A Tale of Manhattan and Friday The 13th

I’ve never subscribed to the notion of superstition, especially not numerical superstitions, but this last Friday the 13th was remarkable in its reinforcement. More than a week before, I'd taken a pregnancy test at the top of Rockefeller Center in New York and considered the result.

I looked at the two solid blue lines. I’d forgotten to bring the box or instructional diagram with me, tucking the test into my luggage on my way out the door just in case. Standing under the art deco facade, I made an executive ruling: I must have the kind of test that shows a cross-and-line when positive instead of the two-line positive. Two lines; it's surely negative. The Hackworths and I shared an “Ah, well” moment and moved closer to the glass that separated us from the rest of New York.

The Chrysler building gleamed in the morning sun and the city fell away from our feet. The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge punctuated the haze like a final signal before the Atlantic swallowed the rest of the sky. I turned from the hole in the sky in Lower Manhattan and slid the test into the garbage.

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I was wrong.

I read Gina’s blog and saw a picture of her positive test. I sat for a moment. “Wait,” I thought, “That’s what my test looked like.” I drove to Target and walked quickly to the rows of pregnancy test in sterile white boxes. Two solid blue lines means you’re knocked up, honey.

And how did I not know?
1. I was exhausted, kept falling asleep, even during conversations (remember the Colbert Report?)
2. I was grumpy
3. I wanted lots of drinks with ice
4. Stuff hurt
5. Everything made me cry
6. That Halal cart was really, really good
7. I was hungry but didn’t want to eat anything.

Adding insult to stupidity, not two weeks previously I’d derided a TV commercial for asserting that 1 in 5 women can misread a pregnancy test. Who could those sad, illiterate people be? I laughed at the pathetic women who can’t read a diagram, what, did they tank their SATs/ACTs?

8. I MISREAD A PREGNANCY TEST

I am that sad and illiterate people.

Immediately I fell into the tumble of early pregnancy. I couldn’t stay awake, couldn’t hold my temper, couldn't hold a thought, and my clothes felt tighter. We were thrilled. Everything was right in the world. Well, everything except that Jeanne’s no longer in it.

I put on my best new black and flowered dress on the morning of Friday the 13th to go to Jeanne’s funeral. She lived her life, I’ll tell you. Modeling, singing all over the world, from the gondolas of the Venetian to command performances, playing her violin, making naughty jokes. She was a light. You would have loved her. She was 33.

Stupid cancer.

I walked into the chapel as a string ensemble played Barbar’s Adagio for Strings--which could make grown men sob. (Reminder: when I die, and I surely will, one Ravel’s Pavanne for a Dead Princess, OK? Deal?) Before the service started I went to powder my nose and realized that I was bleeding, and bleeding a lot.

Ah.

Miscarriage.

I couldn’t think of what else to do, so I went back to sit down for Jeanne’s funeral. The giggles were simmering under the surface. Honestly, how much more drama could be packed into a single morning? It was Friday the 13th. I was at a funeral. I was miscarrying a baby. I almost felt like Jeanne would be giggling with me, impressed with The Meaning of It All. And then I cried.

Taking the grief out of death is like taking love out of the world, said one eulogizer.

Ah.

I like that.

If you leave a comment telling me you’re sorry I’ll delete it. You’re only allowed to leave a comment with something funny, inappropriate, or interesting to say.

The Halal Cart on 53rd Street

There's always a line at the Halal cart outside the Hilton at BlogHer10.

No, I mean it, always a line. 9:00pm? Halfway down the block. 9:00am? Halfway down the block.

3:30am? Same.

Jenny went one night and when she got back to the hotel room I questioned her.

“What is that?”

“I saw a line and decided to wait in it.”

“What was it?”

“I have no idea. I still don’t know. I got up to the front and I think the man said ‘Combo?’ and I said ‘Sure.’”

“Is it good?”

“Uh, yeah, really good.”

I watched her eat the rice, meat (chicken?) and tzatziki (?) with obvious pleasure. I snacked on my knish (a pocket sliced into the side and filled with mustard, onions, and sauerkraut.) I decided I needed more of Jenny’s adventure.

The next day, finding myself at 11:30 pm without a meal in my belly and bereft of companionship, I walked down to the corner. The night was humid, still more than 90 degrees, and the smells of the August city wafted through the streets: human, fetid, sweet, metallic. And on this corner of midtown Manhattan, a spontaneous party was underway.

Cars parked around the block; one blasting pop music from Ethiopia, the other from Pakistan. A busker played his guitar on the steps near the fountain and a few people were dancing. Lights in the square reflected off the buildings and a steady hum of conversation in Czech, Swahili, Turkish, and English buzzed my ears. On line the people passed along what they knew about the cart:

“I’m not sure, but it’s famous.”

“I just saw the line.”

“Best gyro in the city.”

Once a breeze lifted my skirt a little and I thought about the subway train on its way to Brooklyn rumbling beneath the sidewalk. I slid forward in my wedges to listen to the couple on a first date in front of me. Her hair held elaborate braids with softly clicking beads; arms folded against the man making quiet advances on her right. She better guard her flanks, I thought, because that’s a breach in progress if I ever saw one.

The line moved and one of the men working the grill like a fiend crooked his finger at me and nodded. I asked for the lamb. “COMBO?” He said with a flat stare rapidly moving to disgust. I surrendered immediately and moved to the right. The tallest man with a long beard directed the cooks to double time their slinging, and then took my damp greenbacks. I accepted the round tin in return and stepped backward into the square.

The line was the same length as when I’d arrived: halfway down the block, as I knew it would be all night.

New York, I love you, can I stay?

