City Wendy

New Beginnings

On New Year's Day, I woke up and brushed my teeth in the bathroom like I do every morning. As I leaned over the sink to spit, something caught my eye in the mirror. Not something, but somethings — two of them. Two strands of white hair beaming from the crown of my head like a light show. Well, I guess I'm really not getting any younger, I thought to myself, as I finished wiping my mouth. 2011 is the year I turn 35.

"I'm ready to make a baby," I announced to Drew as I crawled back in bed.

"Really?" He asked.

I'd originally told him I wanted to wait until after my birthday in September so I could enjoy one last carefree summer of unencumbered bike rides and Mojitos at Happy Hour.

"Fuck it," I said, "Let's just do this. It's probably going to take awhile anyway, so let's get this show on the road."

"Yes!" He exclaimed.

The next month my period was due and didn't come, so I took a pregnancy test. It was negative. I threw it in the trash.

I guess I'm just late, I thought, It's not going to happen this fast anyhow.

Then I sat down at my computer and started working. A couple hours later, I had this gnawing feeling I couldn't shake. "Look at that test again," a little voice in my head urged.

So I dug the test out of the trash and studied it. Still negative. I mean, right? There are supposed to be two lines if you're pregnant and I saw just one. Or maybe there was a really, really faint second line. I held the test under a lamp. Hmm. There was sort of a faint second line there. I Googled it: "Faint second line, pregnancy tests." A bunch of images popped up. They all looked just like my test. I read the descriptions of those images, many of them from blogs. I followed the links to the blogs and read about babies — babies that had been born eight months after those faint second lines showed up on pee sticks.

Oh wow. Was I going to have a baby?

I took six more tests over the next three days. Really, six. They were all positive, and clearly so. (Tip: if you want to skip the "Is it or isn't it" riddle, go digital!).

Last week, we had our second OB/midwife appointment and got to see our baby squirming around during an ultrasound. He (I have a feeling it's a he, but of course don't know for sure) was moving around so much — kicking his legs and flapping his arms — it was hard to get a good picture, but the sonographer managed to snap this:

I think he looks like Drew.

Yesterday I started my second trimester. I'm hoping to start feeling better soon. Luckily, I haven't had much nausea, but the fatigue, among other unpleasantries, has been relentless and unbearable. Some mornings I can hardly lift my head off the pillow. And most nights I've been asleep before nine, sometimes even before eight. Having any kind of social life these last couple of months has been a challenge, but I guess that's something I need to get used to anyway. My thyroid levels are three times higher than they should be, which is probably adding to the fatigue, so now that I'm taking medication for that, I'm hopeful I'll have more energy soon. If not, well, I suppose I need to get used to feeling exhausted all the time too.

Anyway, Drew and I are very excited. Very excited! We didn't anticipate this happening so quickly, and as much as I'll miss drinking champagne when I'm in Paris next month, I'm so, so grateful we have what seems to be a healthy baby snuggled in my belly (oh my God, I have a baby in my belly!). I'm sure we'll have plenty of parenting struggles in the not-so-distant future, so I'm happy that getting pregnant is one we were spared — at least this time. Baby's due on October 24th — exactly nine months to the day after I launched Dear Wendy. Guess there were "new beginnings" in my chart that week...

Fall in Brooklyn

In the last week, the leaves on the tree outside our bedroom window turned brown. I was sitting on the bed yesterday, having a lazy Sunday afternoon while Drew was watching both the Yankees game and the Jets game in the livingroom courtesy of picture-in-picture, and I realized the leaves were no longer green or even green-brown. Sure as shit, they're brown-brown now. Soon, they'll join the others on the ground and pumpkins will begin to line the stairs leading up to heavy brownstone doors and kids will start losing their mittens and gloves in the park. Maybe even adults will too.

The farmers stopped selling berries at the market this weekend. They still have plenty of corn, though, and for the second Sunday evening in a row, I boiled some Jersey corn to have with farm tomato BLTs for dinner. But I have to start thinking of more season-appropriate meals to cook: stuffed peppers, carrot soup, Shepherd's Pie. What am I forgetting? What are some of your favorite fall recipes? And remember your audience here, please; I don't want to spend all day cooking. Not when there are trees to stare at.

