panyck

When people asked me, “What are you doing this weekend?” and I told them, “I’m judging the Mermaid Parade,” I got one of two very divided responses.  Some people were like, “What’s that?”

But a lot of people were more like, “WOW! The Mermaid Parade!  It’s so great!” and then would continue to elaborate about costumes, drinks, general chaos, boobs, body paint, and swimming.  Based on this response, I decided we had made the right decision when we agreed to join Joyce and Phil as Judges.

That said, my expectations were low.  In my mind, Mermaid Parade would be a rough equivalent of Seattle’s Fremont Solstice Parade.  Despite my best intentions to support Art and Culture and Fun by attending the Solstice Parade, I was frequently disappointed by the repetitive floats, the semi-rehearsed performances, and the mediocre costumes.  I can recall on more than one occasion sitting in the rain with a terrible view, frustratingly sober, and bored because the Naked Cyclists had all ridden by at top speed leaving a 20 minute gap before the next float would come plodding along at a rate slower even than the construction of the Light Rail.

We arrived at Coney Island via the F.  The weather was Hot.  I had to pee badly enough that I was descending into Bitch mode.  There were no portapotties anywhere.  After relieving myself at a bar, I felt slightly less like I wanted to stab someone.  We found the Judges area and checked in uneventfully, until it came time to get a seat.

So let me explain this Judges thing.  We had each paid $150 for the privilege to Judge the parade.  This qualified us for shaded bleacher seats, free beer and water, a couple of dedicated sanicans, a tshirt, and “bribes.”  I was curious what other people besides us would want to pay so much to be a judge, and I was about to find out: people who are fanatically protective of their seat.  With 4 of us, arriving a bit early, I expected we could sit in pairs on the bleachers.  Not so!  The people who had arrived earlier were completely uncooperative.  First, they were large.  I’m sure they were on average each taking up more than one seat.  Second, they would not scoot together.  They apparently did not want to touch each other any more than I wanted to touch them.  Third, they would not scoot down one seat, to allow 2 seats at opposite ends of the bench to be merged together.  The complained that they had arrived early to sit with their friends and were not interested in moving over.

More Photos!

I decided to stand in front of the bleachers with the photographers.  This was an excellent choice and things immediately started looking up.  Next thing I knew, I had a beer in my hand, some tequila in my belly, and rows of half naked people dressed in absurd costumes distracting me from all angles.  Since we were the Judges, they would stop right in front of us and perform whatever their “act” was.  The action was fast paced!  There were too many people to take pictures of them all!  And oh, the bribes!  I had not fully anticipated this element.  Apparently the tradition is to bribe the judges.  This ranges from candy to beer coozies to bottles of champagne and tshirts.  At some point, a float dropped off a 3 gallon jug of pina colada.  The judges got less antsy and more dancey as they refilled their glasses with strong drinks.  Time was leaping and bounding by!  Breakdancing bands were break-marching!  Old women, sexy men, dogs, children, and people in wheelchairs were dressed as mermaids!

More Photos!

Suddenly the parade was over and Judah Friedlander of 30 Rock was addressing the judges with a pep-talk.  “I’m having a sex party right after this!” he proclaimed.  “Just follow the smell of awesome!”  Then he used a pair of scissors the size of a post-hole digger to cut through 4 ribbons and lead us all across the beach into the ocean for the First Swim of the Summer.  Joyce was fully dressed and I was, of course, wearing my lady gaga yellow ankle-length swim-pants as we ran into the waves.  I really like to swim.  Maybe next year, I’ll be a mermaid in the parade too.

I really enjoy a cold dip.

On a hot day, or a rainy day, or sometimes a snowy day, a quick dip in an icy cold body of water is right up my alley.  Swimming around a bit can really bring me back to life when things are a little off.  If I feel a bit sleepy, it will wake me up.  If hungover, I’ll spring right back to sobriety.  If bored, it brings some adventure to the day.  If cold, sometimes, somehow, it makes me feel a bit warmer.

