That Little Kicky Thing

That baby hasn't gotten out yet, but he has a fine time trying. Thump, thump. Little heartbeat with limbs. Sometimes you feel a little shimmy-pop or a shark-fin slide against the outer dome of his prison. He's somewhere in there blinking in the darkness. He hasn't got a name.

This is an impossibly strange situation. Three-pound homunculus, tapping at the walls. You can see him rise and fall like an undulation in the earth, or someone shifting restlessly under bedclothes. Sometimes he gets feisty, and strikes outward with a sharp jab. At some point it will hurt.

Sometimes it feels like a bellyful of discontented pickerels.

With the first one you thought: I will never be closer to this child than I am now. But you understand now that this is not true. He's a fond and effortlessly close physical shifting, a comfortable (or not-so-comfortable) presence, but he's fierce already to be on his own. He'll get out. He will eventually turn to you and tell you solemnly that his cozy needs zipping or his water cup has spilled, or that his stuffed snake "has a long tongue that gives him bad licks and causes him to be mean to all other animals" (a la Eldest Son). The tongue of said snake, you'll notice, bears a small Band-Aid pilfered from the medicine cabinet.

You will in all outcomes like him better then than you do today. You shall be friends.

But today, he struggles and thrums down deep. It's not long now until this is gone, and gone forever. On to better things. Just as you cannot fully remember the pain of a broken limb or labor itself, you will never again remember this sensation—not in the bone and gut. No chance odor will bring it back, unexpected, waiting in line at the store. Not the certain flavor of spring onrushing, nor the wind.

Maybe this music will bring a small reminder, though, one day. Sitting here waiting for his eyes to open nine, ten, eleven weeks down the line, and feeling him stir and turn.

Debbil Juice

I am in possession of some scientific evidence, which I think may soon point to the conclusion that someone I know well is related to, if not the actual, The Devil.

Observation 1: The person heretofore known as "The Devil" has hung a large portrait of a devil right smack dab in the middle of our living room. The devil in the painting is red, with horns, and seems to be gazing with melancholy ire at our neighbor's house. Like it might want to smite them. Its cloven hooves are not visible but are no doubt implied.

The Devil claims that this portrait was purchased because it is an original done by his favorite musician (also an artist). The fact remains that the portrait is, without question, Mephistopheles, aka Beezlebub, aka Satan. This, coupled with the fact that we are too lazy to hang Christmas lights during the winter season, has led the neighbors to refer to us sotto voce as “those Satan worshippers.” This has not raised our standing in the area.

Observation 2: When The Devil has had more than two martinis, he often says things like “I’m a devil! I’m a devil!” or occasionally “debbil, debbil, debbil,” and runs about the house.

Observation 3: The Devil does not enter churches, unless they are hosting some tag sales with Really Great Bargains.

Observation 4: As if to throw us off the scent, The Devil’s proclaimed favorite band is named The Church. Such a ploy is pitifully obvious. Who else do you know whose favorite, A #1, all-time band is actually The Church? Didn’t think so. As a side note, one of the band members of The Church is the painter of the devil painting (see Observation 1).

Observation 5: The Devil likes whiskey, fast cars, Victoria’s Secret commercials, and other clichéd “devilish” accoutrements.

Observation 6: The Devil gives off a strange, black effluvium that modern science has been unable to identify. One morning we discovered black marks on The Devil’s pillow, which could not be removed through diligent laundering. Was it black Devil Liquid oozing from his ears or pores? No one knows, but occasionally fresh black marks show up and cannot be removed. Is he wearing mascara and frequenting “those” kind of clubs without my knowledge? Or—the more likely explanation—is he The Devil? You draw the obvious conclusion.

Are you cool enough for my neighborhood?

Now that we are going to try to sell our house, I officially take back everything mean and ill-considered that I have said about my neighborhood. You see, all along I have actually been trying to DRIVE people away from our neighborhood because it is my precious, secret gem, and seeing it filled with yupsters and Beamers and the like would just be too grotesque. What would we do, indeed, if the Jif-E-Lube on the corner were to be replaced with a trendy boutique selling handbags? Handbags don't "lube" up one's car, do they?

I actually have never wanted you here. But now that you might like to buy our home, come on in!

I shall now extol the virtues of my neighborhood and shed the light of truth on the whole matter. When my neighbors come to me with acerbic commentary (yeah, thanks for the gentrification, beeatch!), I'll just send them down the street to drown their sorrows in what used to be a down-home working man's pub called "The Tilted Kilt" but is now called "Zero," "ö," "Antarktika," or some other über-trendy name, and has a bocce court in the back and pomegranate martinis.

Here are 10 of my favorite things--for real!
1. We can walk to the New Rochelle train station in 10 minutes. Count them: 10. I make it in closer to 15 now that I am fat.
2. There is a 24-hour CVS within walking distance.
3. All the homes have olde worlde charme buried somewhere beneath their exteriors. Our own home is 103 years old!
4. We have a front porch. We can sit there and shout expletives at speeding cars.
5. Steam Eat: Within walking distance.
6. New NYSC complete with TWO swimming pools: Within walking distance.
7. Five Islands Park: A 15-minute walk. Lovely water views, and birds.
8. Did you hear there may be a new Whole Foods? Yes, that will also be a 5-minute walk from MY house.
9. Big, fat, gorgeous chestnut trees that drop hundreds of chestnuts on the heads of our friendly neighbors every autumn.
10. The coolness that comes with knowing you are a pioneer.

