the selections on Daniella Spencer's page truly boggle the mind.
So today is something of a cop-out. Inspired by Gothamist, I'll link to this page. I encourage you to check it out.
I thought I was being creative by passing on the pumpkin pie in favor of the atraditional peanut butter pie, but the selections on Daniella Spencer's page truly boggle the mind.
Monday, November 19, 2007
My First Ringing Endorsement
He may be a bit biased, or maybe he did it under duress, but the love of my life finally acknowledged me (that is to say, acknowledged this website) on his blog.
I only began blogging recently. So far, my readership consists of my husband, my mom, and a close high school friend. Once a fellow I met on Facebook stopped by, but I've not seen hide nor hair of him since, nor of any other visitors.
That's okay. Readership will grow or it won't. As I said a while back, this blogging exercise is an experiment.
But, since my readership is so small, I may as well write something that both holds their interest and doesn't bore (or, I suppose, offend) them.
This being 2007, I spend the lion's share of each day away from the folks I love the best. Sometimes I work so late, that I only get a few minutes with them. Sometimes, I don't even get that. I have to resort to virtual means of communication. When we do make time to interact face-to-face, often we're too tired, or too harried, to make time for conversations about the things that really move us, that really matter.
While I've been guilty of navel gazing, my husband has been posting about some real thought-provoking topics. Maybe if we had enough face time, and maybe if I thought to ask him, he'd've shared his conclusions with me in person. Likely not. I never say in ten words what I can say in fifty and, even when he gets a word in edgewise, I tend to cut him off. (It's not motivated by a sense that what I think about is more important than what he thinks about. Truth be told, the enthusiasm for whatever I'm thinking usually just bubbles up and is hard to stop; I give voice to the thought before considering that I'm interrupting. And by then it's too late.)
These blogs are providing us with soapboxes, on which we can pontificate and expound to our hearts content. I'm not just glad to have a page on which to articulate what's on my mind; I am thrilled that I get to learn (and that other people get to read) what gets my husband thinking on any given day.
That his topic of choice was me yesterday? I guess that means that, despite all the hours we spend apart, I'm still doing something right.
While I've been guilty of navel gazing, my husband has been posting about some real thought-provoking topics. Maybe if we had enough face time, and maybe if I thought to ask him, he'd've shared his conclusions with me in person. Likely not. I never say in ten words what I can say in fifty and, even when he gets a word in edgewise, I tend to cut him off. (It's not motivated by a sense that what I think about is more important than what he thinks about. Truth be told, the enthusiasm for whatever I'm thinking usually just bubbles up and is hard to stop; I give voice to the thought before considering that I'm interrupting. And by then it's too late.)
These blogs are providing us with soapboxes, on which we can pontificate and expound to our hearts content. I'm not just glad to have a page on which to articulate what's on my mind; I am thrilled that I get to learn (and that other people get to read) what gets my husband thinking on any given day.
That his topic of choice was me yesterday? I guess that means that, despite all the hours we spend apart, I'm still doing something right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