My friends and family have been known to mock me for lacking nerve endings in my body, or for being a duck, or fish, or other watery creature.

Today, I decided to try the Coney Island Polar Bear Swim.

As you can read on their website, they club is the oldest of its sort in the country, dating back to 1903.  They swim every sunday throughout the winter and welcome guests to come try it out.  Apparently their reputation has gotten around – they’ve been featured on the Daily Show and Seinfeld – and I first heard about them from a like-minded swimmer/burner/coworker a few weeks ago.

I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, imagining a couple hearty souls changing into swimsuits on the beach, and was pleased to see they had really established a comfortable arrangement.  Arriving on the Coney Island boardwalk at 12:30pm, I first noticed a street sign designating “Coney Polar Bears.”  Inside the meeting area, over 30 people socialized in swimsuits drinking tea and hot chocolate.  Someone met me at the door, handed me a waiver, and introduced me to the president of the club, a friendly fit man in his 50s or 60s.

Entering the water – note the excited photographers stage left

I changed into my bikini and wetsuit booties (recommended for potentially sketchy beach conditions).  The president called up the First Time Bathers: myself and two other women about my age.  He explained what would happen.  First, calisthenics on the beach: “We’ll do 6 or 8 jumping jacks, really an invigorating work out.”  After entering the water, we’d all join hands and make a big circle.  Then, you play, or whatever you want to do.  “It’s not a contest! When you get cold, just get out.”

“I’ve been doing this for 30 years!  I hope you enjoy.”  He concluded.

Circling up

We took photos, walked out to the beach, and handed off our towels to non swimming boyfriends, girlfriends, and other buddies.  A hoard of people from the boardwalk followed us to the water’s edge, cameras drawn.  Jumping jacks complete, we entered the water.  It was really cold.  I would estimate maybe 44 degrees. (ok, just looked it up, actually 40 degrees.)  We held hands and cheered.  I dunked my head, feeling great, legs getting pretty numb, and ran for the beach.

I was the first one out.

Quick evacuation while the rest of the team plays on

I considered this for a moment while I toweled off.  Although allegedly it was “not a contest,” I still couldn’t help feeling like the lamest polar bear.  “I’m going back in,” I told Eric, and misinterpreting that to mean that I was ready to change, he responded, “ok, I’ll follow you.”  He got the idea when I handed him back the towel.

As I reentered the water, the other polar bears were jumping up and down in the water, throwing frisbees and balls, swimming back and forth, as though they were not on the verge of hypothermia.  I jumped around for a moment also and dunked again.  Noticing that my legs were alarmingly red, I decided I was actually done this time, and ran back out of the water.

red, red legs

Still, no one else had come out.

As we walked up back to the changing room, I took another glance at the 30 or so people still frolicking in the water.   These folks had taken swimming to a whole new level.  My dip and run strategy had marked me for the JV polar bear I was.   The blood was starting to return to my legs and it felt like I had gotten into a hot tub when really I was just standing on the beach.  Apparently, I’m going to need a bit more practice.

I was not pleased when I first discovered New York’s Brunch Obsession.

During my days of funemployment, I frequently discovered hole-in-the-wall restaurants featuring surprisingly affordable breakfast deals.  One such restaurant offered a “Yogurt and Granola” dish that left a big impression.

This was no standard yogurt, but homemade greek yogurt so thick it could nearly pass for ice cream – slightly but not overly sweetened!  And the granola, also homemade, featured nuts!  seeds!  honey!  Remarkably free of raisins and cinnamon, my granola nemeses.  Not saturated in sugar!  Not clumped into jaw-threatening rocks!  I was excited to bring Eric back on a weekend to share my new discovery.

Not long after, we returned on a Saturday morning.  My mouth watering, I glanced at the menu – only to realize with horror that the granola item was not listed!  I flagged down a waitress.  “Did the menu change?” I asked her.  “Do you still have the yogurt and granola?”

