Not the kind of pot you'd put a roast in

I've always been the good girl. I've always brought home good grades, didn't take my first sip of alcohol until my 21st birthday, and have never dreamed of trying illegal drugs.

And although I was aware that some of my friends in college occasionally smoked pot, it was rare and never when I was around. Even if I would have wanted to dabble in something like that - which I still don't - I wouldn't really even know who to ask or what exactly to ask for.

Here in New York, I feel it would be a heck of a lot easier to get my hands on drugs. In fact, I had some in my hands earlier today. While I was going on my normal sweep of the coffee shop in the middle of a bustling day, I picked up a dime bag of weed sitting in the middle of the floor.

One of my colleagues saw me pick it up and was quick to snatch it out of my hand, open it, sniff it, and proclaim it "good sh*t." I was even quicker to snatch it back, chastise him, and flush it down the toilet. Call me whatever you want for that move.

But that's not the first time I've been around the stuff. The unmistakable smell comes billowing from an apartment all the way down the hall at my apartment shared by two guys at least a few times a month.

And as the girls in my book club and I were discussing "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett on the roof of a high-rise in the financial district, we were distracted by the smell coming from a young couple lounging nearby on lawn chairs.

I've been behind an intimidating guy holding an umbrella in one hand and a joint in the other, and was even witness to a young, shaggy-haired guy handing his roach to a homeless guy smiling from ear to ear at his good fortune.

I guess it's still kind of shocking how easy this stuff is to come by - even when you're not looking. While none of this makes me want to experiment, it sure would be a hell of a lot easier if I did.

From grocery store macaroni and cheese to gourmet sushi rolls topped with caviar

The closest I ever got to eating seafood as a child was canned tuna and fish sticks (thanks mom).


And since it's much harder to learn to love a specific food as an adult than it is a child, I never really began eating fish or lobster or crab. When I first started dating my husband, I could always tell when he recently cooked salmon because his place reeked, and I'd gag on the stench alone.


So needless to say, I was not thrilled that I was going to be accompanying my new boss at the food magazine to a new Japanese restaurant opening on the upper west side. It promised to be seafood course after seafood course - 12 courses to be exact.

I could handle part of the first course - sake and cucumber strips! - but I knew I was in trouble when the waitress put crab salad under my nose. Soon thereafter, my boss began chastising me for picking around the orange parts.

And it only got harder from there for me, although any seafood lover would have l-o-v-e-d to trade places with me. There was tuna tar tar over guacamole; handmade rolls made with eel, crab, lobster, shrimp, and a variety of fish topped with caviar; and, thankfully so I didn't go hungry: skirt steak with a sweet teriyaki sauce. Every single plate was amazingly beautiful, yet that didn't make up for the fact that it was beautiful... seafood.

I will say this for myself: I tried everything. I didn't like much, but I tried everything, which is something I always try to do not just with food, but in life in general.

When I used to babysit these adorable girls while in college, I tried to instill this trait into the 3-, 6-, and 8-year-olds, especially when it came to food. They would generally wrinkle up their noses when I suggested they try something new, and I always brought the conversation back to their favorite food: macaroni and cheese. I used to ask them how they'd feel if they'd never tried macaroni and cheese for the first time, and tried to point out what they'd be missing. It used to make them think, but they would usually just then ask me to make them macaroni and cheese instead of eating whatever it was I had made them to eat.

Though I guess the kids had a point. It was around the 9th or 10th plate of seafood put in front of me that I thought "enough is enough. I'm totally done with this because it's all tasting the same - like fish." I apparently just don't like it. Maybe it's an acquired taste, but I haven't yet acquired that particular taste yet.

I totally would have rather been at Puttanesca, the Italian restaurant across the street from my apartment to order my usual: the four-cheese, gourmet macaroni and cheese. Yum-my!

Relying on the kindness of strangers

As she walks down the sidewalk, her face is always tilted up toward the sun and her head sways back and forth to a tune that only she can hear. She walks slower than most people in New York City, as many people often put their heads down as they pass by her on both sides while listening to the tunes blasting from their ipods.


My commute to work is 16 blocks uptown from 56th Street to 72nd Street. I pass her nearly every weekday at different points in our collective commutes, depending on how early or late we're both running to get to our destinations. I've seen this woman with the short salt-and-pepper-hair as north as 72nd Street, and as south as 65th Street.


Cindy - which is what I call her, as she's told me that she's not allowed to give out her name for security reasons - is generally hard to miss, as she's usually carrying a large backpack and lunchbox over the shoulders of her bright red jacket. Yet, she's never without her red and white walking stick because her commute takes her several blocks downtown, and one block west of 9th Avenue to Central Park West, which is where the school for the blind is located. Every day, Cindy walks at least eight blocks to school across at least eight cross streets.


This is significant because Cindy doesn't have a seeing-eye dog or someone who walks her to school every day. That means that every single day, at least eight times a day, Cindy relies on the kindness of strangers to help her cross each street on the way to school. And, man. Does. That. Take. Courage.


The sounds of New York City can be terrifying. You can't piss off a cab driver more than by thinking that you can make it across the street before they get to the intersection, even though they have the green light. And they'll let you know just how mad they are with a loud, long horn honk as they whiz by you at speeds that should be illegal in large, pedestrian-heavy cities. People are always talking on their cell phones in their own little worlds as they knock into one another like bumper cars on the way to their individual destinations.


