At this point, we’ve established that I am 1. Not a writer and 2. Live a boring life. Or to clarify on #2, I once lived a more exciting life (and I would say now my life is fairly exciting) but there was a period in which I had nothing really interesting going on. I went to work, did stuff around the house and tried to find something that 1. I could cook and 2. My husband would eat. Life in the Seventh Borough was giving me an overall feeling of Blah and I even felt a little homesick for the Second Borough, land of my birth. My body had found a weekly Zumba class, but my mind was falling into this socio-entertainment void carved out by life in the Seventh Borough.
So one evening, just like that, I decided to create a blog.
I remember the day well: a typical ride home on the commuter rail, I was reading my Martha Stewart Living magazine and lapsing in and out of delusions that I was going to make all the crafts and recipes in this issue. Ok, well maybe not all of them. I started to dog-ear the corners of the pages containing recipes and crafts that most interested me. Yes, just a select few (who doesn’t garden in February, - insert snide tone here, - sure I have a hydroponic greenhouse on my property, who doesn’t?) As the train crossed the Harlem River from the First Borough into the Fourth Borough, and the magazine’s folded pages were starting to outnumber its unfolded pages, I grew giddy with all these time-consuming plans. I was losing my mind (do you know how much raw vanilla bean costs?) Wait, I might be a little bored but I still have a full-time job. No- I had it, I wouldn’t make the crafts (flower beds, homemade chicken stock, etc) I would blog about how to do all this stuff in less time, you know, for the ladies who lunch – at their desks and really don’t have time to find acid-free tissue paper and bookbinder’s twine on the weekends.
As the train passed the New York Botanical Gardens (a back yard full of peonies and 27 types of heirloom tomatoes, anyone?) and through the light-industry sections of the Sixth Borough, my hopes fell. If I blogged about simplifying the lovely Martha’s creations and concoctions I would be both a plagiarist and a liar. These craft ideas wouldn’t be mine alone, and it would take me a lot more time to figure out how to make these goodies in less time. It was a bad idea.
I remember the day well, though not because I spent my evening commute on a bad idea. As the train unloaded Seventh Borough residents at its Seventh Borough train station, I walked home along my usual route with nothing out of sorts until the faint wail of a fire truck became more than just that and alerted my ears that something was up. I crossed the street to the block our house sits on and to my surprise, the now blaring fire truck crossed with me. The fire truck was about to park in front of my house when a police car zipped ahead of it and blocked our driveway. I started to run up the hill to our house, but the first responders were already at the door.
The house looked ok, no spewing flames or gushing black smoke. As I entered the door, one of the firemen told me, “It’s just the smoke alarm”. I guess it was a slow day for Eastchester 911. My husband had set off the smoke alarm (which is connected to the house alarm, which apparently alerts a haz-mat team if you burn toast) cooking chicken on a stove top griddle. Not some Martha Stewart herb-infused lemon chicken. Just regular chicken. It was a bad idea.
But that day, or maybe a few days later, after the smoke cleared, (literally) I registered the Seventh Borough News at Blogspot. And I had absolutely no idea what I was going to write about.
Eleven months went by and then my son was born - hence the new excitement in my life! In my post-partum mess of love, hormones and sleep deprivation, not to mention being an actual mess – see mother as receptacle for baby vomit and pee, I had this grand idea that my blog would be a series of ‘Dear Baby’ letters where I impart everything I have ever learned about life onto this tiny little creature who only knows six sensations: being held, not being held, wet, dry, hungry, not hungry. Maybe that would be a bit too much to chronicle on a blog, after all maternity leave was only three months. I think the imparting of everything I have ever learned onto my offspring is called ‘offspring’s childhood’. And it lasts for about eighteen years.
Ladies and Gentlemen, here we are. I have no crafting tips to blog about, I have no recipes for you that may or may not sound the alarm at the Firehouse. I really have to parse out life lessons for the baby over two decades. But if you are still visiting this blog site at week three, something must be catching your attention, and if all you want is to check this blog for tax advice, I’m happy to help on that too.
I promise all I have to give is all I have to give. And I will give it to you, faithful readers. I will take my once-boring life and share it with you – by sharing I don’t mean in such a way that violates my HIPPA rights - but I hope, in a way that connects us all.
Next week at the Seventh Borough: 1978 meets 1997.
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