“That’s only on the weekday menu,” she replied, with a smile.  “This is the brunch menu!”

We left.  I couldn’t deal.

I was to find that not just this restaurant, but almost every breakfast or lunch serving establishment on the island of Manhattan switches to its Brunch Menu on weekends.  The  Brunch Menu features similar, but more complicated dishes, at higher prices.  To really twist the knife, the menus also feature Signature Cocktails ranging from $8 and up.  And, the tables are packed.  The restaurants are overflowing.  People can’t wait to wait in line for nearly an hour for the chance to pay high prices for strange foods and get drunk at noon on a Saturday.  I didn’t get it – why would they do this?

Visiting friends seem to change the perspective on a lot of things.  Activities one would never consider normally (relaxing stroll through Times Square anyone?) suddenly seem like the best ever idea.  It’s like taking someone to Burning Man for the first time!  Roark, Ryan & John Paul brought new inspiration and the team explored NYC like never before – drinking till 5 am on a weeknight, sleeping 5 people in a tiny apartment, eating unprecedented quantities of cheap pizza, renting a private Karaoke room, and yes – even going to brunch.

The motivation came from a coworker.  “You’ve never really DONE brunch,” he claimed. “Try the Sunburnt Cow.  Unlimited mimosas for $20.”  We put it solidly on the calendar for the coming Saturday.

Unseasonable sun and warmth slowed our trip to the restaurant as we strolled through the East Village.  The Sunburnt Cow did not give us the reception we had expected.  The doors were closed.  No customers waited out front.  Tumbleweeds drifted in a distant intersection.  (Tumbleweeds added for dramatic effect only.)  A foreboding piece of rumpled paper on the building claimed the restaurant was closed due to health inspection failure.  An employee on the porch claimed that the basement had flooded during the storm, and though unused, was the cause of the violation.  She smiled and encouraged us to come back soon.

We straggled into a nearby breakfast spot with outdoor tables.  It was nearly 2, we had hardly eaten, Roark had been to the Urgent Care that morning for an issue with his eye, we had all had more drinks than hours of sleep in the previous week, and to top it off had just come from the Math Museum, where we had spent the last of our brainpower enjoying Math.

The menu featured Brunch items.  For $12, the meal included one Brunch item, one coffee, and one Brunch Cocktail – bloody mary or mimosa.

As I started my third bloody mary and took a bite of my seafood quesadilla, I finally understood the Brunch Obsession.  I’ll tell you all about it, next time you visit, over brunch.

We know about 5 people in NYC, and most of them are from Port Angeles.

formal beer & steak night

We see Taeva once or twice a week, who grew up across the street from me and now goes to law school here.  She is quickly becoming our regular – and only – guest at our Beer and Steak night, although she doesn’t eat steak, and even rallies when we decide at the last minute it should be a formal / pajama party event (dresses & pajama pants supplied by the hosts of course!)   She brings me to theme parties at the law school and we take a lot of very late night subway rides, to get home, or walk other people’s dogs.

with Joyce

One of our closest friends, Joyce, grew up with my mom in Port Angeles and moved out to NYC ages ago.  We try to have dinner or drinks with Joyce and her man Phil on a regular basis.  They are fantastic conversation and make us feel like family.  We spent Christmas with them.  They even had a NYC themed dinner party for us when we first got here, where they served all the local best such as pickled herring from Russ and Daughters, and invited some of their other friends who have moved here over the years.

Because of our extremely small circle, you can imagine my surprise when I randomly run into someone I know.  Not long ago, I came out of the 2nd Ave station to find myself face to face with Sam, who also is from Port Angeles.

Then, a couple weeks ago, I went to a birthday dinner for my friend Monica.  She was introduced to me through my Seattle friend Amber, who is amazing and hilarious.  Although Monica’s not from Port Angeles, she’s really fun, and I was excited to meet some of her other girlfriends.  One of the friends, Megan, recognized me as soon as she walked in the door – “You look super familiar!  Where did we meet?”  My memory for faces is terrible.  It didn’t take her long to realize, though – she’d been at the dinner party at Joyce and Phil’s almost 6 months before!  We were both excited to tell Joyce and text her a photo to prove the coincidence.

