Everything Was Huge, Part One

There comes a time, usually at the end of August, when I become obsessed with the idea- at least for a short while- that a nice home in the country is exactly what I need. This fantastical domestic scenario offers instant if somewhat subdued nirvana with a working fireplace and no mosquitoes. In such a fairy place troubles dissipate like delicate soap bubbles that have popped into quiet oblivion with a silent, peaceful ping, and suddenly all becomes well. Serenely I gaze out onto lush fields of clover and hollyhock and thank my lucky stars.

  

Needless to say, this fantasy leads to all sorts of improbable excursions, long road trips into the land of late summer farm stands and spurious For Sale signs. It is here that one encounters picturesque, old red barns, antique dinner plates hanging raffishly askew on uneven walls, smallish rooms with checkered curtains, cozily flooded basements, toilets that don’t always flush and lots of dubious new construction that beckons as the alternative to all that charm.

As a result of such meanderings I once looked at a condo where everything was huge, really, really, really huge, totally out of scale for ordinary, mortal home dwellers. And I do mean everything, walls, ceilings, fixtures, even people and voices. It was the weirdest thing.

It started out several years ago on one of those exceptionally promising weekend mornings in early fall when the sun hints at all things wonderful and the notion of mortality temporarily recedes; only great enterprises seem possible on those days, even in real estate, or especially in real estate, given what was going on in the market at the time. It was quite early in the morning, and I had just gotten out of bed, not really awake yet, still deciding what to do with the day and perhaps the rest of my life when the realtor called.

Good morning! Did I wake you? What are you doing today? Are you free? C,mon up! This is too good to pass on, he said- you’ve been looking for a while now and we both know these kinds of places are few and far between- it won’t last long (he let his voice trail off here in that special realtor way).  Can you make it up here by noon?

This incident took place in the early days of the boom, when there was widespread, palpable panic about “finding a place,” that magical spot somewhere, anywhere, other than where you presently lived and breathed- your smartest investment in lifestyle and the road to eternal security.  I immediately knew what I had to do, and do it fast; there was little time to waste; anyone could beat you out on a sweet deal like this and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my days regretting losing something I already was in love with, despite never having seen it.

So I jumped into the shower, did a much abbreviated shampoo and skipped the conditioner, even though the forecast predicted an excessively hot and humid day and I was desperately in need of a trim- why had I let it go so long? Dressing as fast as I could, I barely had time to grab a pair of tiny earrings before starting up the car, but in my haste I dropped one of the little backs from the earring post under the dresser and had to spend another two or three frantic minutes scavenging for it. Clearly this was a sign of some sort, an augury to be sure, but I paid no heed. In the end I was feeling a bit sticky, dusty and overheated but ready to face whatever might ensue, my locks still quite damp, not really sure how it all was going to turn out- the hair or the property- yet feeling lucky. . . .

The Adventures. . . A Page From NooNoo's Summer Diary

She loves the grit and humidity, the insufferable heat and street theater, and of course the energy, no matter how sticky and sweaty or unbearable it gets. And then there’s the ebullient, complicated hand moves she’s noticed here and there while doing what she does best in the world- looking all around. People seem to swat the air in New York as they converse, which is always, or at least often, and frequently quite loudly. And even though she’s not on solids yet, she’s managed to glean something about the food. The sight of all those big round bagels, the smell of the sidewalk trucks, the jingle of Mr. Softee!!! Pizza, pizza, more pizza!!!! Talk overheard about something called “pastrami” which sounds intensely exotic. These and more await, somewhere up the line, teeth or no teeth. She will not be denied.

And now she’s goin’ back- she cannot believe her incredible luck!

At the moment NooNoo is busy packing for the return trip to the Apple and practicing the word Nootchie, her New York name, giggling at the sound of it now that she is old enough to laugh properly. What should I bring? She’s decided to leave her winter snuggly at home but definitely will be including bloomers and sleeveless tops, perhaps some sneakers for later on- okay, much later on- that perhaps she can leave there for eventually toddling around those mean city streets, when she learns to toddle that is.

Let’s skip the socks for now, especially since I’m not even crawling yet, much less walking, and it can get damned hot over there- bare feet will give me lots of opportunity to exercise some of my new yells, yelps and howls, which go so well with exposed toes anyway. I definitely should take the tutu for one of those inevitable formal Gotham evenings. Maybe I’ll even pick up a small headband there and an “I love NY” a t-shirt. I wonder if they’ll take me to the theater, or come up with some flimsy excuse instead about how I am “not old enough.” Balderdash!  If they don’t take me to the high line this time I will keep them up all night for sure- who can bear to hear a baby cry so pitifully without scooping her up and promising to move mountains??? Is this really too much to ask? Such thoughts continue to fill NooNoo’s head as she ponders what else she can throw into the baby bag. In the end though all she can manage to say to her parents (and anyone else who will listen) about the upcoming adventure is ooh, uh, eeee, ga! Da! Eowww!!!!

Gosh, I wish I had some more real out loud words already, because I just know this trip will be so awesome, swag, cool. . . .    

The Adventures. . .Gosh, We Need a Change. . . .

Nootchie is fed up with all the media attention to the next big election! Fed, fed, fed, fed, up! Upsky!

She hears it on the street, catches the drift from the older sibs of baby friends, senses it in the air, left, right, up, down, whoopsy daisy round and round, politics shmalotics!!! She definitely needs a change- fast- and not just “diaper.” What she’d really like is some screen time of her very own without having to wait out the rest of the two years in the screen-less desert that began with her birth as a “precaution” of some sort; for now she is relegated solely to cutsie board books and other such boringly innocuous parental choices purportedly designed to protect her tiny though burgeoning intellect. Hmmmph! She’s really not all that into “smart” at present- any idiot could see that as she drools and grabs for your eyeglasses, or maybe an earring- though she’s not above manipulation when she needs to get out of the stroller. But that’s another story. A girl has to live. You make choices, you stick by them. It’s time to party.

Through the Gaga Grapevine she’s gathered that there’s this really cool show called something like “Sissy May Treat” with a furry, funny blue monster that loves cookies and she’s dying to catch it. There are no doubt other cool shows too, super cool! But for now, all the screen time in the world seems to be devoted to adults watching other adults blabbering about shmalotics and something called the “bee dates” or maybe “dee bates” or perhaps “dee dates” which she thinks has to do with dried fruit arguing with each other about who should “run” or be the “candy date.” She can’t wait to run! But first of course she has to learn how to crawl. Why would any kind of candy “argue” when it’s just there to be eaten and enjoyed? Okay, she actually hasn’t tasted this goody yet, but through her contacts she’s heard. . . .

Anyhow, for now she’s just plain sick, sick and tired of the whole thing, which is why after practically no thought whatsoever she has decided to run for Baby President.  After she gets them to change the age limit through extensive lobbying and the unswerving backing of other babies- and just check out any playground these days if you want to get an idea of her support numbers - the mainstay of her platform will be simple, direct, a cake walk, literally, occasionally with whipped cream on top. Her platform? A walk in the park: “Fun! Fun! As much fun as we can get!!!” The logo will be a set of plastic keys of course. Babies love keys- it’s a no brainer. She’ll get some onezees made up with her picture. Photo ops will take place mainly in the bouncer since this definitely is much more fun than being strapped into the car seat contraption that feels like two consecutive life sentences in Alcatraz.

It ain’t easy being one of the little people, but with determination she is sure she can effect change. We concluded the interview with her nap.