Subway

Breaking News: Cold in NY, in January

Yeah, I know, this is more than the usual cold. Pretty sure the meteorological term is fucking freezing. Or en español, frio con cojones. But first it was strangely warm, and we saw a spectacular sunset as the temperature plummeted yesterday evening.

The view facing east, sun reflecting off of the buildings.

This being NY, nothing stops for weather (-12 windchill be damned) so it was school and business as usual today. I had an appointment that I expected to take about an hour.

Bring on the leeches!

After a quick consult, I was sent to the lab. Except the usual lab was closed for renovations, so I had to bundle up and head outside to walk closer to the river, and then register to wait. To register insurance info. And then wait for a broken printer which wasn’t fixed. And then register for the actual lab part of the lab. And then wait. And wait. Free entertainment, something broke on an upper floor causing flooding, and I was treated to an hour of alarms and flashing lights. This is a hospital and lab that is crazy crowded under the best of circumstances. Add in sub freezing temps outside (lots of accidents, illnesses, and people just looking for anything that will get them out of the cold), the second lab of the hospital being closed, and chaos on another floor, and well. Sigh.

I’ll admit, met a nice bunch of folks all talking about (surprise!) the weather. One reminded me of one of my mother’s friends, very elegant older woman there with her daughter for pre-op fun. I started to worry that I wouldn’t make it home on time to pick up Flower Child. I said this out loud (why?) and the group prodded me to go into the lab and tell them. When the lab tech came out and called my name, I stood up and this small group cheered for me. Not kidding. NY is never more wonderful than when faced with a challenge/crisis–be it natural or manmade.

I felt worst for the phlebotomist, the inner rooms of the lab were so cold, my hand was literally blue as she took my blood. I was only in there for five minutes, I can’t imagine how that woman was keeping her hand steady in the middle of an 8 or 12 hour shift. Thank you! After a mere four hours, I was on my way to the subway.

The show might go on, but the streets are strangely empty today. No one is loitering outside, everyone is bundled up and hurrying to be indoors. The streets along the hospital are usually lined with panhandlers/homeless. I didn’t see one today, and I’m glad, it means they’re all inside somewhere. Even the pigeons are suspiciously absent.

Just about everyone is as bundled as they can be and still navigate the steps down to the station. I saw two exceptions. One, a woman running to the train this morning in a short skirt and heels, no tights at all. Umm, honey, I know bare legs are awesome, but no one was admiring your daring. And another on the train, sure she was cute in her short peacoat and no hat. Young women always look good. But psst,

you would have looked just as cute in boots. At least put a pair of socks on.

I took note of the empty benches in the street and waiting for the light to change when I noticed this:

Sometimes I really don’t want to know.

I’m just ready to be done for the day, and join Big Senile Dog on his tempurpedic.

Warm and cozy.

Hidden Dangers

I’m pretty sure the overt dangers of life in NY have been well covered by the media. Overblown, even.

English: Heavily tagged subway car in NY in 1973. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The trains don’t even look like this anymore. As a New Yorker, I have and always have had a certain comfort level with the stuff that makes tourists clutch their purses. Yes, I rode the trains at all kinds of hours, even when they still looked like the above photo. Not only rode them, but I’d fall asleep–almost always waking up just as the doors opened at my stop.

Safety tips can be summarized quickly. Look like you know where you’re going, and do so at a reasonable pace. Don’t gawk. Don’t be stupid (flashing cash, jewelry, etc). Flashing boobage is questionable. It’s legal in NY, you can’t be arrested for it, but I think we’ve got a little way to go before it’s safe to be a topless female waiting for the 4 train. And oh yeah, watch out for subway grates when you’re walking down the sidewalk in stilettos.

In Central Park relax, enjoy, and don’t walk through by yourself after dark or before other joggers/bikers/dogwalkers are up and about. Don’t pet the squirrels (nasty and rabid) or feed the pigeons (gross). C’mon, it’s self explanatory. Same rules as NYers. Don’t stare ’em down, keep moving, leave them alone and they’ll leave you alone. Or be prepared to be the crazier one, but that’s another post.

Central Park (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Occasionally you can spot a raccoon in the park. Never heard of one that didn’t have rabies, don’t pet it, or send your dog after it. I saw something in a tree staring down at me last week, I swear it looked like a sloth. Tried to get a photo, but dusk in the park and my camera phone don’t seem to care for each other. Sometimes there are other bizarre animals to be found in there that don’t belong at all, generally because some bozo thought an exotic pet was a good idea when it was cute and little. Then it got big, angry, and tried to eat its owner, so Mr Macho decided to release it into the “wild” of Central Park. Thanks.

Yesterday I learned something new. There’s poison ivy in parts of the park. Not only did I not know that, it never occurred to me. For me, that’s under the category of “things to learn about if I go rural.”

