Leaky Faucets

Don’t have much time to write while I’m here. No wi-fi at Mom’s house so I have to share the computer which is often occupied. Ana’s napping so this is the time.

It’s so quiet here at night that you can hear each second of the clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Eerie, eh?

Didn’t expect to see snow so soon, but it doesn’t usually happen this early in New York. One snowfall was all I needed to remind me of how much I hate winter. Won’t miss it at all. Cleveland seriously has the worst weather. The sun rarely breaks through the clouds this time of year. It’s just grey, grey, grey.

One thing I do miss is the simple joy of leafing through the sports page with my morning coffee. I never buy the paper any more in New York, and wouldn’t find much joy in reading about the Knicks or Yankees anyway. At least here, I can read about my own teams. Usually, I get most of my sports news from the Internet, but something about the sports page brings me back to high school or something when the sports section was the only section that existed as far as I was concerned.

We’ve been going to the gym almost every day since we’ve been here.  Mom got Aya and I guest passes for the week.  It’s a sweet facility–just opened last month.  Was a Gold’s Gym, but has now changed to Urban Active.  I’ve gotten the chance to play some basketball since no one seems to use the half court that they have.  Unfortunately, I’ve just been playing alone.  The men’s locker room even has an XLERATOR hand dryer.

Self-electrocution has got to be one of the least popular methods of suicide.  You don’t often hear about people so desperate and fed up with life that they decide to take the television into the bath tub with them.

Q: What kind of person reads a novel about suicide for the purpose of escape and enjoyment?

A: me.

Of course, it can be quite depressing and melancholy, but Nick Hornby’s A Long Way Down is also full of sharp wit and humor. He’s probably my favorite contemporary writer; he can handle the most sensitive subjects with a deft touch and I always enjoy his frequent pop culture and music references, not all of which I get.

Another aspect of New York City life I won’t miss at all: waiting for hours in a doctor’s waiting room because they schedule five people at the exact same appointment time.  Why do they do this when they know how long it takes?  Hopefully, my appointment yesterday with Dr. Joseph was the last time I’ll have to endure this kind of abuse.  At least I had a good book to read; an elderly woman seated next to me lamented the fact that she couldn’t even read because she had left her magnifying glass at home.  I thought for a moment about doing a good deed and offering to read aloud to her, but I guess I’m not that nice so I didn’t say anything.

Generally, it seems that every little thing about NYC is bothering me lately, such as the extreme noise terror of the elevated 7 train along Roosevelt Avenue.  When walking under it you just want to pull your ears off.  Perhaps, I’m just trying to justify the decision to move or maybe I actually can’t stand these things any more, some of which I once loved including the noisy el train–it was the essence of city life I thought when I was a newbie on the urban scene.

Just like my dad’s house, Maki’s has a million light switches –half of which don’t appear to have any function. Trying to figure out which switch turns on which light is nearly impossible. Perhaps, this is a common feature of newer developer-built homes.

In virtually any New York neighborhood you can walk five blocks and find at least 10 different places where you can get a decent cup of coffee. Out here in the hinterlands of exurban Pennsylvania, you’re hard pressed find one anywhere. And if you can find coffee at a place other than Starbucks, you’re really rolling the dice. After wandering around a strip mall, and finally venturing across the street, I finally purchased two cups at convenience store chain Swiss Farms. I dodged traffic to get back to the other side of the street-this is not pedestrian-friendly territory either-to bring Aya her light coffee. Mine was pretty dreadful but I was desperate and had gone through a lot of trouble to get it so I drank it. Aya determined it undrinkable. Should I have gone to Chick-Fil-A, which was next to Swiss Farms? They advertise breakfast so perhaps they have decent coffee. (I haven’t had any food there since I lived in mall country. Remember those free samples they would give out? Do they still do that?)

At the strip mall where Ana and Chloe were attending this baby/toddler gym, there were a few food establishments that were open already: a pretzel place and Subway. Neither carried coffee. This is stupidity to me. I’m sure they lose a lot of customers by not having coffee. Or maybe exubranites don’t drink coffee like caffeine-dependent city dwellers.

I ran the marathon yesterday. Sort of, anyway. I wasn’t signed up and I didn’t train a lick. In fact, I hadn’t run for two months before yesterday due to a slow recovery from a not-too-serious knee injury. I was watching the race with Nicki and her roommate at Mile 23 on Fifth Avenue and 103^rd, and I decided that if I saw David I would jump; in and run with him for a few blocks. In knew he would need a pep talk, or at the very least, a distraction at that point. I saw him-partly because of his orange Fred’s Team shirt-just as I was contemplating leaving. I quickly cut through the pack of tired marathoners and surpised David. I ended up running with him for 12 blocks or six tenths of a mile. I think David really appreciated the pick-me-up, and it was fun for me to crash the race (despite the feeling that some of the other runners seemed to be a little pissed at my stunt), although it didn’t really alleviate my feelings of jealousy over not being out there officially. Although, I am thankful that I was spared those hammy cramps this year.

Being a marathon spectator, by the way, is not as easy at it sounds. Man, did my feet hurt.after standing for probably four hours straight.

As I was waiting for the F train to Queens this morning, I noticed that the guy sitting on the bench next to me was looking at the New York Times marathon section. It looked like he was searching for a particular name in the list of finish times, most likely his own. I asked if he ran and he said yes. Later, when we both got off the train in Jackson Heights, I noticed he was wearing his finihser’s medal. Must have been a first-timer. Ascending the stairs, he also possessed the all too familiar post-marathon limp. Painful to watch, but when it happens to you, the pride beats out the pain of each step.