Red Herrings: A Love Story

Friends, I am in love! And her name is Anna Katherine Green.

Here is a picture of my beloved:

Let me tell you about how we met.

I had just finished reading Stieg Larsson's "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo" for my book club, the Manhattan Chapter of the Northeast Regional Book Club Association. (A name I made up when I invited celebrated author Charlie Stella to come speak to us, and it stuck.) I decided I needed a palate cleanser before starting Larsson's second book, and a name popped into my head: Agatha.

Dame Agatha Christie, the grande dame of mystery fiction. Reading her books as a teenager made me fall in love with the genre.

(As a college student I visited The British Museum, where on the tour our guide discussed artifacts from archeological digs at Arpachiyah, Iraq. She mentioned that the man in charge of the dig was Sir Max Mallowan, and asked if we knew to whom he was married. I raised my hand, and she glanced over and nodded at me.

"Agatha Christie," I said. Her face lit up.

"Archeology buff?" she said.

"No," I replied. "Mystery fan.")

Like an addict discovering temptation, I started to explore other authors from the "Golden Age of Mystery Fiction," a term commonly used to refer to works from 1920s and 1930s. This included Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy Sayers and G.K. Chesterton. It was chicken soup [laced with arsenic] for the soul.

But when the name "Agatha" popped into my head last week, it had been years since she and I had sat down to tea and crumpets together. Sure, I watched the Miss Marple mysteries on PBS, but that wasn't the same. Oh, and I rented Hercule Poirot DVDs with David Suchet. And there was the updated Miss Marple series. That was good too.

Still, there had been no actual Christie book in my hands in the longest time.

In search of a bargain, I went to Amazon's Kindle store and looked at the cheapest mysteries they offered. (I am no great fan of the Kindle app for iPhone, which is far inferior to the eReader and Barnes & Noble apps, but they do have some cheap-as-dirt books.) I found a bargain -- for $2.99, an anthology of short stories that appeared to include some Dame A. Well...well...

I plunked down my hard-earned change, downloaded the book, and was shocked to find, instead of the expected 50 stories -- FIFTY BOOKS! FOR $2.99! Once my heart started again, I virtually cracked open a classic Tommy-and-Tuppence mystery (one of Dame A's less-popular crime-fighting duos). And then a second.

When I was done, I perused the table of contents and found Anna Katherine Green. Never heard of her. But I decided to give it a try.

The first thing I noticed was the use of dashes in dates and place names. For example: "Nancy Smith, was going to -----, New York, on September 30, 20--."

This was an immediate throwback to reading "Bartleby the Scrivener," by Herman Melville, published in 1853. Not that Melville was the only writer of that era who employed the privacy dashes, but he was the only writer I read in high school who did. And I only have access to my memory. (For now. I'm sure Apple is working on something.)

I saw those dashes and wondered who this poseur was, pretending to hearken back to an earlier era. As I read on, curiosity soon took hold, and off I went to Wikipedia. What I learned bowled me over:

Anna Katharine Green (November 11, 1846 – April 11, 1935) was an American poet and novelist. She was one of the first writers of detective fiction in America and distinguished herself by writing well plotted, legally accurate stories. (Courtesy of Wikipedia.)

How had we never met?

When I read Agatha, and Dorothy and G.K., I didn't know I would fall in love. I just tore through every word they wrote and didn't appreciate how one can never read a book twice for the first time.

Now that I'm reading Green's "The Millionaire Baby," I'm taking my sweet time.

(P.S. I'm writing this blog from a secret passage!)

Eat, Pray, Shove

This afternoon, a coworker and fellow avid reader handed me a book that she said was “spiritual” and “transformational.” It had changed her outlook on life.

I promised I would give the book a try.

But I was instantly brought back to July 18, 2007. It was around 6 p.m., and I was standing just inside the AT&T store on 43^rd Street and Lexington Avenue. The line was long, and I was thinking that if I stayed I would probably be late to my book club.

I had turned to leave when I heard a loud boom! and saw a couple people outside the store look behind them and start to run. As I’ve mentioned before, my fight-or-flight response is pretty heavy on the flight, so I opened the door, adrenaline already sparking like electricity throughout my body. It wasn’t unfounded. I stepped outside and saw a thick cloud of dark gray smoke. I couldn’t see the Chrysler Building right behind me.

