April 3, 2008

Take A Walk Around Times Square

Take a walk around Times Square
With a pistol in my suitcase
And my eyes on the TV.

So, before I left on this grand adventure, I was e-mailing with Liz from Mom-101 and told her how my worry wart of a mother was freaking out about me coming to New York City.

My mom was so convinced that NYC is very dangerous and that I would get mugged. Or raped. Or murdered. OR KIDNAPPED. I remember how afraid I was to go anywhere on my bike as a kid. My mother would shriek, “Don’t go alone! You might get kidnapped!” As I was leaving for the airport she yelled, “Don’t use the subway! You might get kidnapped!”

Liz was very reassuring, saying that it was like daylight at night down there in the subway tunnels and that if she hadn’t been kidnapped in a lifetime of living in NYC, then I was probably fine.

Well, I did it, folks. Last night I used the subway from W. 72nd Street and I managed to get to Times Square in one piece. I’m so proud of myself. I didn’t even freak out. Okay. Maybe a little.

I walked less than a block from my hotel to the 72nd St. pavilion and bought a single ride ticket. I got on a train car that had plenty of other women on it, so I knew it must be somewhat safe. It was crammed in this little car, I had to stand by the doors and held onto the railing as tight as possible, and I didn’t make eye contact with anyone. But then I thought that might looks suspicious, they might know I was from out of town, so I started making eye contact with everyone — which probably only made me look creepy. Or maybe it was the smiling.

I have to tell you, I’m a smiler. I smile at everyone. I don’t know if it’s my Midwestern, friendly neighbor upbringing or the fact that I just like to be polite, but I smile at strangers all the time. I can’t help it. Sometimes I don’t even know I’m doing it! And New Yorkers? They don’t smile back. They just look at you as if to say, “What the fuck are you so damn happy about?”

So as I’m standing on the subway, smiling and making eye contact, the other passengers are probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me. So then I got a scowl on my face. That ought to make me a pseudo-New Yorker right?

Anyway, I got off at 42nd Street and 7th Avenue, right in the heart of Times Square. The lights. The sights. So much action. So. many. people. It was amazing. Surprisingly, I felt totally safe. (I didn’t even need to carry a pistol.) This may be because of the many police officers on every corner, too.

I got to the Paramount hotel and met up with Liz, Laura, Maria and Mir, and met some really awesome bloggers from Roosevelt Island who highly recommend I take the tram and tour the neighborhood. I just might do that.

After a few hours of socializing I was feeling pretty tired. I took a cab back to my hotel and checked e-mails, posted at BlogHer, and finally went to bed.

Can you believe it? I took the freakin’ subway!

Times Square

I wonder, does he get paid to stand there in all that make-up? I’d hate to get that all over my clothes!

April 2, 2008

In Old New York

Start spreading the news
I’m leaving today
I want to be a part of it, New York, New York…

I awoke at 2:10 a.m. this morning, twenty minutes before my alarm was set to go off. It’s as though my body sensed it was time to start our New York City adventure. The excitement! The anticipation! I just couldn’t sleep. This may also be due to the fact that my stomach was in knots all night about the flying part. I hadn’t been on a plane in 15 years.

After showering, dressing and double checking that I had everything I needed, I kissed Doug and Dawson goodbye (several times) and drove to my parents’ house. My sister, Rachel, was going to ride to the airport with me and then drive my car back. I didn’t want to pay the exorbitant overnight parking fees, especially when my parents live 20 minutes from Central Wisconsin Airport (CWA) in Mosinee.

We got to the airport at 4:05 a.m., I printed my boarding passes and checked my luggage, then waited for 45 minutes until I could board the plane. I had my carry-on bag, and when it was time to go through security I was surprised that I had to take my shoes off and have them checked for razor blades. Times have definitely changed. I knew flying regulations were different since 9/11, but it still surprised me, eight years later.

The first flight was a small commuter plane. I had a window seat and thankfully it was still dark outside. I only saw navy blue sky and lots of street lights on the ground below. Flying over the Mississippi River scared the bejeebus out of me. My connection was in Minneapolis-St. Paul and my first plane was 10 minutes late in landing. This left me with only 30 minutes to run like the wind from gate A6 to gate G16, which consisted of several escalators and a sky way. I made it to the gate with only 10 minutes to spare. I was sweating profusely by the time I got on the much larger jet that would take me to LaGuardia airport in Queens.