Since she can't see the white "walk" signals, Cindy steadily makes her way down each block and stops only when she feels her walking stick skid across the bumps in the sidewalk at each curb that are designed to help people in wheelchairs stop. It's here that she raises her left hand and repeats, "Can somebody help me? Can somebody please help me?" until someone stops.


She then asks to hold the individual's right elbow with her left hand as she navigates across the street with the walking stick, and is always happy to make small talk about the upcoming holiday or the weather. When she feels the familiar bumps that signify that she's made it to the opposite curb, she always yells back a cheery, "Have a nice day" or "have a happy holiday" at the good Samaritan who was kind enough to stop and help her across the street.


While I have seen some people walk right by Cindy as she's asking for help - as New Yorkers are often in their own little worlds or in too much of a rush to lend a helping hand - more often than not, the first person who gets to her as she stops at the curb is the one who ends up helping her safely cross the street.


And I am ashamed to say that I was once one of those New Yorkers - in too much of a rush to stop and help. As I glanced over my shoulder to make sure someone else stopped to help her, I felt an intense shame that I couldn't shake until I saw her again and got to make it up to her; even if she didn't know I felt I owed her. I mean, how selfish was I that I couldn't take 30 seconds of my time to help someone so courageous do something they need to do - cross the street - but can't safely accomplish without some help.


Although I still regret the decision I made in that moment, I soon after made a decision I know I won't regret: that I would never again pass Cindy - or anyone else who I see in need of some help - without doing what I can to make their day a little easier. Props to every New Yorker who doesn't need to feel guilt over not helping someone because they always do the right thing.

Muffling the bad doesn't outweigh settling for just hearing about the good

The hardest thing about living in New York is being away from my family.

And being away from them is even harder during the times that I feel not like I want to be there, but like I need to be there - like on someone's birthday, to celebrate a graduation or other milestone, or when someone is sick or in the hospital.

I know there will be other birthdays and milestones, but it's when someone is sick or hurt that I seriously consider booking plane tickets.

This week, my dad had knee replacement surgery. While I know there can be complications and the unexpected can rear its ugly head, it's not like anyone was anticipating he wouldn't come out of it just fine.

While I knew he would be in good hands, with my mom, brother, and sister in town and available and all, it was the fear of the unexpected that had me questioning whether I was making the right decision by asking my mom to keep calling me with updates instead of being there at the hospital to hear them first hand.

I'm a total "what if?" ridiculous kind of worry-wart, and have been since I was a kid. What if the surgery goes wrong, what if he gets an infection, what if he's not OK, blah, blah, blah. My friends knew something was wrong all day when he was in surgery and my husband knows me well enough to try to alleviate my fears, but since he can't know what would happen, it didn't help.

It turns out that although the surgery went beautifully, the doctors didn't immediately give him a nerve blocker, so according to my mom, he was in an intense amount of pain. Because just hearing about that made me really upset, in a way I was glad I wasn't there to witness it first-hand because seeing my big, strong daddy in pain would be ten times more unsettling. That's not to say that I'm glad I didn't go home - because I wish I had been able to - but living far away really muffles some of the bad because you're not living through it: You're just hearing about it. You're not at the hospital waiting for some news from the doctors, but living your life hundreds of miles away and hearing about how it went later.

Sadly, that's also the same with the good times. You're not living through the games, company, and laughter, but hearing an overview about how much fun it was later from someone else. You're not there for the small details, which I've learned are so important. It's not often that I get to sit down and just talk to my dad, and all the waiting and need for any patient to be distracted would have been the perfect time for that. The phone call later was great because I got to talk to him and hear that he was OK, but it was so much more impersonal than my being able to be there with him holding his hand. But my dad is OK and I thank God for that.

I can see how living so far away could be the easy way out of having to deal with a lot of pain, but that certainly doesn't outweigh settling for just hearing about all of the good.

Celebrity sighting at the U.S. Open (and I'm not talking about the tennis stars)

For the second year in a row, I've gotten Brent and I U.S. Open tickets for his birthday (lucky coincidence that it happens to always occur about a week after his birthday - built-in gift for as long as we're living in New York!)


And for the second year in a row, he was disappointed that Andy Roddick didn't happen to play on the date I got the tickets for. And Brent is a huge Andy Roddick fan.

But nonetheless, we did get to see Venus Williams (we saw little sister Serena play last year) and, for the second consecutive year, Rafael Nadal. Both won in two really good matches.


We also happened to be sitting across the stadium from Will Ferrell and his (really hot) wife. He must have been the most famous celebrity at the stadium that day because the cameras panned on him on more than a few occassions.

The first time, he was sipping a very girly pink mixed drink when the camera caught him and you could just see him trying to think of something funny to do on the spot (he ended up taking a big sip of the drink through the straw and making the satisfied "ahhhh" face afterward.) But I felt bad for the guy - here he is trying to enjoy a tennis match with his wife, and still feels like he has to be "on." I know it comes with the territory of being a celebrity, but still, did they really have to pan over him several more times, then ask him to leave his wife to meet a reporter in another row be interviewed during the Nadal match? It was a bit much.

But if I was pulling in his salary (Forbes magazine reported that along with Tom Cruise, Eddie Murphy, and Drew Barrymore, he's among the most overpaid Hollywood actors, and attracts the lowest return on investment, bringing in just $3.29 for every dollar paid) I guess an unexpected interview or two would be worth it.