As I ran uptown along Lexington Avenue I heard – and felt – a series of at least a dozen explosions and thought, I’ve always been afraid of dying. I can’t believe today is the day that I’m going to die.

I heard someone scream, “They’re blowing up Grand Central” and someone else yell, “The subways are exploding!” Shockingly (to me, at least), my brain kicked in and I thought, Hmmm, if the subways are exploding, is it a good idea to run along the Lexington Avenue line of the SUBWAY? At 45^th Street I took a quick right and kept jogging until I hit First Avenue.

The decision to get out of harm’s way was an unexpected yet heartening flash of logical thinking for someone prone to panic.

My second flash of brilliance also happened at the corner of 45^th Street and Lexington Avenue. I realized I needed to get rid of dead weight. Since I couldn’t drop 50 pounds on the spot through the miracle of the Hollywood Cookie Diet, the Hollywood Juice Diet or the Hollywood Methamphetamines Diet, I did the second best thing. I looked down at the book in my hand, which I was forcing myself to finish for my book club that night. I knew that my life was worth more than a crummy book – no matter how beloved it was – and as I was fleeing the 2007 Con Edison Midtown New York Explosion, I threw it on a pile of black garbage bags.

I never finished “Eat, Pray, Love,” by Elizabeth Gilbert.

I don’t care how much Oprah loved it. I don’t care that it was optioned for a movie that is being released this August and will probably be a smash hit. I don’t care that I seem to be the only person who hated it. But I really, really did.

I’m sure that Ms. Gilbert really did have a transformational experience. But once she left the bacchanalian portion of her journey, I had to keep suppressing the frequent eye-rolling that her earnest prose seemed to induce in me. I have read and enjoyed truly inspiring books. But this was not one of them.

Without a second thought, I released “Eat, Pray, Love” from my left hand and took off across town.

I eventually hot-footed it up to 59^th Street and First Avenue, where I barged into a pizzeria and demanded napkins to wipe my face. It was July, after all. They hadn’t heard the news yet, so I got some choice looks.

I called my father, hoping he could tell me what was happening. At first, he said nothing was on the news. And then he called back, saying that by all reports a transformer had exploded. I told him that it had seemed worse than that, and much louder. He calmed me down by saying that it had probably sounded like that due to the noise bouncing off buildings.

My mother called and told me that I should take a deep breath, radio reports were saying it wasn’t a big deal, and that I should go to my book club.

Despite shaking, sweating and crying, I walked over to the subway and met my book club at Katz’s Delicatessen on Houston. I spent the first 15 minutes taking deep breaths and telling my friends what had happened.

During dinner, which I wasn’t eating, my mother called.

“Oh my god, are you ok?” she said, sounding a lot more upset than she had earlier.

I asked what was wrong.

The real story had hit CNN and she was finally seeing what I had seen a couple hours earlier. According to Wikipedia (not always the most accurate source, but I promise this is what happened):

The July 18, 2007 New York City steam explosion sent a geyser of hot steam up from beneath a busy intersection, with a 40-story-high shower of mud and flying debris raining down on the crowded streets of Midtown Manhattan in New York City, New York, United States. It was caused by the failure of a Consolidated Edison 24-inch underground steam pipe installed in 1924, at 41st Street and Lexington Avenue, near Grand Central Terminal, just before 6 p.m. local time, near the peak of the evening rush hour. The towering cloud of billowing steam, higher than the nearby 1,047-foot (319 m)-tall Chrysler Building, persisted for at least two hours, leaving a crater about 35 feet (10 m) wide and 15 feet (4 m) deep.

I assured my mother that while I was upset, I was basically fine. I hung up my cell phone and proceeded to discuss “Eat, Pray, Love” (well, minus the last 20 pages I hadn’t read) with my fellow book clubbers.

I already disliked the book prior to July 18, 2007, but now it would forever be linked to one of the most traumatic events in my life.