I tried to sleep for most of the two hour flight. I was so exhausted from getting up early and trying to stay calm as we were thousands of feet in the air. Thirty minutes before we were scheduled to land, we hit some turbulence which jolted me awake.

As we neared NYC, I was absolutely stunned when I saw the Statue of Liberty from the air. It looked so tiny, and so far away from Manhattan. But our lady is beautiful, and the freedom she represents still takes my breath away.

Seeing the Empire State Building and the Chrysler building from the plane window was pretty cool, too. They look so majestic, these icons of Beaux-Arts architecture. Even Central Park was breathtaking from the air.

As we neared the airport, the plane began to shake and dip. I could feel every vibration, every sudden change in altitude, right in the pit of my stomach. It scared me enough that I practically threw up in my mouth, and I even uttered the words, “Dear God…make it stop!” A nice woman next to me offered to hold my hand, but I politely declined. I figured I had to get over my fear eventually.

After we landed, I collected my baggage and bought a ticket for an Air Link van to take me into the city. The driver managed to cram nine people and all of our luggage into the vehicle. It was neat to see parts of the outer boroughs and I kind of freaked out when we entered the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. I could hear this rushing sound and I wondered, “Is that the East River or the subway?” I still have no idea. I’m just glad I didn’t hyperventilate in such close quarters. And the way this guy drove? Oy vey. Speeding. Tailgating. Horn honking. Cutting taxis and buses off. I’m lucky to be alive.

Once I got to my hotel, I pre-registered, but check-in wasn’t until 3 p.m. I had two hours to kill. The hotel held my luggage for me and I walked a block south to Gray’s Papaya.

Sex and the City fans will remember this as the place where Carrie went for a hot dog after her book party. It was kind of fun to be in the same place as something filmed for HBO. I had the “Recession Special”: two dogs and a papaya fruit drink for $3.50. I hadn’t eaten yet and my stomach was rumbling. I’m tellin’ ya, hot dogs never tasted so good.

Next I ventured east on 72nd street toward Central Park. I saw the Dakota, the building in which John Lennon lived. He was shot and killed outside the Dakota in 1980. Across the street in Central Park, just steps from the Dakota, is Strawberry Fields, a quiet knoll dedicated to the memory of John Lennon by Yoko Ono. When I went through that part of the park, a man named Gary was giving a bit of history of Lennon and Ono and the building. Yoko Ono still has an apartment there. Gary had made a peace sign from beautiful flowers on the “Imagine” circle tiled in stone.

I continued walking through the park toward the Mall (the only straight path, formal promenade in the park) and giggled with glee when I saw the horse-drawn carriages and the coachman in his top hat and overcoat. I felt as though I had been transported to the era of Edith Wharton and Henry James. It was magical. I still can’t believe I’m in this great city.

While I was admiring Bethesda Fountain, a gentleman offered to give me a tour of the park on his bicycle carriage for $120. I passed on his offer, especially when I could get the exercise for free. At the fountain, which has no water in it this time of year, there was a jazz quartet playing wonderful music. I took a few seconds of video footage with my camera because I wanted to remember this sound. Up the stairs from the fountain, another musician was playing a xylophone, and yet another a ukulele.

Some of the other landmarks I passed included Cherry Hill, Hans Christian Andersen, Alice In Wonderland, the Loeb Boathouse, Belvedere Castle, the Ramble and the Bow Bridge. It was there that my camera batteries died and I decided to head back to the hotel. My feet were killing me. This city definitely gave me a work out.

On my way back, I was getting hungry again, so I stopped at Columbus Gourmet and ordered the Beef Burger Deluxe and Fries. The sandwich was as big as my head. I couldn’t even eat a quarter of it. The time was 2:45 and thankfully the hotel had a room ready for me and I checked in. I finished eating and then sprawled on my bed to rest for a moment.

It’s extremely hot in this Upper West Side apartment/hotel complex. The heater won’t seem to turn off, even though the switch is pointing to off. I have the window open and the New York breeze is wonderful. Right now the Presbyterian Church around the corner is playing “How Great Thou Art” from their bell tower. I can’t help but smile. My grandmother loved to sing that song to me when I was a child. Before that I could hear the faint sound of a French horn wafting among the skyscrapers, and the occasional fire engine or police car siren reminding me that I am indeed in the Big Apple.

