Note From A Nice Native New Yorker

Americans still think New Yorkers are mean, rude and arrogant. Yet they flock to this city in the MILLIONS. Henry Stewart of Brooklyn Magazine expressed his annoyance in the article "Why Do Americans Think New Yorkers Are So Mean?":

The last two times I went to Manhattan, no fewer than four pedestrians and straphangers asked me for directions. I guess I've just got one of those faces, the one that gets me elected foreman when I'm on jury duty, but I can't stand on a street corner without fielding queries as to which direction whatever avenue is or sit on the subway without explaining how to get to Canal Street if the R train's not going to the city from Brooklyn. And what do I get for my patience and trouble? A bunch of survey takers telling me I'm a jerk.

Ditto.

Michelle Obama and My Teeth

The day after Day 1 of the Democratic National Convention, I was in the dentist's chair at NYU College of Dentistry. Once the student dentist completed my examination she informed me that she'd bring in a faculty member (any one that she could find that was free) so they could examine me and determine whether or not they agreed with her course of action.


My student dentist is a young Nigerian woman. The faculty member she found is a Black woman of about 50. The DDS lowered my chair, and reclined the back, so now I was practically lying flat on my back. She examined my tooth in question and the rest of my teeth -- commenting that I have nice teeth and I obviously take care of them -- and agreed with the student dentist's findings and treatment plan and signed off on it.

Mixers And The Single Woman

Recently I found out about a mixer/meet-up. I emailed the invite to a few friends to see who'd be interested in going. Geraldine and I decided to venture to the Empire Hotel on a Friday night.


I rarely go to mixers. Well, mixers that are advertised as mixers. I attended one earlier this year hosted by WTF Is Up With My Love Life. The object was to find new members for your gaggle. Admittedly, I was more interested in boosting my career.

By The Skin Of Your Teeth

Those 1-800-DENTIST commercials are so annoying. I can’t stand that woman who rides in the elevator and just antagonizes that man. The next commercial they air should show her teeth falling out of her mouth. The reason I bring this up is because I watched an episode of Spin City. Remember that show? They don’t make shows like that anymore; intelligent, well written, with a great cast and the characters they portray. Anyway, in my fatigue haze on Saturday morning, I watched the episode where Charlie tried to convince the Mayor to go to the dentist to get his chipped tooth fixed. But his tooth wasn’t chipped before he went to his 90-year old dentist, who later dropped dead during the visit. The ticking clock was the Mayor was scheduled to participate in a new tourism campaign for New York – Smile New York – and would have to smile proudly at the press conference. Charlie saves the day by bringing in a hockey team to smile alongside the Mayor, with their missing teeth and all to showcase smiles, like New York City, with its imperfections.


I think teeth are very important. It’s unfortunate that many people simply can’t afford dental care. I hope affordable dental insurance falls under the health care reform we’re after. By 2010, more cities in the US will have fluoridated water. On the level of vanity, do a person’s teeth make or break it for you? What imperfections do you find kinda cute? What are you willing to tolerate? Just like personality quirks slight dental imperfections make each of us individual. That one tooth that grew in front of all the others an overbite or the more famous gap can be very endearing and character defining. I notice teeth when I meet a person. If they’re amazingly straight and white, I stare. If they’re all pointing in different directions, an unusual color or not all there, I stare. You know you’ve met that person who could kill you with their smile…

6639

Yesterday I met a friend for lunch in Tribeca. I traveled comfortably on the train with a light midday crowd. I got cozy in my seat and went about watching the people and reading the ads. I was amused by an ad for FlatRate movers – a checklist for moving to the West Village. Then I saw a Dr. Zizmor ad and I said to myself I would try to get a free consultation (it is a recession and I’d use my writer credentials) and I’d like to see if Dr. Zizmor is a real person. 


This afternoon, March 13th, I was on my way to a TD Bank branch to cash in some change. It took me a while to realize it because I was sitting in a different spot but I was in the same car I was in yesterday! I saw the Dr. Zizmor ad again. Then I saw the FlatRate ad and ads for 1-800-IMMIGRATION and 1-800-INNOCENT from the day before. Looking down the car, I saw I was in car number 6636. That couldn’t be, I thought. Yesterday, after a quick walk through Tribeca to walk off lunch, I rode in the car 6639. Groups of subway cars are usually sequential. Was it possible that this was the same exact train I rode yesterday, twice? Now that group of cars was in the front, headed uptown, and in the back, headed downtown. When I got off the train, sure enough, three cars away was car number 6639.

The reason I remember I rode home yesterday in car 6639 is because I had to read those numbers to the conductor through the emergency intercom when this young woman collapsed while having a seizure. It felt good that I knew what to do, while other passengers were loud and panicky or scared silent. Her eyes never closed during the seizure. I looked into her eyes, waiting for the seizure to end. Her face and expression are burned into my brain. One minute she was “looking” at me and totally out of it, next minute, she saw me. A faint smile came over her face. I started talking to her, she insisted she was ok, her pale lips and very slow, heavy blinks said otherwise. She knew what day of the week it was, where she was going before the seizure and told me that had never happened to her before. Another guy kept talking to her and cracking jokes, probably out of his own nervousness or his inner Dr. Hibbert. And she kept looking at me. Maybe it was the bright red jacket, the big afro puff, or my insistence that she go to the hospital. I think the questions I asked her made her realize I knew what I was talking about. Just like that, the train pulled into the next station and she was whisked away.


My last three consecutive rides on the IRT were on the same train, twice in the same car. I’m not a gambling woman (with money) but I knew even before I told my mother the story, she’d tell me to play those numbers. When I got back to my neighborhood from the bank, I stopped to buy some lotto. If it aint scratch-off or Mega Millions quick pick, I’m clueless. I do know there’s a game where you pick four numbers so that’s the one I bought. Then the vendor starts asking me if I want 50-50 box or straight or something else I don’t remember – like he was an auctioneer. I told him I didn’t know what he meant and that I wanted two dollars. And as I’m writing this, I just realized the numbers – 9, 6, and 3 on 3-12-09 and 3-13-09. Freaky. Friday the 13th.

Chivalry Don't Like Bitches

Chivalry is not dead. Chivalry just doesn’t like bitches. How can a woman expect a man to be polite and gracious when all she does is roll her eyes, believes she’s undeserving or acts like the words “thank” and “you” aren’t part of her vocabulary? Nice girls get doors held open for them, don’t pay for dinner or drinks, get door-to-door chauffeur service and receive genuine compliments. I’m all about equality of the sexes but I’m a woman and I like when a man takes charge and takes care of me. That does not mean I want him to control me or possess me (I wouldn’t put up with that anyway and that’s not love) but when their natural paternal instincts kick in, I relish it. Just that protective way they put their arm on the back of your chair (after they’ve pushed it in for you) or are quick to stand up for you and kick someone’s ass when they find out someone made you cry or pissed you off (Joey Tribbiani from Friends).


I hope my first born is a boy. That way if I get a daughter second, she’ll have a big brother. I know full well most men want to protect and provide for a woman; a deserving woman. Although I’m liberal, I do fall into the traditional female gender role around a traditionally masculine man – he’s good with his hands (or at least tries or doesn’t balk at the idea of hiring someone to do the job for him), handles all the pest infestations that send me running and screeching like a girl, has hobbies I’ll never understand yet appreciate, watches me like a piece of meat when I’m walking around the house, presses his body behind mine while I’m in the kitchen….pretty much 24/7 foreplay is what I mean. And I will fill his belly with some fine food with a smile.