I Happen to Like New York

I had a friend with an apartment on Prince Street in Soho.

My last visit to NYC in the spring of 2001 was to visit him and another friend who'd moved there with her husband. She and I'd worked together at LSU.

I was also supposed to meet up with my (sorority) little sister, Tove Sundqvist. She lived in Amsterdam, but she had to be in Boston. We were going to try and get together, but ultimately it didn't work out.

Anyway, my friend John was very excited about the prospect of me moving to NYC and getting an editorial job, and he was helping me meet folks at Newsweek and Hachette.

It was very cold, and I have a picture of me freezing on top of the WTC six months before it hit the ground. It was my third trip in less than two years, but I wasn't going to move. I didn't want it badly enough, and I was married with a husband on his way to med school at the time.

I remember John took me to some way off-Broadway play where all the actors ended up completely naked at various points. I have no idea what the name of it was, but we met up with some of the cast at a little diner after. They kept going on about how much I looked like Drew Barrymore, and John was indignant. "She is not fat," he snapped.

John was from Port Allen. Same city as that little Tracy Porter kid who made the winning play for the Saints at the Superbowl. John's apartment was huge by NYC standards and his rent was only $1,400 a month because of rent control. He'd been there since the '80s. I still can't believe he gave that place up to move to Atlanta.

That night at the diner, I just remember thinking how one of my sorority sisters used to say I looked like Drew Barrymore, and I'd never taken it as an insult.

Six months later everything changed. It was Sept. 11, and I was working at the paper in Shreveport, La. I remember standing out in the newsroom with the rest of the staff watching Matt Lauer covering the nightmare. Then I went back to my office where my phone was ringing off the hook with friends demanding to know what was going on.

I just work here, I thought.

One month after that Tove was killed in Amsterdam after being hit by a tram while she was riding her bike. I remember getting the email from her (bio) sister Jenny telling me what had happened, and I went straight to the phone and called her.

I had no idea what time it was in Sweden, but I couldn't believe it. Somebody had hacked into her email account and was playing the most un-funny joke of all time.

But it wasn't the most un-funny joke. It was the most un-funny truth. We sat there kind of stunned, and I eventually hung up the phone. I don't really remember our conversation.

An hour later, as the email was being discovered by our other sisters, my phone started ringing off the hook again. What had happened? Had I talked to Jenny? But Tove just got married! She was going to have a baby! And she was always so healthy! It was surreal.

I had just gotten the thank-you card she'd sent me for her wedding present. I'd given her some of those giant bath-sheet towels we all loved so much. I remembered how one time she'd fallen in the shower at her dorm and hit her head and we all had to rush her to the ER for stitches. Jenny had been so scared, and we'd all joked about what a klutz she was. Another time she got a speeding ticket, and Jenny just knew she was going to get deported. Tove was larger than life.

I sat down and scribbled out some letter to Jenny that I couldn't even read through my blurry eyes. I wrote how I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't. I wrote about how badly I'd wanted to be at her wedding that summer, but with the move to Shreveport and all it had been impossible. And I hadn't saved enough money to fly to Amsterdam.

I mailed it without even proofreading. It probably made no sense.

Another month later, my first marriage ended...

Tough year.

It got better, of course, and by the end of 2002, I was surrounded by an amazing group of friends in Indy who took me in on sight and made me feel as welcome as if I'd always been here.

They still do. Those guys are amazing. Love them~

* * *

This is a repost from when I first started blogging in 2010. It seemed appropriate today, in remembrance of Sept. 11 and in light of our relocation back to Indy. Still love those guys! It feels like a quiet day, but I'll be sending my revision back as scheduled. And I plan to be around.

Til Thursday, reader- and writer-friends~ <3

9 months ago

Warning, over-sharing ahead: I was sitting on the toilet looking at the ceramic tile floor in my bathroom when it hit me. Everything in my life is upside right down, and nine months ago it wasn't.

Why the ceramic tile? Well, I'll tell ya.

My dad and I put that tile down. The two of us. By ourselves. And it looks pretty darn good.

Before that I had carpet in my bathroom. Carpet. In the bathroom. Yuck.

But at the door leading from my bathroom to my bedroom, we couldn't find the right strip to put there. So we left it with just the tile meeting the carpet. No overlay, no nothing.

It was fine for me, but now that I'm trying to sell my house, I realize potential buyers won't know this story.

They won't know that my little girls were six months old and 17 months old when we moved here, which explains why there are chocolate milk spatters in various odd locations throughout the house. (Sippy cups leak when thrown.)

I've tried to wipe them all up, but I still find stray ones hidden in corners.

They won't know that nine months ago, I decided this less than two-thousand square-foot home was too small for us and started looking around Spanish Fort for a new one.

They won't know that I gave up after a week.

Because there aren't any other homes on corner lots that end in cul-de-sacs where I know all my neighbors and we all like each other.

Where the youngest had daughters old enough to babysit when we moved in, and where the oldest brought me an Easter lily and told me what all the flowers were in my yard.

And then she groused because the previous owner "didn't know when to stop" when it came to buying new flowering plants.

That neighbor and I had the same birthday. She died four years ago, and when we put the For Sale sign out in front of my house, I went for a run. When I got back, I went straight into the front yard of her now-empty house and held onto her satsuma tree and cried.

Some mornings when I'm in the kitchen making coffee, I can still see her 87 year-old self puttering around her over-planted yard. The people who buy this house won't remember her.

Nine months ago, I was active in the PTA. I volunteered in the cafeteria when budget cuts meant we lost a lunch lady, and I never missed a field trip.

Nine months ago I belonged here.

And now I don't. Now my friends talk about the kids joining soccer teams and school functions I won't be around to attend.

Wow. I'm sorry!

It's Monday, and I've turned into a depressing ninny-baby on you all! I've even picked up some new followers. Hello, new followers! I'm typically not such a dismal hostess...

Here's an incredible story:

We moved here in Feb. 2004. In March 2004, a couple came to the house and asked if it was still for sale. I told them that it wasn't anymore, we'd bought it. They asked if they could see the place anyway, and it was so odd, I said sure.

They were from south Louisiana, too. They'd been off living on a yacht--people do that around here--and had seen the house online and wanted to buy it. I apologized and said I guessed I'd beaten them to it.

They were very kind, and we shared some laughs. And I never heard from them again.

Yesterday, they drove past the house, stopped and got out. They've been wanting to move back to this area and had been driving around looking at houses. None of us could believe it. I wonder if they'll make an offer.

Finally, True Confession: I buried the lede. My MS is on submission right now. It has been for two weeks, and so far I haven't heard anything. I really thought I'd be cool during this part of the process...

I am so not cool during this part of the process.

I'm freaking out. This is so much worse than querying because this is IT. The last layer where I find out if I'm in or I'm out. I feel jumpy and sweaty and nauseous all at the same time if I think about it too much.

Nothing like everything happening at once.

Have any of you experienced any of these things? Any words of advice for me? I could sure use a bit of encouragement. Thanks, my reader- and writer-friends.

Have a great week, don't forget to sign up for the "Laughter is the Best Medicine" blogfest (link) to be held May 16. (I could use it today!)

Til Thursday~ <3