It’s been a great first day. Tonight I’m going to attempt the subway to meet Mom-101 and the sk*rt girls for drinks. Wish me luck!

View more of Central Park and NYC.

March 29, 2008

What’s New With Me? Quite A Lot.

I have a confession to make, dear blog pals. I have a job. I’ve had this job for nearly a month, and I wanted to tell you all about it sooner, but I hesitated because what I do is so wonderful, so perfect for me, and I love it so much. I didn’t want to seem like I was rubbing it in your faces. I’ve had a stroke of good luck and I’m so thankful.

Shortly after I lost my job, Lisa Stone of BlogHer informed me that the BlogHerAds network had a position available for a headlines editor. After learning more about it, I was offered the position and I gratefully accepted. I’ve been working from home for about a month and so far everything is working out wonderfully. Not only that, I love what I do. This opportunity has allowed me to work just the right number of hours and contribute to my family’s financial well-being. The bonus is that I’m able to spend more time with Doug and Dawson and my house has never been this clean.

This is also the reason why my blog posting has been sporadic and I do hope you’ll forgive me. It took a few weeks to learn the ropes and get a routine in place.

Many of you know that March 17th was my 29th birthday. Doug took me to Chili’s for dinner. Neither of us had been there before and our local restaurant opened last fall. The place was booming for months and we wanted to wait until the “newness” wore off before having dinner there.

We each had the shrimp and ribs combo. The food was good, but overpriced for what it’s worth. I had one cosmopolitan with my meal and it was so strong I think I was drunk by the time we left. After dinner we went to a bar called Partner’s Pub. People celebrating their birthdays can drink free all night. Four double drinks later and I was really sloshed. We were home by 8:30, and I only missed half of Dancing with the Stars. The new season premiered that night. I have to say I’m not really into it this season. I know you’re surprised. I am a diehard DWTS fan. Except my boyfriend isn’t dancing this go ’round and I’m disappointed. It’s not the same with out Maksim. Although I’m totally rooting for Priscilla Presley and Kristi Yamaguchi.

I agree with Maks when he says that another woman may not win Dancing with the Stars. It’s true. Most women are reluctant to vote for other women. I was terribly disappointed when Melanie Brown and Maksim took second place to Helio Castroneves and Julianne Hough. Melanie was the better dancer by far. She worked hard and had the technique. But I think women were wooed by Helio’s charm and good loooks. Helio was a great dancer, but not the best. Kelly Monaco was the first and only woman to win DWTS thus far, and I think it’s because of her soap opera fans.

Back to talking about me. Heh. So where was I? Oh yes. My birthday. So, I wasn’t as nuts after turning 29 like I was when I turned 28 — although I did have my obligatory meltdown about age and having babies and blah, blah blah. I was content about entering my last year in my twenties, that is until my husband discovered a dozen gray hairs on my head. I totally believe he gave them to me. Like a contageous disease. And then the SOB plucks two out of my scalp. I did end up buying the hair dye. My new color is a bit too light. I should have just forked over the $60 bucks and had it dyed professionally. It would have turned out better, I’m sure.

The Easter UPS man delivered Dawson’s Leapster L-Max on Thursday and when we opened the box he got so giddy with excitement I thought the kid was going to explode. “Mommy! That’s for me! That’s mine! I waited for it a week ago!” It was so cute. He even said to me, “This is my favorite toy, ever!”

He played it non-stop for eight hours that day. Yes, you read that right. Eight hours. And then the game stopped working. For real. My poor kid was heartbroken. We tried to change the batteries and it still wouldn’t power on. Friday morning we tried again and nothing. So I had to call the company and have them send a shipping label so that we can get it replaced. It will take two weeks. Dawson is devastated. We don’t even know what happened. He was so careful with that game. Doug thinks it was defective to begin with.

In other news, I leave for New York City this coming Wednesday. Did I tell you about this? I can’t remember. Let me just start again. Last fall I decided I really wanted to go to BlogHer Business ‘08. I talked with another fabulous blogger about going with me and sharing a hotel room and she said she had been wanting to go to the conference, too.

So, I booked an airline ticket, made the hotel reservation and waited patiently for the conference registration to open. When it did a few months later, I realized how expensive it was and decided that I probably wouldn’t be able to afford it. But then Kristy from Blogher told me apply for a BlogHerShip to live blog the conference tracks which would waive my fees. I was just going to do so when I lost my job, and so I canceled the hotel reservation.

