I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
I’ve been trying to read Malcolm Gladwell’s latest book, What the Dog Saw: And Other Adventures, with little success. I find it to be a collection of some of Gladwell’s least interesting articles.
Also, I cleverly worked the public library system by requesting a large print edition that wouldn’t be in much demand.
The result?
A 661-page would-be tome. In hardcover.
It’s not only painful to lug around. I feel special, err differently-abled when I try to read the thing on the subway.
Another thing Cade and I shared when we hung out at my apartment was one of my favorite Stephen Dunn poems called “The Vanishings.”
I mentioned it when we thought aloud about our compete lack of animosity towards each other. All that pain has been forgiven, if not forgotten. He’s just not on the top of my list of disappointing ex-boyfriends these days.
One of the things I found irritating about him when we were together was his disinterest in my media recommendations. Sharing specific books, songs, films, and so on is one of my favorite ways to show loved ones I care. When someone acts like they’ve been given a homework assignment and refuses to explore it, I feel rejected.
I think, “But I chose this just for you!”
When I mentioned the poem, I automatically went to my bookshelf. I had to make an offering - it was too perfect.
I read this excerpt:
In early January, I found myself sitting in my living room in the dark with my ex-boyfriend Cade, the one before TBID.
We’d had dinner and then picked up my computer from the repair shop. He carried the 50-pound tower up the three flights to my apartment. It was the first time he’d seen it, so I offered to show him around.
I walked him through the four rooms, mentally noting how much of it was unfamiliar - the couch, the table, the clothes strewn about the bedroom. And how much he’d seen before - the bedding, the pictures on the wall, the coat hook it took us an hour to hang where I used to live.
Eventually, we sat on opposite ends of the couch. I don’t know who started it, but soon there was music.
Nothing’s certain but death and taxes, but I’m pretty sure you deserve a free treat of some kind tomorrow.
Try one of these:
The song “Empire State of Mind” celebrates New York as the “concrete jungle where dreams are made of.”
My first thought is “Huh? Who learned you that grammar?”
My second thought is “I know exactly what you mean.”
Whatever your dreams, you can probably chase them in NYC. And you won’t be alone. The NYC marathon is everyday.
Here’s a question from Lisa:
Tonight my dad bailed me out of a problem that was my own fault.
Neither of us had planned on it, but this is one of the ways he says, “I love you,” and one of the ways I say, “I need you to.”
This poem is called “Lies I’ve Told My 3 Year Old Recently”:
Every time I write or say this, I feel redundant. But here we go again: I originally thought this blog’s audience would consist entirely of people who share my DNA.
I was just out of college and moving far from home. I thought I’d have interesting things to say that my parents would care about. Maybe later I’d want to revisit those confused, adverb-heavy years of learning NYC. Perhaps someday I’d have a child way more sophisticated than I who’d look at my feelings and observations and with a gentle shake of the head, tear me a new one.
That’s still the purpose of this very long Internet writing assignment, though I’ve been read by many more along the way. The experience has been more rewarding than I ever intended, something else I stumbled into, like my favorite songs and foods and people.
Here’s a question from James, one of my fiction classmates:
Your blog helped me procrastinate for several hours this week. I especially enjoyed reading about your experiences teaching in Harlem. You have some good material there for a black comedy. The bookshelf is a great idea, and I was surprised to find that I have read precisely none of the works on your list. It’s a testament to how much is out there that two people who read as much as we do would have no overlap… Also, any advice you have for me regarding blogging is greatly appreciated.
People ask me this fairly often. Here’s another question I got recently from Dain:
New Yorkers don’t look up and take in the view nearly enough.
Why?
Because we live here, dammit, and we’re in a hurry to do something mundane. Like make enough money to pay for our decrepit apartments.
Also, if you don’t keep your head at the right angle, you just might step into something you don’t want to.
Like a steaming pile of animal waste. Or an open manhole.
Here’s a question from Kris:
I’m not one to give many updates on my daily life. I know I did in my earlier days of blogging, but now I’m conscious of writing to say something interesting (or what I think is interesting). I keep the lists of things I need and want to do to myself in a sea of Post-It notes and Word documents.
But I’ve continued to feel like this blog and I are old friends who are growing apart, and I don’t know how to remedy that.
Some of it is not being able to invest as much time as I’d like into sitting down and blogging. It doesn’t take hours to craft a post - and believe me, I have at least 12 drafts waiting to be finished right now - but it does take a while to figure out how to write about something in a way that’s honest about my experience, yet won’t compromise my relationships with other people.
The beauty of having a blog that people read is that it gives you a sounding board.
The ugliness is the same thing.
Last week, my friend Mike was dogsitting a wiry bundle of energy named Ollie. He’s a Brussels Griffon, the same breed as the dog in As Good As It Gets.
I’m not usually drawn to small dogs, but I thought he was adorable.
He made me want to be a better Amanda.
Steppin’ Out with Ollie from Amanda Green on Vimeo.
