It’s Snowing Gloves And Mittens

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courtesy of keyinherpocket on Flickr

Ever since the blizzard a few weeks back, the streets of Hoboken have still been a little messy.

It’s not the town’s fault—it’s only a matter of time before the purely white snow turns to mucky brown and gray sidewalk hurdles, and keepers of curbs.

There’s another natural phenomenon that tends to litter the sidewalks along with the salt as soon as winter arrives. I’ve found them on the steps of the PATH station, the intersection of Washington and Second St., even in the doorway of CVS.

I’ve discovered some red ones, black ones, and white with polka dots. Some are woolen, and some leather. Have you seen them too?

I’m speaking of the occurrence of single mittens and gloves and hats (oh my!).

Over the past few weeks, especially after 20 something inches of snow, I’ve come across many a single glove. And, every time I come across one in my travels—it has to be one of the saddest sites.

My hands feel chapped just looking at them. All I can think about is how their poor owner is probably searching through her handbag, saying over and over…I just had it! I seriously just put it back in my bag…where…where??

Maybe I’m so sensitive about it since it’s happened to me many times. It even almost happened to me the other day. There I was, taking off my wool, insulated, cozy glove to take out my Smartlink card, and before I knew it, I’m standing in front of a train, staring at my other hand—which was supposed to have my other glove in its grasp.

I also then made another discovery. I answered my lingering question as to how there are so many lost gloves—it’s because you can’t ever feel anything when you’re wearing gloves. I had pinched the glove I took off in between my thumb and pointed finger, but no matter.

As I stood there, in disbelief that I yet again lost another glove, while trying so hard to piece together the puzzle before any coffee that morning, a good and decent citizen of Hoboken walked over to me, and told me I dropped this—my glove.

Do you see what we all need? If everyone had someone like this, a little guardian glove angel to let you know when you’ve dropped a mitten, not only would the world be a better place, but also, the streets wouldn’t be so littered with woolen orphans.

Town resolution for 2011, perhaps?

Simply Apple, Simply Free

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It’s been a longggg time since I’ve been able to post about any free goodies. But lo and behold, on my way to work today–ta da!! Free apple and orange juice were handed out by Grand Central. I guess on a day like this, when it’s 26 degrees out, you don’t have to worry about refrigeration. Plus, the apples in the juice are apparently from Canada, so I guess they are used to the cold.

It’s delicious. I don’t know if I’d go out of my way to buy more of it, since I’m not a big apple juice drinker, but the free factor is greatly appreciated with perfect timing since I have no breakfast today.

 

New, Shiny Object

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My mind is full of a lot of useless information.

So–it does not amaze me that I can quote the site, What White People Like, almost two years after its 15 minutes of fame (and a book deal).

This reference refers to #72: Study Abroad:

“By attending school in another country, white people are technically living in another country.  This is important as it gives them the opportunity to insert that fact into any sentence they please. ‘When I used to live in [insert country], I would always ride the train to school.  The people I’d see were inspiring.’”

Case in point: my new Gelaskins iPod cover, for my NEW iPod (thanks CP), which now gives me the opportunity to insert the fact that I too, studied abroad, and like to refer to it as much as I see fit.

This British WWII poster design, resurrected by interior designers in 2009, allows me to wear my heart for the UK on my iPod sleeve, which reminds me of when used to live in Bath, England for a semester, which was clearly very inspiring.

I’m a little too excited.

It’s Time For The Domesticator…

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Sometimes, nothing seems more comforting than to move it into the kitchen and whip up some tasty baked goods. It also helps that I have an affinity for whisks.

The urge to domesticate can strike when you least expect it. Last Tuesday, all Maria and I could think about were chocolate chip pumpkin muffins, and banana tahini bread.

We are not bakers. I cook once or twice a week; Maria is famous for her assembling practices, namely, crackers and cheese. She also does not understand how I never get sick of eating hard boiled eggs at 8 am. But, we pushed our differences aside to make room for a night of baking. Good thing too, because we don’t have a ton of counter space.

About two hours later, including an extra run to a bodega at 10:15 pm when I realized that I bought pumpkin pie filling instead of real pumpkin (d’oh), the discovery that Maria was actually following a vegan recipe, Rach’s realization that all-spice actually exists, and a sink full of dishes, our doughnut-shaped apartment was filled with the scent of thirty-two muffins, and one square loaf of banana bread, with a corner missing. (We had to sample.)

It was a good Tuesday.

Chilly, And Not Quite Sure What The Universe Is Telling Me

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Have you ever paused while crossing a street or running an errand to feel a strong sense of deja vu, where you can’t tell if you are in a similar situation as once before, or if perhaps, the moment reminds you of something you read in a book or watched on tv?

The mind works in mysterious ways. I find that ever since I moved to Hoboken and started working in NYC a few years ago, like a passing rain shower, much of the pop culture I was exposed to at a young age has a tendency to submerge me into a fit of deja vu when I least expect it.

I find it ironic that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve taken a greater liking to kiddie movies, since besides watching the Wizard of Oz and my share of Disney films, most films I grew up watching were written and directed by New Yorkers.  Since my mom grew up in NYC, and my dad also moved and lived there for a few years before my parents got married, perhaps as a way to cushion their fall into suburbia to raise my sister and I, my parents had a large collection of movies with a very NYC sense of humor. From a young age I was exposed to the ridiculousness of Mel Brooks and Woody Allen, even before I understood all the jokes. There were also the true family favorites, like the film version of Neil Simon’s Barefoot in the Park.