Unfortunately, my air ticket was non-refundable. But Liz offered to have me over for a visit and I graciously accepted. Another turn of events and stroke of strange luck occurred, and it turns out I’ll be spending two nights in NYC (a pal of mine hooked me up with an apartment rental on the Upper West Side, two blocks from Central Park, at a too-good-to-be-true rate) and the third night with Liz in Jersey. I’m totally cool with that because I’ve always wanted to tour the museums of Manhattan, and I don’t know when I’ll have another opportunity. The best part is that an old friend of mine lives in Queens (the one who scored the apartment for me) and we’re meeting up for dinner on my first night in the city.

It’s strange that I’ll be a pseudo single girl in Manhattan, but I’ve wanted to do this for years and never did. I’m a little nervous about flying, though. The last time I was on an airplane was 15 years ago when I went to Washington, D.C. in ninth grade.

So, that’s pretty much what I’m up to these days. Tomorrow I’m going to tell you about my ridiculous shopping trip to Kohl’s yesterday. It’s a funny story. Stay tuned.

March 27, 2008

A Letter to My Body: Overcoming My Own Body Image Issues

**Cross-posted from BlogHer

When Suzanne introduced BlogHer’s Letter to My Body project I was very excited to participate. Excited but nervous and scared, as well.

For so long I’ve struggled with body image and my very unrealistic expectations of how I should look and what I should weigh, and I didn’t know how I would put my feelings into words.

So many amazing women have written beautiful letters to their bodies.

I’ve felt similar feelings about my body as Angella has about hers:

You have never made it easy for me.

For as long as I can remember, I was referred to as a Big Girl. I was bigger than all of my friends. Taller, wider, thicker.

I was a regular kid who liked candy and Pop Shoppe pop. My Mom loved me to a fault. She did not want to deny me anything, for fear that I would choose my Dad over her. Any food, any treat, was mine to be had. I was never denied anything.

I had friends who were skinny. They could eat candy and drink pop and still retain those pencil-thin thighs. I was beyond envious.

My thighs were never pencil-thin. I had that inner thigh that swayed in the breeze and reminded me that I was not in the same class as the Pencils. I would pound my pillow while chanting, “It’s NOT FAIR!” and hope that you would hear me. That you would ramp up my metabolism and let me be like the other girls. Candy and pop, and pencil-thin thighs.

You did not listen.

This made me so very, very sad. I would cry myself to sleep and wonder why my body hated me so.

Lady Beams is amazed at how reliable her body is:

Here we are after spending a half a century together, and I figure I know you pretty well. We’ve pretty much come full circle, the baby with her belly hanging out over her diaper, the little girl who was taller than almost everyone in her class, the blossoming young woman who quickly turned into “full figured”, and the older woman who has once again turned into a body with her belly hanging over her underwear. You’ve taken me from being a kid to having 3, and I must say we got along pretty well thru all of them. We’ve gone thru menopause together and it was easy. No matter what I’ve done to you, you have always bounced back and been strong and reliable.

But it’s Sepha’s letter that moved me to tears (please read it’s entirety at her blog, Undone):

I used to revel in my body; it looked pretty fancy without much effort, it brought me pleasure, allowed me to feel good. The breasts came in a little early and I could have done without nasty people pinging my brand new brastraps. But perhaps it’s good that they did because it gave me a little more time with a full pair before the mastectomy at age 28.

Didn’t you know body, that you weren’t supposed to let cancer in? That it was a baddie who you ought to have fought? I know I didn’t go in for playing cops and robbers when I was a child, was that what you needed to teach you to fight baddies?

You did bad, you let me down, you’re responsible for the lopsided mess that is now my bosom and yet you still didn’t learn because you let Mr Cancer come back and set up residence in my bones and lung. How did he sweet-talk his way back in? Was a year’s worth of hideous treatments not enough to teach you to attack Mr Cancer?

It’s so hard to hate you, body, because you are me and hating you means hating me - but I do. I can’t really bear to be with myself a lot of the time. I look away from the bathroom mirror when getting into the bath. I struggle over what to wear that won’t show off a non-existent cleavage. You’ve cheated me - because the world out there thinks that women have *two* breasts - it’s in the magazines, on the Television, in films, in fashion, it’s instilled into every baby being breast-fed; it’s on every woman I see walking down the street. You’ve turned me into the Non-Woman.