And then, last wednesday, I found myself in the 2nd Ave station again.  And this time, it was Joyce I ran into!  Big smiles and hugs all around.  This place is kind of a small town.

Have you noticed I haven’t written anything in months?  Aw, you’re sweet, I knew you’d notice!  You flatter me, really!

Seriously though, new Google job is not inspiring me to write in my blog.  I’ve been thinking, why is this?

First, I realized, working makes me Tired.  Having a job after 4 months off really drains a person.  I have to think ALL DAY.  Sometimes when I get home, I can only rally myself off the couch to go buy eggs so we can have scrambled eggs and rice for dinner.

Second, now that I’m back in the land of the employed, I’m definitely Not Bored.  Now that I actually have productive stuff to do, I feel absolutely no motivation to volunteer at any animal shelters, or enlist in psychiatric experiments, or prove that I can walk every street in the five boroughs.

Third, I have always known, programming computers Uses My Creativity.  No complaint here – having a job where I actually get to be creative is fantastic!  But ever since I got my first programming job at Marchex back in 2004, I noticed that when I’m satisfied with my job I don’t draw, or paint, or play musical instruments, or cook new recipes, or write.

But finally – and this is the kicker!  My new job is absurdly cool.  I really want to write about it and tell you all about how amazingly cool it is!  But the truth is, we’re supposed to be careful about what kinds of things we share outside of the office.  So, I’m always wondering… “Can I really post this picture of the softshell crab sandwich I had for lunch?” and, “Is it ok to talk about the scooters?”… resulting in zero posts getting written.

Well luckily for me, the New York Times wrote about it for me today!  So if you’re curious what it’s like to work at the Chelsea Office, take a look at their article.  And, now I can move on to writing about other awesome New York stuff that has nothing to do with my job.

And yeah, its totally a lame excuse, because as you know I hadn’t written anything in the month and a half before starting my new job either.  Don’t give up on me!

The first thing I noticed, entering the NYC Trader Joes grocery store on 21st and 6th Avenue, was the prices!  After wading through three dollar single serving yogurts and three dollar bottles of beer at corner stores and high end groceries, I was amazed to see prices identical to what I left in Seattle – a dollar for a yogurt!  Two dollars for a 16 oz can of Guinness!  Three dollars for a frozen Paneer Tikka Masala dinner!  I hadn’t planned a big shopping trip, but I figured I better grab a couple of items.  The store is not large – maybe 6 short isles, much smaller than the Port Angeles Albertsons and maybe comparable in size to the Seattle U-district Trader Joes.  

I worked my way toward the checkstand, gathering useful items.  Frozen wild salmon filets, only $6.49 / pound!  Peanut-butter-filled pretzel snacks, only $4!  Tomato basil marinara sauce, $1.49 for a jar!  I rounded the corner to the cashiers…

…thirty cashiers…

…and saw the line.

Stretching in double laned back from the cashiers, the line twisted around the corner of the store.  I was amazed that I had not noticed it before.  At the head of the line, an employee directed shoppers to the next available checkstand.  I counted the number of shoppers standing in line as I walked toward the back.

When I reached 70, I stopped counting.  At that point, an employee stood with a tall sign reading “Middle of the Line.”  I kept walking.

After coming almost full circle, I reached another employee, his sign reading “End of the Line.”  He smiled, gestured, and moved back to give me room to step in front of him.

Amazingly, navigating the absurd line took less than 15 minutes.  Smiling cashier number twenty seven smiled and rang up my items.  

“This is crazy!” I confided.  “I’ve never been here before!” -meaning, of course, to this specific TJs, and its crazy line – I shopped at TJs all the time in Seattle.