The vendors at the flea market are bringing in vintage furs and military jackets and long-sleeve shirts and cable-knit sweaters. Yesterday, I bought an old western shirt. It's a men's shirt, so the pearly buttons are on the left side, and it's turquoise, ruby red and gray plaid and I fold the sleeves up and tie the bottom in a little knot at my waist. It cost 15 bucks and I liked it a whole lot better than the green plaid western style shirt I saw for sale at a boutique in Cobble Hill for $200. Two hundred bucks for a plaid shirt! I get so outraged when I see prices like that, and I'll say really loud — even if I'm there by mysef — "Two hundred bucks for a plaid shirt?! What the what?!" I don't know why I always feel compelled to say something like that when I'm outraged. I could just keep my mouth shut and mosey on out the store; it's not like the people who work there are gonna be all, "You know, you're right. These shirts really are grossly over-priced. How'dja like to pay twenty bucks for that one?"

Over the weekend, I started drinking a new (to me) cocktail: Stoli vanilla and 7-up. Does this cocktail have a name? I tried Googling it, but all I found were recipes for "Creme Soda" which uses ginger ale instead of 7-up and one called "Daylon's Bedtime" which adds triple sec to the vodka and 7-up mix. Nope, I just want the Stoli vanilla and 7-Up, please. Have you tried it? It's awesome. A wonderful Autumn answer to Summer's Vodka Cranberry. I urge you to order it the next time you're out and then please, report back here and let's brainstorm a name for this delicious concoction. Who's in?

Home Sweet Home

When we first moved to our apartment in mid-June, I told Drew, who last moved 17 years before and who visits his childhood home, where his dad still lives, on a weekly basis, that it takes roughly three months to feel comfortable in a new place. I grew up moving around, and even as an adult, have never spent more than three and a half years in one place, and it's been my experience that at three months, home really starts to feel like home. That's how long it takes for the junk drawer to fill with junk, and to figure out which corner store has the best candy selection, and which neighborhood bar has the best happy hour.

Over the weekend, we passed the three-month mark and though Drew claims he hasn't 100% adjusted to his new home yet — he is a lifelong Manhattanite, after all, it may take him an extra month — we're both still very happy to be here. And our apartment, slowly, but steadily is coming along, thanks mostly to our near-weekly visits to the flea market, bi-weekly trips to various antique stores, and my daily scouring of Craigslist, eBay and Etsy for cool finds. Here, I'll take you on a little tour of our progress...

 

On Sunday, we found this cool lamp at my favorite neighborhood antique store. It's hard to tell in the picture, but the shade is a shimmery gold, which I wasn't sure I liked until I got it home and saw how well it pulled this little nook together:

 

I found the stacking tables on Craigslist last week and I just ordered a mod-looking pillow yesterday from Etsy for the chair. I still want to get a midcenury-style magazine rack for that corner and a little pop of color for the table-top. The book, in case you're wondering, is one everyone should have in his or her library:

 

"The Joys of Yiddish" ... because you never know when you'll want to look up a Yiddish word. Over the weekend I learned the meaning of "alter kocker." See, if you owned "The Joys of Yiddish," you could look that up right now.

Moving on, this is another little section of the apartment that's nearly "done," inasmuch as a perpetual work-in-progress can be close to done. After searching resale shops for ages, I finally bought this table online at World Market. The mirror is one I found at Brooklyn Flea, I got the small painting at a little shop in Chicago on my last visit, I picked up the pitcher in France several years ago, and there's a jewelry box on the bottom that I got at a market in Beijing (not sure it really goes there, but we'll see). I'm debating how to fill the space on the left. I really like the way a vase of fresh flowers looks there, but it's not like I'm gonna go out and buy flowers every five days. I might do a small lamp, but that could be a bit crowded. I'll probably end up going with some dried greens or branches or whatever. Something organic.

 

The three framed pictures over the table are actually framed comics. Drew used to publish a comic strip called "The Adventures of the Tuna Fish Sandwich," which was very funny and very Drew. Here's a close-up of one of them (click to enlarge).

 

Past the table, moving to the dining room area is this bench we found at the same place we got the lamp over the weekend. It was baby blue when we bought it, but a bit of red paint made it a little more complentary to our space. I get asked a lot about those silk screens hanging above the bench; I found those for a steal at a garage sale in Chicago about five years ago or so (they're all reversible, too, so it's like double the deal!).