This morning I was walking my beasts. Not even 7AM, just walking down the street, not in the park, and we were accosted by a sparrow. It has to be one of the most bizarre experiences I’ve ever had. This little twit hopped out from under the orange netting of a construction site and chirp chirp cheeped at Little Incredibly Dumb Dog. OK, I figure the thing must be confused, built a nest in the wrong place, I pulled my little fluffball away. Then the thing went after Big Senile Dog. Really?! I can’t tell you how uninterested BSD is in birds, squirrels, etc. I beg him to frighten the pigeons off of the terrace, but if they aren’t in his sunning spot, he just doesn’t give a shit. He kept walking, in search of the ideal poop spot. The sparrow chased after us, twittering and chirping and hopping while Little Incredibly Dumb Dog kept yapping, until the bird got Big Stupid Dog’s attention. He, of course, decides it must be a pre breakfast snack and opens his mouth. I hauled both dogs away as his teeth were about two centimeters from the little morsel, convinced we had come across a rabid sparrow.

I consulted with my good buddy Googles when I got home, it turns out, birds don’t get rabies. Guess it was plain old New Yorkitude.

English: House Sparrow Deutsch: Haussperling Svenska: Gråsparv (Passer domesticus) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Mrs Fringe is a Dirty Stay Out

English: Natalie in Fur Cape (ca. 1905) – A portrait of the writer and salonist Natalie Clifford Barney. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, I left my apartment at 5:15 yesterday afternoon, dropped Flower Child off at Mother In Law’s apartment, clip clopped to the train station in a kick ass pair of boots, and didn’t get back home until 9:30. I was invited to a reading at a lit bar down in the East Village, very cool. Even had a gin and tonic. Look Ma– it’s me, Virginia Woolf!

The East Village is definitely outside of my usual zone these days. The only time I have reason to find myself there is to go with Nerd Child and his guitars to the super secret, super cool luthier off of Avenue A.

Mom’s Tattoo Heart (Photo credit: Smeerch)

I was going to take a picture of one of the piercing/tattoo parlors and text it to Man Child, asking his opinion of whether or not I should get a new tattoo while I was in the neighborhood, but alas, coming out of the train station I turned the wrong way, went East when I should have gone West, and had no time to play. You could blame my advancing age for the misdirection, but instead, I’ll blame the annoying train ride.

The subway was unexpectedly packed for early evening on a Saturday. Maybe due to the recent cab fare hike. So there I was, smashed onto the 2 train, making my way downtown. The other passengers were a typical New York mix; young, old, all ethnicities, styles of dress, and of course, aromas. A particularly ripe group of young men were squooshed right next to me, looking like they were coming from a soccer game. Or basketball. Or polo, or something. Mrs Fringe doesn’t follow athletics, couldn’t tell the difference between golf shoes and football sneakers if there was a publishing contract on the line.

I don’t mind riding the trains, you could say I like the subway. Sure it’s dirty and stinky, but I don’t have to drive, don’t have to think about parking, and the cost is reasonable. It’s also an excellent time to read or people watch, two of my favorite pastimes. New Yorkers are a skilled, creative lot. We know how to maintain boundaries and anonymity, even when jammed in nose to armpit. Usually.

I honestly wanted to slap each one of that group of young athletes upside their collective heads. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re young Wall Streeters, probably still in the operations departments, putting in their year or three of work experience before going back to school for their graduate degrees. One was holding a neon green bottle of what I assume was an electrolyte drink, to prepare his body for an evening of heavy drinking and peacockery. Unscrewing the cap, he fumbled it into the lap of a man sitting in front of me, not with their group. Glad I don’t have any money on his team. Another kept his backpack on, very rude on a crowded subway car, packed full of shit with yet another pair of sneakers coming out the front pocket, poking me in the chest. WTF? Personal space, guys. But the prince of this crew of entitled young shits, well, he was extra special.

He kept jamming his hands down the front of his nylon shorts. Adjusting himself? Fondling himself? Checking that his dangly bits were really his and still attached? I’m old enough that I could be the mother of any of these kids, but I’m not their mother. As such, I didn’t find his self exploration to be endearing, cute, or thrilling. I think he got the wrong message back in preschool, when admonished to keep his hands to himself. And their conversation, the verbal equivalent of his masturbatory display. My end of the train car got to hear all about his sexual exploits; who he banged when and where, which one of his buddies texted the results to the rest of their crew and everyone else on their contact list, and their tag line after each story, “Did you shower?” Maybe that’s a script reference I’m unfamiliar with, maybe it references an incident from their dorm days. I could barely contain my excitement. Ooh baby ooh baby.

I’d say I hope they missed their stop and ended up lost in Bushwick, but that would be uncharitable. And I think that’s become yet another hipster neighborhood.