He did not exactly grasp my meaning, or my intimidation by the Line.  “Well you should come back, its great!” He responded.  “You’re going to LOVE this paneer tikka masala.”

Searching the New York Cares (d0t) com website, I found this volunteer opportunity for the following day, and immediately signed up:

“Participate in the muck out of a building in the Rockaways. Volunteers will learn the basics of muck out and the safety procedures involved in these tasks.

“This project will involve actual muck out work. Volunteers should come prepared to participate in the entire process. Wear sturdy closed toed shoes, long pants and sleeves, and layers for the cold. Bring a lunch and water with you. Bus transportation from the New York Cares office will be provided. The time listed includes bus transportation time to and from the New York Cares office. This project is not safe or appropriate for anyone under the age of 18.”

The morning of the event went to great lengths to confirm my closeted belief in the Mayan Apocalypse.  Wind was swirling through the bedroom window and wunderground predicted high winds and thunderstorms.  I pictured myself getting swept into the Atlantic from some basement by the Mayan ApocaTsunami and wondered if that would be better or worse than staying in my apartment to await the ApocaQuake or ApocaFire.  I decided I would at least be distracted.  With a packed lunch of liverwurst sandwiches, dressed in my best PNW Ozette gear (leather boots!  old jeans!  ancient tshirt! disintegrating raincoat!) I arrived on time to board the school bus at the New York Cares office in the financial district.

Have you recently ridden a school bus? I have not – but instantly it all came back to me.  The asphyxiating smell. The nonexistent legroom, even for a person of standard stature like myself.  The steamy windows.  The inexplicably wet floor.  But!  The free cookies!  The entertaining bus driver!  The feeling that the vehicle is actually, somehow, 6 inches wider than any nearby streets!

The day did not start swimmingly.  Halfway through the tunnel to Brooklyn, the car two vehicles ahead of slowed to a stop, and the driver got out of his car to consult with the driver of the car behind.  Minutes ticked by.  We could not go around, because the narrow tunnel had one lane going each direction, and the opposing lane was moving quickly.  We could not call for help, because the tunnel did not have cell phone reception.  Wediscussed getting out and offering to push the stranded car out of the tunnel.  This would mean over a mile of pushing, but there were 13 of us, eager to GTFO of this stinky tunnel.  We huddled, decided, and appointed our vehicular diplomat.  Luckily no sooner had he hopped out than the car started moving again and we were on our way.

As we approached the Rockaways, the effects of Sandy became clear.  At one point, we passed huge piles of sand, dozens of them, each the size of a small house, mixed with varying amounts of debris, in a large parking lot.  “They are sorting the sand,” our Coordinator explained.  “They bring it in from areas where it has flooded houses and streets, and they sort out the garbage, and test the sand, and hopefully can put most if it back out on the beach.”  At another point, the storm-tumbled water was only 10 yardsfrom the highway, and even in moderate winds was splashing and crashing near the road – making it easy to imagine how the same water could swallow the road in a real storm.  Nearing the destination, a whole block of houses had been laid to waste… piles of lumber and brick and specs of indistinguishable fabric, all frosted with black soot, one after another.

At the coordination site, we each selected appropriately sized Tyvek suits, helmets, safety glasses, gloves, and respirators with p100 filters – “even safe for asbestos.”  We loaded wheelbarrows, prybars, hammers, flashlights, and brooms into the bus.  We searched google maps for the destination address we’d been given, helping the clearly uninitiated bus driver.

We set to work immediately at the site, a duplex a couple blocks from the beach with one unit in a finished basement – our patient.  At first glance, the home looked mostly fine.  Tasteful orange paint and hardwood floors decorated the unit.  Clearly the area had not been used since before the storm – pots of water sat on the table, faithful to the recommendation to store water as the storm arrived, in case of water system failures.  We began our work.

I couldn’t help but think of Kurt Vonnegut’s passage in Slaughterhouse Five, where he describes in reverse the bombing of Dresden, including passages such as: “The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes.”