 

The first six or seven weeks in our new place, we had to get by without a couch. Luckily, it was the middle of summer and we weren't spending that much time indoors, but when "Mad Men" started at the end of July, we were relieved we only had to wait another week before we had a comfortable spot to camp ourselves in front of the TV. Unfortunately, when it arrived, we realized it was the exact same shade as the wall. Oh no! Beige on beige is so ... tragic. We filled the space above the couch with framed photos, hoping that would add enough pizazz, but it didn't. So, down all the frames came, and back we went to the paint shop. We briefly debated going with brick wallpaper to mimic our beloved exposed brick wall in our old place, but quickly decided it would look cheesy. We decided on this blue-ish grey instead, which we like pretty well (though, admittedly, not as well as we'd like real brick). We plan to continue adding photos to the wall from our future travels and get-togethers and whatnot.

Over on the side of the couch is this vintage suitcase which we got at an antique store. The plan is to get two more, turn them on their sides, stack them up and use them as an end table. We liked this one for its color and these cool initials:

H.V.Z.K. What do you think it stands for? Harold Victor Zues Kelly? Henry Van Zimmer Kincaid? Whoever he was, I hope he lived (lives?) a fabulous life.

 

This is a little vignette on top of our bedroom dresser. A friend gave me the fan years ago, the caged bird I got at a market in Beijing, and the painting I got at a flea market a few weeks ago. I loved how well the colors and even the motifs of the painting and fan went together. And, the caged bird and the painting? Well, check it out:

 

And:

 

See? He's holding a caged bird. Hey, it's the little things, you guys. It's the little things that make me happy. Also, this:

 

Everyone, now: awwww. This, of course, is what home really is. The rest of it's just dressing.

(See more pics of the apartment here and here and if you have pics of your home, post a link — I love seeing what other people do with their places!).

A Closer Look

On Saturday, Drew and I will be celebrating our first wedding anniversary. It's hard to believe a whole year has gone by since we got married — especially since I only recently ordered wedding photos — but I guess it has. To mark the occasion, we're taking our first ever road trip together, because, I guess neither of us is interested in making it to our second anniversary. As I've mentioned before, and you might remember, we aren't drivers. That's to say, Drew doesn't even have a license and I don't particularly like driving and haven't done it since I moved to New York three years ago. So, I guess we're sort of asking for trouble, but I love a good road trip and we're both willing to risk the possibility of it not going swimmingly. Though, I do hope we at least both live to tell the tale if that's the case.

Anyway, our journey starts in Memphis, which we'll be flying to, fortunately. We'll hang out there for a couple days — see Graceland and all the other things people have recommended we check out. Then we'll rent a car and head to Missouri where I'll show Drew my old college town and we'll make our way to St. Louis, where my parents are spending the summer. My sister, Allison, will also be in town for a conference, and I'll get to see my grandparents and hopefully the rest of my extended family there, too, as well as celebrate my dad's 64th birthday.

Since no one in the family has seen our new place yet, of course, I took a few photos to show them. We still have lots of work to do, but the place is slowly coming together, and I thought I'd share a few photos with you too. You've already seen a sneak peek of the place, but here's a closer look:

Over the weekend, we finally settled on a color for the office — a light buttery yellow — and Drew, at least, seems pretty pleased ... although that smile might still be a result of the joy we both felt when our first ever washer and dryer was delivered a week earlier. Here's a glimpse on the right, behold:

I've done a couple loads of laundry now (full disclosure: Drew is typically the laundry guy in the family and I take care of the dishes, but I just had to try out our new purchases), and each time I instinctively dug in my pockets for quarters to feed the machines first. After 16 years of paying-as-I-wash, I guess it's just a habit that will take awhile to break. Not that I'm complaining!

 

This, of course, is our kitchen, which has roughly 800,000 times more counter space than the kitchen in our last place. It also has a freezer that makes ice! I don't know how it happens, but there's this little ice dish in there and every time we need ice, there's plenty. We could empty the entire ice dish and go back an hour later and it would be full again. Is there a little ice fairy in our freezer? I don't know, but it's awesome, and it's one of my favorite little things about the apartment. And if I could somehow get the ice fairy to actually mix up my cocktails, things would be fucking perfect.