So, I’ll read my coworker’s “transformational” book. But if I don’t like it, I'm going to ditch it at the corner of 45^th Street and Lexington Avenue.

Contest!

So the theme of this week is: I am confused and I am on the loose in New York City with a crummy mobile phone camera.

I was walking home from work the other day and saw this:


The first person who tells me what this means gets a great prize (or a nice shout-out on the blog). Here's what I came up with:

1. Nerve Supply
2. Nerves Apply

Ok, I didn't get too far. I know this means something, but what?

Also intriguing was this scribbled message, which I saw in a public garden downtown:


Let me first say that no rolly-bugs were harmed in the making of this picture. At least, none that I know of. Frankly, some rolly-bugs may have been harmed, since I don't really know what they are. Don't they sound adorable, though?

If this is a regional term, like when southerners refer to soda as "pop" (which is ridiculous), please clue me in.

In conclusion, I am confused and I desperately need your help.

Quick Question...

So what am I supposed to use?!

Kosher for Passover

Behold, the nation's first religiously-sanctioned shoe store:


This was taken during a recent trip to Florida. I know there's a big Jewish contingent, which necessitates all sorts of glatt kosher delicatessens and markets, but I'm still trying to figure out which part of the shoe is considered edible.

The tongue?

The sole?

This is Why I Love New Yorkers, Part II

You know how sometimes you wake up at 8:15, take a shower, get ready for work (including applying the new Sleek'n'Shine leave-in conditioner system you just bought, brushing both your teeth and your anti-grinding night guard, and deciding which podcast to listen to on your commute), and then finally make it to the subway platform, where a little old lady curses you with the Evil Eye?

It seemed so innocent at the time. All I said was, “Excuse me, could you move your bag?”

Does that seem threatening?

When I arrived at the subway platform this morning, ready to go to work on my next-to-penultimate day before the long weekend, there were plenty of people and the lone bench appeared full. As I walked by, I realized that one seat was actually taken by the small tote bag of the white-haired lady sitting next to it. All New Yorkers know that this is a faux pas – you don’t put bags on the seat if the train is full. This rule applies to subway platforms, too.

So I said, “Excuse me.” She ignored me at first, and I figured she didn’t hear me, so I said it again, and then asked the ill-fated question.

What happened next was unexpected.

First, she moved her bag. Then, she started mumbling in Hungarian (or some such), gave me the stink eye, got up, and walked about 10 feet down the platform.

I was confused. I clearly didn’t ask her to leave. And she was pissed – she stood there staring right at me, mumbling in Hungarian, until the subway came five minutes later.

The woman next to me, who had been witnessing this spectacle, looked over at me and shared a sympathetic eyebrow-raise, then started laughing. I joined her, but started to wonder if the “Evil Eye” (were it real) could be effective from 10 feet away.

However, I have yet to sprout a tail, grow horns, lose my hair, gain some warts or turn into a forest animal.

So I’m probably safe. (For now.)

Bananas & Nectarine

Dear Barnes & Noble:

I get it -- times are hard. People are losing jobs and don't have the paper to spend on your paper, so I understand wanting to branch out, see what other revenue streams might be available.

Maybe you're afraid that you're going the route of The Shop Around the Corner in "You've Got Mail." I mention that movie because: a) everyone knew the fictional Fox Books was a B&N stand-in; b) Fox Books was on the Upper West Side, where there's a real B&N (the one where I used to shop, when I lived there); and c) my brother had small recurring role on a Meg Ryan project when he was an infant.

Maybe you're concerned that Amazon's cheaper prices, access to used books and Kindle are hastening you toward an inevitable, vestigial, Blockbuster-like existence.

Or maybe you see the writing on the wall -- books are out, fruit is in!

Really, that's the only explanation I can come up with for this:

Blame it on the Rain

It was a dark and stormy night. (I’ve always wanted to write that!)

The roaring thunder and the eye-squintingly bright lightning tore through my apartment at 2:30 a.m. and lasted about 45 minutes.