Except instead of backwards bombing, we were backwards building houses.

First, we turned off the water and electricity.  Then, we removed doors, furniture, and light-switch and outlet covers.  Next, we carefully removed trim along the floor.  Then, we pulled out sheetrock panels, starting from the floor.  Despite the apparent legitimacy of the apartment, every panel along the floor was spongy with water – nearly two months after the storm – and the back of every panel was covered with mold of every color.  I spent over two hours pulling nails out of the framing of the apartment.  The goal is to leave the apartment ready to be rebuilt.  We pulled out the floor – which looked fine at the top, only to reveal still-soggy layers below which also needed removal.

The homeowner, a black woman in her 50’s with a strong accent, watched and advised as we worked.  After lunch, the team started to clearly become frustrated with a certain kind of metal trim bordering all the internal doors.  The trim was extremely obstinate about its removal.  I had been levering on one segment for several minutes when the homeowner came up next to me with a crowbar.  “Let me try it!” she said, and I stepped aside.  With the determination a person can only have about constructively deconstructing their own home, she attacked the trim and pried it off in sheer seconds.  From that point, the volunteers doubled their efforts and successfully removed the rest of the metal trim.

On the school bus back to Manhattan, our Coordinator congratulated us.  We had a successful day.  With 13 volunteers, we managed to “muck out” 3 houses – more than the previous day’s 20+ people had accomplished.  From this point, the homeowners can move forward with rebuilding.  Our Coordinator finished by asking us to come back, and send friends.  “We’re getting through it!”  He said.  “We only have 500 houses left!”

11:25pm, Eric: “ooh looks like the movie is over.”

Kelly: “yeah its been over for like 10 minutes!”

Eric: (rubbing eyes and stumbling out of room) “oooh… ok I’m going to go lay down on the bed for a minute.”

Kelly: “yeah? minute or like 8 hours? I’ll come find you in a minute”

(mumble from other room): “how will you find me?”

…

(mumble from other room): “do you have your phone? I’ll send directions…”

… text message arrives: “From couch go straight, then take left turn. Go 10 ft”

good thing I got this message in time, otherwise I might have gotten trapped in the area between the refrigerator and the stove, behind the recycling, and who knows how long it would have taken to get out of there.

As you may know, November First marks the beginning of my official Eggnog Drinking Season.

It is important to put a start date on this fantastic event because eggnog creeps into grocery stores a couple days earlier each year… sometimes it can be sighted in last few days of september, when I’m still wearing shorts and pretending it’s summer.  By mid october it is not uncommon to see large posters advertising eggnog-themed drinks at Starbucks, and but November first a person can reliably find fresh, delicious eggnog steamed into any number of artisan coffee beverages at any coffee shop on the block.

In Seattle, at least.

I realized the other day that I had managed to get a solid 3 weeks into the Eggnog Drinking Season without consuming a single Eggnog Latte.  I decided that this madness had gone long enough and managed to dress myself and leave the apartment by 3pm.  After 3pm, coffee drinking can be a risky affair, causing me to feel wide awake all evening and never go to bed.

Across the street from my apartment is a heavily frequented coffee shop called Jacks, specializing in “Stir Brew” coffee.  Having enjoyed their delicious lattes, I figured this was the best spot to offer me my celebratory eggnog.  Of course, they have a very specific kind of operation, and don’t have a lot of the flavoring syrups and other accouterments which larger enterprises carry.  I asked them if they had eggnog, and sadly they responded that they did not.

Not so easily discouraged, I moved on.  The area of my apartment boasts at least ten solid cafes that have some kind of espresso available.  I went down the street to Joe’s Coffee.

“Do you have eggnog?”  I asked the barista, a hipster type with curly bleached blonde hair.

“No,” she responded.

“Do you know of another place that might?”  I was not interested in going to every coffee shop in the 10014 zip code.

“What do you mean?” she asked.  “What do you want to do with it?”

