I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
One of my favorite things about NYC is that people read more here. You need something to do on your way to work, and listening to your iPod gets old. I plow through at least 52 books a year with the help of the subway, where I spend about an hour a day.
I still get questions about teaching in NYC from time to time, and they make me feel a bit like a dunce.
Yes, I taught in Harlem public schools for two years. I helped a few kids master reading comprehension and threatened many more with calls home, recess detention, and eternal damnation.
I’m no expert on how to be an amazing inner-city school teacher who could be portrayed by Jennie Garth in a made-for-TV movie.
I’m also no expert on how to be a good inner-city school teacher with her paperwork turned in and half her students in a straight line.
Two years was not enough time for me to get my shit together. I don’t think three years would’ve been, either.
Here’s a question from Jessica:
Let’s talk about Sunday again, shall we?
I spent some of the day traipsing through Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, official burial grounds of Washington Irving, Andrew Carnegie, Elizabeth Arden, and Leona Helmsley, to name a few.
This may sound creepy, but what a gorgeous place to be dead. Or alive.
These last few weeks have expired faster than milk at the corner store, which is to say, very fast. Too fast. Defying the fuzzy numbers printed on the carton fast. I’m busy with comedy, fiction class, and doing things that are giving me material for both.
I’ve successfully completed my yearly reading goal. I still want to read, but I don’t have the time or concentration right now.
It’s your turn.
Here’s a question from Nia:
Today was not just a fall day, but the fall day. The winds were cool, the leaves like gems.
It was so beautiful.
Last night I had dinner with this guy whom I’m convinced is lying to me about his height. He says he’s six feet tall, but I think he’s adding in at least an inch of imagination.
I tell him this over dinner right after I ask about his medical maladies.
“We’re going to settle this,” I say.
This is some vintage Sesame Street from the 1970’s. NYC was rough then, man. Look at Kermit. Guy’s about to take Pelham One Two Three.
We can only assume Cookie Monster was driving a taxi and going psychotic somewhere aboveground.
I’ve wanted someone to take a picture of me inside a refrigerator for some time. Preferably one of those big bodega coolers stocked with malt liquor and cottage cheese, but I’d settle for my own Frigidaire.
That said, I heard about an opportunity to go cave exploring, or spelunking, last month. What do you think I said?
Hint: Rhymes with “mess.”
A few of you have reached out to tell me that my blog isn’t working, yet you are still trying to read it to get things back to how they used to be when you first fell in love.
Those were the good times, right? Back when my blog didn’t roll its eyes and sigh at everything you did? Back when you still went nice places?
Guys, I’m working on it. Bear with me.
I find myself putting off creative work when it starts to feel like, you know, work.
I love writing when I’m done with it. But it’s work when I’m doing it. It’s quiet and lonely. It hurts my head sometimes.
Then I start thinking of all the other things I need to do before I can work on writing. Usually this involves the sudden, preposterous realization that the world is going to get hit by an asteroid that will wipe out the human race if I don’t organize my hallway closet right now.