I woke up this morning completely exhausted, took a shower while still half-asleep, and then managed to blow a fuse while drying my hair. I was only partway to an exquisite 'do but decided the lack of light was more urgent. So I peeked into my bedroom to confirm the power was off there too (it was) and made my way into the kitchen, where the fuse box is mounted about 7 feet off the ground. I used a spatula to open it and flip the bottom switch back to the “on” position. Voila! Power was restored. I'm like Bob Vila, but with kitchen utensils.

I returned to the bedroom so I could get dressed. I then reached for my glasses...which were no longer on my night stand, where I had placed them before going to sleep last night.

Forty-five long minutes passed, during which I did the following in order to locate my much-needed glasses:

1. Pushed night stand away from wall, looked in all drawers, then lifted it up and looked underneath.

2. Moved bed to center of room, tore off all linens, including pillowcases, put lost socks back into laundry basket, decided it was time to sweep behind my bed.

3. Ransacked my newly-folded (now unfolded) clothes.

4. Looked in my laundry basket. Left giant, heaping pile of linens and assorted clothing on floor.

5. Examined my closet, faux-armoire, hallway, living room, kitchen and front hallway.

6. Approached highest levels of desperation, began peeking in toilet, medicine cabinet, refrigerator, underneath my jewelry box and inside my air conditioner.

At this point, I was supposed to be at work in 5 minutes. I was half-dressed, completely confused, and entirely certain that a cockroach had wandered in during the night and decided my prescription would be perfect for his elderly cockroach father.

I also was starting to feel like my apartment was getting unbearably stuffy and humid. A bead of sweat proceeded to roll down my forehead and land...on a lens. On my face.

On the glasses which I had apparently been wearing THE ENTIRE TIME.

You know what? I still have no idea when I put them on, since I definitely wasn’t wearing them in the shower. On the way to work (clocking in a whopping 30 minutes late), I periodically touched my face, still unable to believe that I was in possession of my glasses.

Clearly, both my brain and the fuse shut off simultaneously. And I’m starting to think I will never know what truly happened during those lost minutes.

Hey, have you seen my watch?

Never mind.

You Should See Aisle 6

I love my local pharmacy. It has a good selection, is quite spacious, and I always find something unexpected.

This is how it is set up:

Aisle 1 – Hair Care
Aisle 2 – Makeup and Skin Care
Aisle 3 – Cold Medication and Vitamins
Aisle 4 – Deodorant and Shaving Supplies
Aisle 5 – Beef Jerky and Pregnancy Tests

I didn’t realize pregnancy cravings started the moment you took the test.

Curds and…Wait, What?

So who is this Ted, and why is he offering what appears to be small cubes of Ted-flavored cheese?

Admittedly, it was my first trip to this supermarket, which is right around the corner but not actually on my way home. So, it's possible that Ted is their resident Fromagier, like a sommelier but for delicious aged dairy products.

This is how I imagine it works:

One night, I will be shopping in this deluxe Fantasti-Mart, which I've trekked to all the way around the corner just so I can prepare an outstanding meal for my special someone. I pick out two frozen salisbury-steak-and-mashed-potato dinners, a bottle of Diet Slight (like Sprite but not quite as good), and a Pepperidge Farm Quartet (who doesn't love those butterfly crackers?). I head over to the cheese counter, where I am greeted by an overabundance of choices. Port wine cheese log? Velveeta? Spreadable brie product?

I am seized by indecision.

As I pause, frown and sigh, on the verge of abandoning my plans for a home cooked meal, I am tapped politely on the shoulder. I turn around to find myself face-to-face with a wrinkly 90 year-old gentlemen wearing suspenders and a fedora.

“Do you need assistance,” he inquires. “I am Ted, le Fromagier. Allow me to assess the contents of your cart and I shall recommend the perfect cheese to accompany your feast.”

He thoughtfully picks up the frozen dinners, puts them down. Gently swirls the soda. Examines each member of the cracker quartet by sniffing the box. He pauses, closes his eyes, and does so for so long that I briefly wonder if I should wake him up.

There is no need.

He finally opens his eyes, takes my arm and leads me to a display of clear plastic tubs.

“I notice that you like exotic foods,” he says, waiting for me to nod in agreement. With a flourish of his hands, he passes me a container.

“May I suggest the cheese Tedbits?”