“You know…” A bad feeling was creeping in. “Put it in coffee… like a latte or something?”

She was completely baffled by the idea.  “You could try Starbucks I guess?”

Not a bad suggestion, but not really what I wanted to do.  Starbucks is fine, but generally not amazing, and I prefer to buy things from smaller shops when they are available.  I stepped outside the cafe and pulled out my phone.  Maybe with a more targeted search I could do a bit better.  As I fumbled with the map on the phone, a middle aged man stopped beside me.

“Can I help you find something?” he asked.

“Well, maybe… I don’t know… I’m looking for a place where I can buy an eggnog latte.”

“Ha!” he smiled.  “My wife also likes eggnog lattes.  There aren’t a lot of places to get them.  You probably have to go to Starbucks.”

I thanked him for trying to help and puzzled on what to do next.  The situation was confounding.  The problem was not a lack of eggnog in coffee shops – it ran much, much deeper than that.  The problem was that people had never heard of an eggnog latte.  They had never considered adding eggnog to coffee.  In the meantime, precious minutes were ticking away, bringing me even further past my 3pm coffee drinking deadline!  I decided to try one more spot before giving in to Starbucks.

Across the street was another small cafe – more like a restaurant than a coffee shop, but I thought maybe I should change my tactic a bit.  A couple people were enjoying happy hour food and drinks at one of the four small tables inside.  I walked up to the tiny bar and was glad to see an espresso machine behind it.  The server greeted me with a slight Brooklyn accent.  “You guys have espresso right?” I verified.

“Yes! Would you like one?”

“Do you have eggnog?”

“Egg what?”  She wrinkled her forehead and looked around.

“Egg Nog” I tried to say more clearly, in case the music had muffled my voice.

“I’m sorry, I’m not from around here,” she said, sidling up to another employee of the cafe, looking to be a cook or bartender sort.  The second server looked up.

“What are you looking for?” She asked.

“Egg nog?”  responded.

“No, I don’t think we have egg… nug.” she said.

So there we had it.  Things really could not be much worse.  They had not even HEARD of eggnog.  They did not even know decisively if they had it or not because they were not previously aware that it existed.  They could not even pronounce the word “eggnog”.

I thanked them and headed to the nearest Starbucks.  It greeted me warmly with offerings of an Eggnog Latte, listed first on the menu of seasonal drinks.

I was starting to feel like a real loser sitting around in my cozy West Village apartment while hundreds of thousands of people on the east coast still lacked power and vehicle owners waited for hours to get gas. So, I decided to do some volunteer work.

Volunteering is hard. Just trying to volunteer is hard. I had been through the frustrating experience of trying to donate time to disorganized or poorly funded efforts in the past. Just last week, suddenly the curators of hours of free time while Eric’s office waited for power in the dark part of town, we had attempted to volunteer cleaning up a city park. Between the waning battery of my cell phone, the flakey 3G service, and the apparent excess of enthusiastic volunteers, we could not properly load the informative site. We ended up taking a several hour mission in search of the volunteer site, never actually finding it, but enjoying a fascinating stroll down E 125th Street through Harlem.

Next, I crawled the internet, looking for opportunities to volunteer. I sent out at least 10 emails to various groups. I navigated through volunteer websites only to find registrations closed. I must say, if organizations were so flooded with volunteers that no more could be useful, I am very impressed with the community. However, I assumed there must be something.

My only response, an email from Ozone Park Animal Shelter, lacked information. The sender requested that I come Wednesday morning and could start that day. Unsure of what hour constituted “morning”, I decided to plan on arriving around 1pm. Wary of some kind of trap, I looked up the animal shelter on Yelp, and was relieved to find decent reviews. As a No Kill shelter, it apparently tended towards crowdedness, but otherwise seemed legit. The location was distant – Yelp showed 80th Street in Queens which is nearly the end of the A line and only a couple short miles from JFK and the hurricane wreckage in Rockaway Beach.