What Happens When You Go to The Colbert Report

I was Jenny’s idea to check the Daily Show website for tickets. She saw that there were four available and I tried to enter our information. Before I could hit submit, someone else had snaked them the tickets. On a whim, I checked The Colbert Report and managed to snag three tickets. I tried to talk some of the other SocialLuxe Loungers into going, but they couldn't get away. I called Amy and she could make it! We took a cab to get to the studio by 5:15pm.

So this is what happens when you go to The Colbert Report:

1. You stand outside on line during an afternoon of blazing heat and humidity for an hour. Hell’s Kitchen doesn’t seem like such a hyperbolic name anymore. The hair that you straightened at home in Utah 24 hours ago will be curled and frizzy.
2. Since you took the red-eye in, you’ve been awake for 30 hours with only a 2 hour nap to sustain you. Standing on line in New York City will be both bizarre and exhausting.
3. A girl who works with the production will try to get the crowd going and hand each of you a numbered card.
4. You’ll be herded into a small room that is mercifully air-conditioned with your 100 closest friends where you’ll stand while they finish rehearsals for the show. You will want to sit down, possibly lie down, on a sealed concrete floor more than you have in years.
5. You’ll get on line for the bathroom just so you can sit down for a couple minutes before the exhaustion overtakes you.
6. The flatscreen will play clips of past Colbert Reports and you will laugh. You’re still standing.
7. More production people will tell you how the show is awful if you don’t laugh and encourage you to laugh even if you don’t think the jokes are funny.
8. They apologize for the wait (standing count: two and a half hours.)
9. It’s been so long that the staff says you can turn back on your phone.
10. You'll tweet something inappropriate featuring a prominent spelling error.
11. You’re called in numerical order into the studio, where you’re threatened with grievous dishonor should you take any pictures. They mean it: the security guys are confiscating phones and cameras.
12. The warm up comedian is a welcome relief.
13. You might nod off a little.
14. Amy'll try to have a conversation with you and you will keep falling asleep.
15. Stephen comes out and does a Q&A with the audience as himself.
16. Stephen is naturally charming and very, very funny. He’s clearly a gifted comedian with excellent improve chops. His makeup is so life-like, too!
17. The show starts and the lady next to you will have the loudest laugh you’ve ever heard. The rest of the audience will turn sometimes to look in your direction. You feel like pointing to her so people don’t think it’s you.
18. Tim Meadows comes out to be a guest character! He’s looking at the teleprompter instead of at Stephen during his response bits. You'll wonder how it will look later on TV, and it turns out that you can’t tell on the TV broadcast.
19. During the commercial breaks they play Zydeco music that for some odd reason, you find invigorating. Everyone else is also tapping their toes. You'll briefly run through the steps to make a roux.
20. Notice a production team member talking with the guest who is seated on the side stage during the commercial break. You will be able to tell she’s explaining that Stephen will run over and try to take credit for the applause, that this is a funny show and that the questions may be facetious. The guest seems nervous.
21. You may nod off during the guest interview and the show will end.
22. You’ll consider taking some surreptitious pictures with your phone, but the security guards are still confiscating small electronics.
23. You could walk back to the Hilton from 10th Avenue to 6th trying to match Amy’s long stride with your bruised feet.
24. You’ll walk another twelve blocks through the silliness of Times Square to the venue where SocialLuxe Lounge will be thrown the next night and grab some greasy buffet chinese for dinner. You’ll work a little longer to prepare for the party. You’ll not be able to recall how you got back to the hotel, but you will collapse into your bed.
25. Stephen really was funny.

Bears in Midtown!

I was waiting for the elevator to arrive on the 24th floor of the Hilton and talking to a tiny woman who lived on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. “Where are you from?” she asked.
“Utah,” I answered with a gigantic Utah smile.
“Where is Utah?” She looked at me, expectantly.
“Oh you New Yorkers!” I laughed, “You think there’s nothing between New York and L.A.” She just looked at me.
“It’s between Colorado and Nevada,” I answered.
“Oh,” she said.

I don’t think that helped.

“Utah!” I responded to two cute girls, both from New York. It took them a couple minutes to ponder this statement.
“I couldn’t live anywhere,” said Eliana, “Where wild animals could just wander into my house.”
Wild animals...wild animals. I’d never thought of that as a legitimate complaint. I live in a city of half a million people, yet if I drive for 30 minutes, I could encounter a bear. Someone is regularly attacked or killed by a bear, or attacked by a mountain lion about once a year. Rattlesnakes? I don’t think that even makes the news. Probably happens a couple times a week, but only to people who a.) go into the wilderness b.) aren’t listening. I live five minutes from Costco and Nordstrom, but deer eat my plants.

I drew a mini-map for Eliana and Joanne that explained how I lived in a valley between two mountain spurs. “There’s just mountains all the way East until Denver,” I said, drawing little spiked peaks onto the back of a schedule. Eliana regarded me with kind disbelief, secure in the knowledge no elk would stride into her Brooklyn pied-à-terre and start knocking over the baking sheets and making a mess of the vanilla.

In full disclosure, I’ve never seen a bear, and it would take an hour of driving before I would be high enough to encounter an elk, but I think Westerners just live with the awareness that we could. I’ve been bitten by snakes; it’s really not a big deal. Mostly you get pissed off and try to shake the snake off your hand, while your friend gets upset because you could have broken its spine. It’s a SNAKE. It BIT me. When your brother comes home from playing in the sandy foothills with yet another tarantula in a jar, it’s kind of cool. Avoiding a bear attack isn’t hard: don’t sleep next to the food. Believe it or not, a bear isn’t checking the labels when it sticks its nose into your tent; you just smell like warmer, noisier food than the Pop Tarts. The idea that I live close the land is laughable, I really don’t. But I guess compared to Flatbush, I’m in the middle of the veldt.

On the plus side, bears really cut down on the homeless.