Traveled Down the Road and Back Again

My husband and I met while I was working at Blockbuster. He was my favorite customer and despite distinctly opposite tastes, he had me convinced he enjoyed the movies I recommended. It was only years later that I found out he never even watched Me and You and Everyone We Know, and thought Hideous Kinky was pointless. But that's another so-the-truth-comes-out moment in our history that we'll get to later.

All in all, he was the best that came of that job.

The next best? My Golden Girls box set.

Now don't get me wrong, this isn't a close first and second, I love my husband much more than my Golden Girls seasons 1, 2, and 3 box sets.

Of course.

There's just something comforting about curling up in bed and watching the craziness that ensues when three 60-something women share a house together. It's like Real World, The Golden Years. And when I was pregnant, that's exactly what I did. All nine months, night after night of "Rose, you know what you are? You are a type A, first class, all around NERD!"

Most nights I would fall asleep before the end of an episode and the DVD would go to the main menu replaying the theme song over and over again.

It drove my husband crazy.

And funny enough, it made little guy a fan. My son flipping loves Golden Girls. I have my suspicions that he heard those four voices so much that he was expecting them to be in the delivery room. Surely babies are capable of such ideas in vitro, right?

But all those years of canned laughter and quips culminated into a parenting win this afternoon when little guy came up to me and said, "Mommy, we can make spaghetti sauce but tomatoes stain the walls. So let's make cheese balls instead."

Rejection Collection, What's Your Objection?

I visualize a world in the future where our technological existence is collected in museums with anthropologists and archeologists debating over the purpose of sushi shaped USB drives. I see them stroking their beards as they watch YouTube deciding that, based on the number of videos we posted and watched, our society must have been ruled by cats.

And then one will discover my e-mail and he will write in his ethnography, "Judging from the sheer volume of correspondences, this woman enjoyed submitting manuscripts and took pleasure from being rejected. Surely, there is no other reason to collect so many."

Oh, my rejections letters. My growing piles of rejections letters. I have read one tip after another advising me to view you as something to be appreciated for you represent my pursuit of publication, but I only see you as a big, looming Dead End sign.

The saddest part of receiving a new rejection letter, is that my next move is to collect all the previous rejection letters and read through them again. And then I imagine what the No Responses would have written in their rejection letters. And then I imagine what the agents have said about my manuscript amongst each other. I picture a room where all the agents come together at the end of the week to laugh about their slush pile while they toss page after page into a shredder. And then this one sent me a rhyming picture book!

Yesterday, after yet another rejection, I sought refuge in the experiences of my fellow rejected and I found relief in Bethany Robert's Rejection Letter Translations. And somehow I was comforted by the fact that I have yet to be told my manuscript is 'awkward' or not "engaging," perhaps the two descriptions that would devastate me the most (Potential agents, please don't take that as a challenge).

So I've collected, for your reading pleasure, my most recent rejections. Some might be form, some might be funny, but it is true they are all proof that I am trying. And gosh darn it (Did I mention I'm a children's book writer?), that's something I should be proud of.

"This is to inform you that we are not accepting your manuscript for publication at this time. Due to the overwhelming number of manuscripts received, many promising manuscripts will be passed over. We wish you the best of luck in your search for a publisher and in your writing career."

"Thank you for your submission, which we have read with interest. Unfortunately, we did not feel enthusiastic enough about it to offer to take this further. We are sorry to give you a disappointing response, but thank you for thinking of us in connection with your work."

"Thank you for giving the XXXXXXX Agency a chance to consider your work.
Unfortunately this is not right for us. We are replying as soon as possible to give you the best chance of finding the right agent. We specialise in commercial fiction tailor made for the mass market and therefore we have to be confident of substantial sales quantities before taking on a new project.
We receive over 300 manuscripts a week and can only take on a handful of new writers every year. The result is that we have to be incredibly selective, so please do not be too disheartened. Another agent may well feel differently.
We wish you the very best of luck."

"Thanks so much for sending this sweet story my way, which I enjoyed very much. Everyone can relate to this story after a long, hard day!

Unfortunately, though, Melissa, my list is so full that something has to literally take my breath away in order for me to squeeze it in, and I'm afraid this did not meet that criteria. I'm so very sorry."

Wordless Wednesday: School's Out

Keepin' Dry

Today started with a rainstorm, a flash of lightning and some temporary blindness.

Thank goodness for  a tree that was much taller than I.

While walking in the rain is a puddle-skipping adventure, walking through a storm that swallows umbrellas whole then spits them onto the sidewalk, well now that's just something completely different.

New York is no place for cheap umbrellas

The city is littered with the remnants of hopeful walkers, people just trying to get to work as dry as possible. These busted umbrellas lie useless on the ground or dangling out of trash cans as warning to anyone considering an aluminum handled umbrella.

I once considered making a coffee table book detailing the tragic ends of these umbrellas, but after discovering these artists, I think there may be a better use for them.

Umbrella Art Installation by Konstantin Grcic

Jean Shin, Penumbra; Socrates Sculpture Park, NYC

Abri N°177 by OzCollective

Stephanie Imbreau's Shelter; Channel 4 Headquarters, London

Lumpy Mom

Leave it to 95 degree heat in the concrete jungle to remind me that the city is a much hotter place than South Florida. Everywhere is air conditioned in Florida; you leave your central AC'd house, get in your AC'd car and drive to the AC'd mall, where you can buy everything you need in one stop. But here in the city, cooling down is a luxury for taxi riders and department store shoppers. I don't think I'm in the minority as someone who uses the drinks cooler at the un-air conditioned bodega to cool down before heading back outside. 