As I set out, the rain started, furthering my relief that the long ride was direct. By the time I got off the train, the rain was sleetifying and the streets were empty of walkers. The area struck me as sketchy. This far out on the A, the train leaves the ground and travels above the street. Specifically, it travels above the street the shelter was located on, Liberty. I did not see an animal shelter. I ran through the sleet to a McDonalds half a block away. The employees, perplexed by the possibility of a nearby animal shelter, suggested that maybe I meant the Pet Store? I pulled up the yelp entry and called the shelter. Luckily, someone answered.

“Yeah, we’re on Liberty. Between 97th and 98th, right across from the CVS.”
Thanks, Yelp. I was on 74th. Unsure of whether another metro stop would be closer, suspicious of Google Maps, determined to finally do some fucking volunteer work, I elected to walk the 23 blocks in the snow. The neighborhood did not inspire a feeling of comfort. Tall fences surrounded the buildings. A creepy dark house with open windows and broken shades guarded a large cemetery full of coffin-sized marble monuments crowded too close together. I arrived at 97th, soaking wet, relieved and somewhat surprised to actually find an Animal Shelter.

The sign on the door said, “Closed.”

I could see lights on inside. A large cage crawling with at least 30 cats blocked my view but I could hear an eruption of barking. A young guy finally opened the door. I could barely hear him over the dogs, so I said simply, “I’m here to volunteer. Do you need help?”

He opened the door and led me to a woman about my age. The cacophony of excited dogs continued so without talking, this Pet Tender gave me rubber gloves and demonstrated what she needed me to do. Clean dog cages. There were SO many cages. At least 40 cages filled an area in the back of the room, and I could hear more barking from another room.

The situation was dire. The small dogs were housed in cages about 3 x 3 feet, with a grated bottom and a pull out drawer to collect pee. Before I started a cage, Pet Tender would remove the dog, since some were “biters” and I was a volunteer. Then I would pull out the shredded newspaper mixed with dog excrement. For some reason all the dogs shredded their newspaper, allowing them to smash the poo into the grating. Then I would wipe out all the poo and sponge down the whole cage with some kind of cleaning solution. The water and food dishes needed to be cleaned and refilled, and a thick layer of newspaper placed on the grating and under it in the drawer. Then Pet Tender would put the dog back in and remove the next one.

In the meantime, the sleet outside had turned decisively to snow. Of course, my volunteering attempts would be tried by yet another unpredicted event – a Nor’Easterly, in this case. I worried the trains would stop due to weather, abandoning me in this distant part of the city. Pet Tender assured me that the train would continue to run even in snow.

After several hours and 10 clean dog cages, I realized it was nearly time for me to go. I let Pet Tender know that I would be heading out in about 20 minutes.

“In that case, before you go, we should do the big cat cage together, if you have time.” was her response.

The task seemed simple at first. The cats all shat tidily in the litter boxes, so we only needed to bring them out, dump them, and rinse them. The real task, however, turned out to be managing the cats so they would not escape when the door was opened. They rushed the door, meowing, tails slinking about, paws pawing, whiskers whisking. One cat darted immediately and needed to be chased down. With some effort, we managed to enter the cage. I never knew I was afraid of cats. So thick I could hardly see the floor, rubbing against me, sitting at shoulder level on cat climbing structures, they were everywhere. I was petrified. I passed the litter boxes out as quickly as possible, trying not to show my fear, lest they smell it and attack. None too soon, we had them all and could exit the cat room.

“Can you come back tomorrow?” they asked as I scrubbed my arms up to the shoulder with disinfectant soap.

“Probably not tomorrow, but I’ll be back.”

I have to say, volunteering at the animal shelter was horrible. The animals are sad, and the conditions are not ideal, and the smell is poopy. But, these guys REALLY need volunteers. So, if you can deal with poop, and you kind of like animals, but not so much as to be dragged into depression by the shitty circumstances, I really recommend you try it. Just wear old clothes, and shoes without tread.