 

Most of our guests will be happy to see we kept our diner booth. How could we not? We always feel like we're dining out when we sit to eat a meal, and who doesn't love that? Drew got the booth years ago at some restaurant supply store on the lower east side. I was worried it wouldn't go with the new place — that it would be too casual or something — but I might actually like it better here than at the old place. Although it sure did look good against the exposed brick there...

 

This is another favorite spot of mine in the apartment. The china cabinet belonged to my great-grandmother and I just love it. The inside still smells like my grandparents' old basement, where it spent the last, I don't know, several decades before I took it. You can hardly see them, but on top of the cabinet are two little wooden figurines of a Korean man and a woman carrying a baby on her back. Those belonged to my grandparents, too. My parents bought them as gifts when we lived in Korea the first time — about 28 years ago or so. When my grandparents downsized from their house to an apartment a few years back, these were among the items they passed down to me.

This lamp was another purchase my parents made — this time for my other set of grandparents (RIP). I think they got it in Okinawa, where I was born. I remember it sitting in my grandparents' living room through my whole childhood and looking at it reminds me of them. It originally had a white shade, but when I moved to New York, I got a black shade for it, which I think gives it an updated, modern look. The framed photo is one of my all-time favorites, snapped by my sister at my wedding. And the bobble head is actually Drew as a Yankee. His brother had it custom made for Drew's 40th birthday and it really looks just like him!

One of the things that's been a challenge moving into a gut-rehabbed building where we're the first occupants, is giving the space some character and a sense of history. It helps having so many objects that have been passed down or given to us by family members. Especially being so far away from mine, it's nice having things around me that remind me of them. Anyway, I'm looking forward to seeing them in person again in just a few days. If you don't hear from me before, I'll see you on the flip flop. Unless we die in a car crash. Which I hope doesn't happen. But if it does, I want my sister to get the ice fairy.

Getting the Message Loud and Clear

Over the weekend, I made great strides in achieving something that's been a goal of mine since I moved to New York. You guys, I am *this close* to getting Drew to throw out his answering machine — or at least put it away, out of sight, in some keepsake box — once and for all. This answering machine, as you might imagine, is, like, a relic from the early 90s. Maybe it's even older than that. At any rate, I'm sure Drew had it when Seinfeld was still on in prime time.

The machine used to be white, but now, as you can see, it's gray. And when I moved in with Drew almost three years ago, I bit my tongue about it even though it grossed me out. I had to pick my battles, you see. I figured it was enough that I made Drew throw out all his old diaries. His answering machine, in the great scheme of things, wasn't that big of a deal. As long as I sort of strategically hid it on the windowsill behind a curtain.

But now we're in this nice, new apartment with a new phone number no one even knows — seriously, I don't even know it! — and the 20 year-old answering machine seems even more out-of-place than ever. So I asked Drew over the weekend if he didn't (please, oh please) think it was time to finally throw it out.

"No one's going to call this number," I reasoned, "And even if they do and we aren't home and they don't try us on our cell phones, they can still leave a message on the land line if we get voice mail for it. They have that now!"

Drew wasn't compelled enough by my argument to get rid of the answering machine altogether, but he did unplug it at least. Unfortunately, after he left for work this morning, I noticed the gray beast was plugged back in, which means this battle is going to be tougher than I originally imagined. I guess this is to be expected from a guy who regularly calls his iPod a "walkman." Wish me luck.

Shit Happens

I hate to make generalizations, I really do, but the truth of the matter is: Brooklyn is full of crunchy hippy types. Take our new vet, for example. See, Miles took a bit of a tumble shortly after we moved in when he jumped from the kitchen counter to the floor and didn't have a stack of clutter to break his fall like he always did in the old place. Being the hefty boy he is, that three foot jump was a bit jarring on his joints and he immediately started limping as soon as he made landing. I did what any modern cat mom would do, and turned to my friend Yelp for advice. She recommended a nearby vet who came with glowing reviews and I made an appointment for the next afternoon when Drew would be home to help me lug all 22 pounds of Miles to the clinic.

