flip-flops and poodles

(Old email from 6.15.2004)

Hello. And yes, I am still alive.

I've been getting all the standard complaints from people in the last two weeks or so that I've "disappeared" or "fallen off the face of the earth." I know. I'm sorry. But I'm here now!!

things are good.

I am in New York, and I love it. Love it! I am more or less settled into my new apartment (save for the three or four remaining bins of shoes and clothes that I can't seem to figure out what to do with even though they take up half the available floor space in my bedroom). The weather's been fantastic, and I've been out exploring the city. And I've most definitely learned a few things along the way...

shoes.

As many of you are aware, I have a lot of shoes. Some may argue that it is too many, but I say you are wrong! But I've learned a valuable shoe lesson in the last two weeks.

One night I wanted to be the New York girl with the adorable shoes. So I slid on a pair of something cute, and trotted off down the street. The subway is four avenue blocks (versus the much shorter street blocks) from my apartment. By 1st Ave I was smiling at my cute feet. By 2nd Ave I was grimacing slightly at would-be blisters. By 3rd Ave I was thankful that I had to wait for the signal to cross the street so I could pull my feet out of the shoe and examine the damage. By Lexington Ave, I was shuffling along with a sad pout upon my face. I got on the subway and thought "This can't be happening. These shoes never hurt my feet before."

Yeah, well, joke's on me. Of COURSE this didn't happen to me before. I wore my shoes for 30 seconds while I walked from my bedroom to my car, at which point the highest shoe risk became that it might slip off the gas pedal while I attempted a four-lane passing maneuver on 128. I would then walk in the shoes for 30 more seconds from my car to my desk at work. The shoes never got so much use in Boston as they did in one mere walk to the subway in New York.

Moral of the story? I now wear flip-flops or sneakers every where I go. That pile of gorgeous shoes? In my closet. Just sitting there. Waiting for a real bona fide excuse to be worn, like, say, the end of the world.

yankees fans.

It turns out that my roommate's friend works in the Yankees ticketing office, and can score us tickets just about any time we want them. So one night he said "Do you want to go to the game tomorrow?" Alexis looked at me and I said "YES!" I turned back to James and said "Can I wear my Johnny Damon shirt?" to which he replied "Only if you want to die." The truth was that he was sitting us in club seats, and if anyone found out he gave a club seat to a non-Yankees fan, he'd be in deep doo-doo. So we agreed I would dress in neutral attire. I figured it was probably safer for myself too, what with all the nasty Yankees fans.

So we got to the stadium and it was incredible--my first time there. Our seats were an amazing four rows from the field, directly behind A-Rod (and his nice little behind). And all the while I sat there, not once did I hear anyone say "Red Sox." Not "Red Sox suck" or "I hate Nomar" or anything. Nor were there t-shirts for sale that said "Red Sox suck, Nomar swallows." As inning after inning passed, I grew increasingly unthreatened by my surroundings, and realized that no one there was going to kill me.

Then I leaned over to Alexis and James and told them how in Boston, there was a constant, lingering, palpable hatred for the Yankees in the air at ALL times. I told them about the "Yankees Suck" t-shirts and the "Yankees Haters" hats. They were appalled. I told them about the "Yankees Suck" chants that erupted from any and every event that grouped mass amounts of bitter Bostonians. They were astonished. And it was right then that I realized--they don't hate us. WE hate THEM. This is a one-way grudge instilled in us by generation after generation of inherited heartache and disappointment, NOT by the actual Yankees. This was mind-blowing and eye-opening for me, and I wanted to share the knowledge, so in an effort to make it more relatable to the masses, I offer this analogy:

Envision two people walking their dogs down the street, towards each other. One is, say, a giant, proud German Shepard. The other is a little ankle-biting poodle. The poodle's leash is taut as he squeak-barks viciously at the giant Shepard, who after glancing unbothered over his shoulder, promptly dismisses and forgets the obnoxious poodle. The Shepard and his owner stroll away unphased, but the poodle is about to have a massive coronary because he hates the Shepard and wants to kill it. In fact, even when the Shepard is no longer in sight, the poodle is still running midget circles around his owners feet, frantically squealing his hatred for the Shepard. It's a big deal to the poodle. It's all he can think about. But the other people and dogs that walk by just say "That is one sad, crazy dog."

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that's all for now.

This email is long enough, so I will wrap up here. (Truthfully, it's because I keep kicking the surge protector switch under my desk and turning of my computer and losing the contents of this message. Done it twice already!) But there is much else to share, and share I will.

The crazy new New Yorker,
Stephanie