But tackling errands in the heat is also a reminder of how much more interaction with nature this urban environment provides. I've had to buy seasonal clothing, a foreign concept to my yearlong flip-flop wearing habits. Checking the weather is a daily occurrence because once the rains comes it's here for hours, sometimes days, and you don't want to get caught having to buy another umbrella at Duane Reade. It's a big change from the Florida days of putting off leaving the house just a little longer because it's raining, since the rain will stop in fifteen minutes anyway. Up here, if you realize you've run out of toilet paper and need to go to the store in the rain, you put on your boots, pop open the umbrella and go to the store. And there's no complaining about it, because had you checked the weather report you would've known it was going to rain.

But it's not just learning to live through the seasons. In the city, a relationship with nature is something that is sought out, and thankfully, with little difficulty. 

As the mom of an animal loving son, I have considered all the possible pets a small second floor apartment will accommodate. And yes, chickens were one consideration. Thankfully, there is BK Farmyards in Crown Heights. Their chicken coop is host to workshops where kids can learn about raising chickens. They also have an Egg CSA for members to enjoy fresh eggs weekly from their coop.

And there are rooftop farms, like Eagle Street Rooftop Farm, where not only can you shop at their Saturday morning farmer's market with amazing views of Manhattan, but you can also learn about urban farming at one of their free workshops. 

Since this is my first year dealing with allergies, I'm not taking it very well. Apparently the snow-free winter has made this year's allergy season even worse than normal. My husband, in his amazing and diverse knowledge (yes, he's smart and handsome) told me that local honey provides relief for allergies since it contains pollen from regional flowers. And so the hunt for Brooklyn honey began. One share we found, Brooklyn Homesteader, not only harvests honey, but also makes a tincture for colds. The first share will be available in July, so I'll report back then on how it is.

While I have always been conscious of my environmental impact, it has admittedly been at a passive level. Although my crunchiness may always be watered down by convenience, thanks to the amazing efforts of some wonderfully ambitious NYC residents, it has become easier to embrace a greener side of me. And that makes me a Lumpy Mom.

Hummus Protest at the Metropolitan Museum of Art

Since moving here, I have made four visits to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and in those four visits I have covered, maybe, half of the museum. And since all of those visits have been with a four year old, it is likely a high estimate to say I have seen half of the pieces in those half of the rooms.

To describe the Met as huge is an understatement.

With each visit, I try to make a stop at my favorite part of the museum, the Temple of Dendur. Housed in a recreated Nubian environment, with a representation of the Nile and papyrus shooting up from the water, the Temple of Dendur is a breathtaking insight into 15th century Egypt. But this is not the reason for my fascination. I love reading through the 19th century graffiti scratched into the temple walls by tourists and military, whose histories are now preserved among the carvings of lotus plants and Caesar Augustus.

But despite my love of the Met, I can't help but become overwhelmed with anxiety when visiting its 2 million square feet of 2 million plus pieces since the vastness of the museum does nothing ease its suffocating amount of rules.

Because you can wear your backpack hanging off one shoulder, but not on your back. Sure, you can take a photo of this but not of that. Pencils are allowed for sketching, but not ink pens. Okay, understandably so, we don't want any freak pen explosions, but do you really have to give me the stink eye for reapplying my lip gloss in the Armor exhibit? And God forbid, don't bring any hummus into the museum.

Don't get me wrong, I recognize housing 14th century Ottoman ceramics requires astronomical insurance, but is it necessary to correct my behavior at every turn of a corner?

Because really, Met Museum guards, you don't have to worry that I'm going to go ape-poo flinging in the museum with my hummus. And no matter how tempting it may be for me, no one is going to visit the Temple of Dendur and know "Melissa was here, 2012"

Rats Like Cats

After some retail therapy at Target yesterday, I was waiting for the Q train at Atlantic- Pacific Barclays station while little guy amusingly watched a rat run along the train tracks below.

"This isn't a rat station, it's a train station. Look, there are signs up, but rats can't read." He laughed for a few moments, then shrugged it off and went on to the next subject.

The twenty-something guy next to us seemed to have a harder time letting go of the fact there was a rat running around. He didn't stop bitching about how dirty the city is, and how disgusting rats are.

And that bothered me more than any rodent I've seen since living here (yes, Matilda, that includes you).

Look, if you want to live in New York City, you're going to have to make some compromises. In fact, I'm thinking of going straight to Bloomberg to have the city renamed to Name Your Compromise.

Pesky landlord. Fighting neighbors. Too noisy. Too quiet. Above a bar. Below a family. No closets. No outlets. Not on an express stop. Too many street carts. Not enough Ethiopian restaurants on the block. Two months pay for one month's rent. Seventy square feet.

All of the above?

Sure, anything is possible.

But if rats in the subway are your biggest complaint, then consider your problems nil. Because, let's face it, while city rats are a breed of their own, on that track they're foraging over is about to appear a train that is going to take you from where you are to where you want to be while you idle away on your iPad. Then when the train stops and you exit the turnstile, you're going to be standing in the middle of one of the most amazing cities in the world.

To humans and rats alike.