The next day, the vet and her assistants took one look at Miles and acted like the world would end if I didn't get him on health food diet immediately. For the next half hour, it was all "wet food this" and "raw food that" and "You're basically feeding him the equivalent of McDonalds cheeseburgers for every meal and if you can't even figure out how to take care of a cat, how in the world do you think you're ever going to raise a real live human baby one day, ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" One of the vet techs even suggested I cook all the cats' meals myself. "It's really not that hard," she explained, "You just make one big batch of it once a week and dish it out for them in small servings three to six times a day." And I was like, okay, sure, I'll get on that just as soon as I rinse out my moon cup and finish baking my homemade granola bars.

But, they scared me what with all this talk about feline diabetes and liver failure and groups of Brooklyn animals lovers coming to my home and staging interventions with photos of sick cats on placards and drum circles in my living room, so I bought some damn canned food for a little peace of mind. I bought six different brands of canned food, actually, after I sold all my belongings on Craigslist and got approved for a loan from my bank. And for the last 10 days, we've been experimenting with what brand the cats like best.

So far, they've liked everything they've tried, but there's just been this one little problem. Every single brand of canned food gives my cats the runs. Like, bad. And you know what happens when your cats' litter box fills up with diarrhea every time you turn around? Pretty soon, your apartment is covered in little shitty paw prints everywhere you look. Can't find SiSi? Just follow the shit stains from the litter box to your bed. Oh, look! Skid marks on your brand new bedding! A pile of poo on your new $700 chair. This morning I was late for yoga when I discovered shit streaks all over the bedroom windowsill I had to clean up before I could leave. Oh, but you better believe I made it to yoga. You know what happens when you live in Brooklyn and you don't go to yoga? You aren't allowed to vote. They turn you away at the food co-op. The vintage stores won't let you try on their clothes.

At least the vets will still talk to you as long as you spend half your salary on canned chicken livers and tuna with gravy. Our vet called the other day with test results for Miles. She didn't know what was causing his limp, which luckily got better after we saw her last, but she had the results of his blood and urine tests. How did the big guy fare after being fed a diet of 90% "McDonalds equivalent" his whole life?

"He's in perfect health!" the vet exclaimed. "Not a thing wrong with him!"

I have two cases of farter starters left. Anyone want to guess what my first contribution will be to the store of free curbside goods?

Summer Exhale

This weekend I got back on my bike again. I'd only been on it once this year — a couple months ago my friend Jo and I met for a quick loop and a half ride around Central Park. We talked about making it a regular weekly thing through the summer, but then the next week she had something going on and the week after that I had something going on and then we found this apartment in Brooklyn and before I knew it I moved and we'd only ever done that one loop and a half around the park together once. I could have gone for a ride alone. Or dragged Drew out with me. But by those last few months in Midtown, there were very few things I left my apartment for anymore, and navigating the crowds from 52nd street to the park was not one of them.

But this weekend, after my bike got a tune-up at the local bike shop, Drew and I went out for a ride. We rode down to our friends' house, as a matter of fact, and sat in their back yard and ate hotdogs and burgers and I caught fireflies and complimented my friends on how well their garden was growing. It felt so vintage. To ride a bike to a friend's house. Like I was back in Chicago or something, and so I texted one of my friends and told her how much I was missing her because in that moment with summer all around me and my bike leaning against the fence, the missingness was more acute than ever.

At midnight we rode home — we rode through Prospect Park and there were people jogging and hanging out and they weren't scary or anything. It was like no one thought twice about being in an urban park at midnight, and I thought, "Where am I? Whose life is this?"

We rode around the park again the next afternoon. But it was almost 100 degrees and we forgot to bring water and I'm out of shape and we only rode around the loop two times (about six miles, total). It wasn't much, but I got a taste. I got a taste of what cooler summer mornings could be like, and Autumn evenings when the sun is just setting and the trees are all golden.

I feel like I'm exhaling after holding my breath for three years.

Things My Neighbors Have Left On Their Stoop That I Thought About Taking Home But Decided Not To

Here in Brooklyn people like to leave stuff they no longer want on their front stoops for passersby to take. Maybe people do this in Manhattan, too, but no one ever did it in our neighborhood — or, if they did, I just didn't leave my apartment enough to notice. Anyway, in no particular order, here's a list of stuff my neighbors have left out on their stoops that I thought about taking home and then for whatever reason decided not to:

• A bird cage
• A travel guide for Costa Rica
• A book of blank construction paper
• A glass cake stand (I kinda wish I'd taken this one, actually)
• A little doorknob hanging with an inspirational message about following your dreams
• A stack of magazines (mostly InStyle, Self, and Glamour, from what I could tell)
• A wooden spice rack
• One of those hippie purses made out of straps of sari material and large sequins
• A vegetarian cookbook (maybe someone had a meat relapse?)
• A wind chime (would have taken this, but on closer inspection I noticed it was broken)

I'm waiting for someone to leave a wrought iron bistro set on their stoop, as well as a large ceramic pot and maybe a cool decanter. I'd also accept a healthy jade plant. Or any type of succulent, really — I'm not picky.