Barefoot in the Park stars Jane Fonda and Robert Redford as newlyweds, and it was released in 1967. It’s very New York, it’s very 1960′s, and overall, it’s just a sweet, camp, romantic movie. I still don’t think I understand how deeply this film is rooted in my subconscious. I always thought (and still do) that I would end up falling in love in New York, and make living in a tiny apartment on W. 4th Street glamorous in between Neil Simon-like witty banter and rapid fire come-backs.

Everyone once in a while, my little dream of living out this film does resonate in real life, though, not always in the way I expect.

One particular great line in the movie is when Corie (Jane Fonda) and Paul (Robert Redford) are arguing:

Corrie: Well you’re a funny kind of drunk, Paul. You just sat there watching your coat.

Paul: I was watching my coat because I saw someone else watching my coat!

I can’t tell you how fast this line propelled itself to the front of my memory this past Saturday night, when I was out a bar on the Lower East Side. After leaving my coat on a hook under the bar, someone else was really watching my coat at the bar, and then apparently, decided to wear it out.

Silly me–not listening to my Neil Simon instincts.

I’m not quite sure what the universe is telling me in these moments. Was watching NYC-centric movies as a kid my parent’s way of teaching me street smarts? Why did I hang up my coat considering I had the same thing happen to me in February, on the LES? Is the LES a coat-eating demon monster? Will I one day live on W. 4th St.? Tell me Magic 8 ball!!

Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Maybe the LES is a demon, maybe it’s not. But two things are for sure–I won’t be hanging my coat anywhere besides my arm, and Barefoot in the Park is still one of my favorite movies. Lessons learned.

The Delicious Bewitching Season

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I see the changing of seasons as a very fickle time. Like a werewolf during a full moon, I get a little peculiar right before the switch. I tend to wrestle with the clothes in my closet, only to have flung about three outfits on the floor each time Al Roker tells us what the weather is up to in my neck of the woods. Hot, then cool. Sandals, or boots. Transitioning isn’t easy.

But, more importantly, when fall finally decides to stop playing games and make a commitment, the air turns crisp and all I can think of is one thing: pumpkins.

So orange. So pudgy. And they’re just plain delicious.

I liken this to how Ralph in A Christmas Story describes his father’s love (passion) for turkey:

Now it is well known in the midwest that the Old Man is a turkey junky, a bonafide golly turkaconis freak.

I guess I’m what you would call a bonfide golly pumpakonis freak, or, as I discovered two years ago, I am a pepophile: a lover of all things pumpkin, although I use the word sparingly since the word may be misconstrued.

I’ve got pumpkin on the brain, and so for last night’s dinner, CP and I made pumpkin mac and cheese, thanks to the blog, Healthy Food For Living.

 

courtesy healthyfoodforliving.com

 

Although it turns out as more of a pumpkin cheese sauce, since it’s not baked, it was still oh so delicious, and the pumpkin added a little je ne sais quoi to the dish. We also added bacon because, what the hell, and we have an unnatural obsession with the cured meat. With some red wine, it is the perfect comfort food for the fall.

Pocket Full Of Kryptonite

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Sometimes…just every now and then…between my empty Metrocards and hair bands…I wish my pockets were full of very ripe tomatoes.

Red means STOP!

It’s not that I have some sort of odd fetish, or that I suffer from sudden urges to  devour tomatoes. This would be a method of self defense.

The thing about overly ripe, wrinkly tomatoes is that they are incredibly juicy, and have the ability to explode quite nicely on a windshield, or hood of a car, which, incidentally, would be my target.

You see, I recently had a little tete-a-tete with a car who did not stop at an intersection. Although the driver initially slowed a bit while I was in the crosswalk, he then did this move where he actually started to accelerate–and I was still playing the chicken crossing the road. Had it been a truly rolling stop, I may have been knocked down, along with my bag of groceries, which this driver knocked with the grill of his sedan.

Once, when I was nine years old, a cement truck ran a red light and t-boned our family Volvo station wagon. (RIP Snow White.) Since then, I’ve never been so close to being involved in another hit—on foot.

Hoboken has very congested little streets—but that’s no excuse. No matter who you are—driver or pedestrian, you have to look out for the other. Due to this one driver who almost hit me, I wince anytime a car is trying to turn when pedestrians have the right of way, and I never trust any stop sign. Should any car edge up a bit while stopped at a light, my heart beat quickens, and I have a minor panic attack.

Hence, my idea for the tomatoes. Luckily, this driver looked up when he heard me make a sound. But perhaps I would have made a bolder statement had I started to pelt his windshield with overly ripe tomatoes. Or anything in my pockets.

Also, I apparently need a louder scream. Frozen from fear, I thought I had made a noise like a scream, but it could have easily been a duck quack. We never know how we’ll react in a high-adrenaline moment. I made a noise to sound alert—but I’m not quite sure if this is what stopped the driver, or if it was the flailing of my left arm.

I hate to say that this was just one bad driver, and that I feel safe crossing most streets, but I truly don’t in Hoboken. So, if a tomato thrown at a car is the only red sign that will take some of these drivers to stop and take notice that the pedestrians do have the right of way, perhaps that will be my pocket of kryptonite.