I had over a month to write my own letter to my body, but I hesitated and worried about what I should say. Each time I started writing, I would find something “wrong” with my letter and I’d start over. I thought that my letter had to be perfect. Then I realized my body image issues were carrying over to other aspects of my life, and it was time to end this obsession with perfection. Here’s my letter:

Dear Body,

For most of my life I’ve treated you terribly. For most of my life I’ve been unhappy with how you look. Growing up I never believed you were pretty. I constantly compared you to other girls. Your hair wasn’t long enough. Your eyes weren’t blue enough. Your stomach wasn’t flat enough. You weren’t a size four. You would never be a super model.

I’d like to tell you these feelings of inadequacy began in high school — junior high even — but I remember feeling depressed about you, dear body, in fourth grade. I still remember my tenth birthday and calling you fat for the first time.

Do you remember that day? Mother had taken us to a department store to buy a new outfit. I was trying on clothes in the dressing room, looking at your stomach and thighs in the three angled mirrors, and wishing you were skinny. You were the body of a typical ten year old girl, but I thought you were ugly. I didn’t know that you weren’t fat. I didn’t understand that you were still growing. I didn’t know you were healthy.

My perceptions were skewed by what I thought you should look like. Looking back now, I truly believe my first dressing room experience affected how I would look at you for several years to come.

Every television commercial or magazine ad featured a thin, blond, green-eyed girl with sparkling white teeth. Those models always looked so happy, so confident, so beautiful. I believed it was because they were petite and thin. I thought they had the perfect bodies.

Those ads made me feel worthless. I hated you. You didn’t measure up to the bodies of those girls. You were big boned and “hefty,” as the school nurse called it. She tried to tell me not to fight genetics. That I should be happy with who I was, not what my body looked like.

Body, what you looked like affected everything in my life. I never went to prom because I didn’t think you were thin enough to wear a formal dress. I stopped playing sports because I thought your thighs were huge and I didn’t want anyone to seem them jiggle when your legs ran. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a two-piece swimming suit because you had large breasts and wide hips and I couldn’t risk anyone seeing my less than perfect body.

As I reflect on all of this, I get angry. Not at you, dear body, but at me.

I’ve spent twenty-nine years insulting you instead of cherishing you. You’re the one constant in my life. My relationship with you is the longest I’ve ever been in and I treat you terribly. If I treated my husband this way, he’d have left me a long time ago.

I constantly insult your breasts, stomach, ass, thighs and arms. For ten years I forced you to smoke cigarettes. For too long I’ve shoved chocolate and potato chips into your mouth instead of all the healthy foods you need to function properly.

I’ve neglected you, yet you’re still with me. Your heart still beats. Your lungs still breathe. You conceived and carried a beautiful child for nine months. I never thanked you for the wear and tear, and the pain you endured to deliver my precious baby.

I’ve never treated you with respect and honor. I’ve done nothing to show you how much I appreciate you. In twenty-nine years I’ve never told you I love you. Not once. But, I do love you.

I love your eyes. I love your hair. I love the freckles on your knees. I love the scar on your right arm, proof that you were able to heal from my gymnastic clumsiness in kindergarten.

I love your wide feet (even if it is hard to find shoes that fit them), because they’ve carried me everywhere I need to go.

I love your lips, they’ve given many kisses. I love your arms, they’ve given many hugs.

I love your stomach, stretch marks and all, proof that a little person lived there. I love your breasts that nourished my baby.

My deepest regret is not taking the time to tell you how much I love you and appreciate you before now. Thank you for sticking with me. Without you I’m truly nothing.

Love Always,

Me

Writing this letter was therapeutic for me. As I dug through all the layers of my body, I discovered so many emotions have prevented me from loving my body. I had taken my body for granted, always expecting it to just be there without realizing what it does to keep me alive and well. It’s empowering to discover how much I do love my body when I think of all it’s been through.

I’m challenging you to write your letter to your body. Don’t hesitate like I did. Don’t worry about what to say. Your body is beautiful, imperfections and all. Won’t you share your story with us? Click over to this post at BlogHer and the Mr Linky to ensure we click to your blog to read your amazing letters.

What are you waiting for?  Get to it!