Sneak Peek

One of my favorite weekend activities back in the old neighborhood was hitting the Hell's Kitchen Flea Market on 39th street. I've written about some of my awesome finds there before, and I fully intend on going back regularly, but Brooklyn has some flea markets on its own that I was looking forward to checking out. To be honest, I actually didn't have terribly high hopes for Brooklyn Flea, the biggest of them all. I imagined it'd be a lot like the Renegade Craft Fair — full of pricey handmade items and a handful of expensive vintage finds thrown in for good measure — which is fine for a craft fair, but not what I look for in a flea market. Fortunately, I was pleasantly surprised when Drew and I stopped by Brooklyn Flea in Fort Green on Saturday.

First, we found this "Mad Men" -esque vintage bar cart to store all our bottles of booze. I'd spotted a similar one on Craigslist the day before for $200, which I thought was too much to spend but hoped maybe I could haggle it down to half that. But then Drew spotted this guy at the market. He was rickety and covered in rust, but when the vendor told us we could have it for 30 bucks and that "some brillo will take it all that right off," I was convinced. Sure enough, with a couple brillo pads and some good ol' fashioned elbow grease, the cart was as good as new.

Then, we found this adorable outdoor sofa from the 50s for a steal. It's fairly light and we were prepared to carry it the seven blocks home, but it was a hell of a hot afternoon and it was a relief when the vendor offered to deliver it to us for an extra 10 bucks. Sold! We cleaned it up and scrubbed it down and I want to maybe get a navy blue blanket for the seat to cover a couple stains we couldn't get out, but overall I'm really happy with it. It's actually more comfortable than it looks and it'll be perfect for morning "office hours" at home and entertaining guests in the evening.

Finally, when the cats saw the progress being made on the balcony/patio/deck/whatever you want to call it — seriously, we can't decide on a name. It's really technically a balcony, but the other options seem more fitting — they were even more insistent they be allowed outside to enjoy it.

Being the Nervous Nelly Mama that I am, though, I couldn't just let them out without any safety guards in place — we're on the third floor, after all — so I got them these feline harness leashes. Miles, fatso that he is, is a little too big for his and Simone's a little too small, but they get the job done and everyone seemed happy, if perhaps a little embarrassed. Right here Miles is thinking, "Oh God, I hope none of the neighbor cats can see me on this stupid leash." Listen, Tubbo, considering I had to buy three different litter boxes before I found one you could fit into — and even then I had to leave the top off — I'd say the leash is the least of your worries.

There's still lots more work to be done on the apartment. We haven't even hung up half our artwork and framed prints, the office needs a colorful coat of paint and lots of love, and we have a list of items, like bookshelves, a coffee table and lamps we're on the lookout for, but it's all coming along. At any rate, here's a little (blurry) sneak peek of the place from the deck. Patio. Oh, fine, balcony.

Talks From the Trenches, Vol. I

Him: I've been doing really well on my diet and only eating salad for lunch at work. ...Well, I mean wraps. Those count, right?

Me: Wraps don't count as salad.

Him: Yes they do. It's basically just vegetables all wrapped up.

Me: Are you talking about a lettuce wrap?

Him: No, a wrap-wrap, like with a tortilla wrap.

Me: Yeah, that's not a salad, Drew.

Him (throwing up his arms): Well, it's not bread!!!

                        ***************************

(Before going out for our fourth anniversary dinner last night.)

Him: How do I look?

Wendy: Good, but I think it's time for some new jeans.

Him: Tell me about it! But do you know how hard it is to find jeans that fit?

Wendy: ...

Him: No, seriously! I have to try on, like, four pairs before I find something that fits!

Wendy: Oh, please. I have to try on 80.

Him: No one likes a bragger.