Steam Eat

My family and I used to enjoy going to diners on the weekend, but boredom with the bland food had taken the sparkle off the experience. The same "eggies with toast" for the boys, with undercooked homefries. The same crusty-looking, flat omelette that lacks any semblance of fluff, accompanied by fat and tasteless fries. Diner food is usually reliable and filling, but there's not much that's creative about it. The coffee is generally dreadful. We would go to them mainly because they forgave the fries under the table and the smeary handprints atop it.

Steam Eat, a few-months-old restaurant right on Main Street in New Rochelle, offers all the advantages of a diner--but the food is much, much better. I am convinced that it's also cheaper. If you haven't noticed the place, that's because you're probably passing by in a fast clip in your car. It's easy enough to miss--nestled in the base of the condo development called Huguenot Hill, a couple of doors down from Super Suppers, Steam Eat advertises its presence with tasteful grey and white signs. Shaped like a miniature Flatiron, the space is cavernous enough to accommodate a slew of patrons and strollers--even the double and triple variety liberally studded with toddlers. A giant art print of a steaming cup of coffee adorns the wall, and the menus are displayed like a monument high above the counter.

If you have kids with you (and we always do), you get a selection of children's books to peruse along with your menus. (A nice alternative to the cheap, waxy crayons offered by diners.) Adults can scan the magazine rack for papers and newspapers. Our boys flipped through hardcover kids' pages while I read about abandoned babies in that shameful rag known as The New York Post.

For breakfast, we usually all order the Special Egg Sandwich--at $4.75, it's a Kaiser roll loaded with bacon cooked to crispy perfection, eggs, and cheese. Try it with eggs over medium and the cheddar instead of the Monterey Jack, and get their well-cooked homefries on the side--no bland, mealy potatoes here. Steam Eat serves Peet's Coffee, which is hearty and delicious. (Even a cup of Peet's tea kicked the pants of a Tazo tea of the same variety.) Sometimes I've strayed and sampled the Bagel Breakfast ($7.50, with a mound of fresh lox that reaches to your eyebrows), but the Special Egg is too tried-and-true to resist. Sometimes, now, I even wake up with that phrase on my lips: "Special Egg Sandwich."

Last weekend, the boys tried the oatmeal for breakfast, which comes with small pots of various mixers--raisins, caramelized apples, authentic maple syrup, cinnamon. They had fun mixing their items in and then spooning the oatmeal right down their shirtfronts. The waitress was not alarmed to see the smeary mess on the red banquettes, which alleviated our guilt.

For lunch, we've tried the Salmon BLT ($8.50, and delicious) and the Grilled Cheese ($3.25--a bargain!), both of which come with paprika-dusted tortilla chips instead of the traditional french fries. I was able to eat the latter while wildly ill with morning sickness, so it was a lifesaver. Also tasty was the House Roasted Turkey sandwich, complete with cranberry chutney ($7.75).

We often have the place almost to ourselves, which just doesn't seem right. Why isn't it packed yet? I have a couple of theories. For one, it opened in the back yard of a neighborhood where the residents--old, working-class families who have been installed here for 50-odd years--may regard it with a vague suspicion of gentrification. Goat cheese and wild mushrooms in an omelet? Humph! Newfangled yuppies! These people prefer their greasy diner food, thank you, and didn't you know that McDonalds serves up a fine cup of coffee?

Steam Eat has the flair and flavor that up-and-coming Brooklyn did when Smith Street started to get hot and prices on apartments shot up. It's cool enough to make it in SoHo. Its minimalist decor and high ceilings suggest an onrushing hipness that New Ro seems ever-ready to embrace...but not quite yet. I live in this neighborhood. It's not riddled with Bugaboo strollers and Volvos. Here, you are more likely to drive by a front porch featuring a fat Grandma sunk into an overstuffed couch, and two sallow youths playing Foosball. Steam Eat kind of sticks out ... just like that one, lone guy in a suit who walks out of our neighborhood toward the train station every morning. (Curtains peel back and suspicious eyes stare out.)

But at $7.75 a pop, any one of Steam Eat's so-called "fancy" omelets comes in at a lower price than the last scraggly, sorry spinach and feta omelet I ate at the Thruway Diner (soon to be demolished for a Walgreen's, which is pathetic and sad--but I won't miss the food.) The bottom line is that Steam Eat's food is excellent and the waitstaff helpful and pleasant. And I'll bet they'll even make you a plain old cheese 'n' egg omelet. Take that, y'old farts!

The second reason is that people--if they actually notice the place--may be scared off by the fact that there seems to be nowhere to park at first glance. Not the case. We usually park right on the street next to the front door, or barring that, in the free parking garage right inside the building. It's truly easy. If you're lucky enough to live in the Shangri-La that is our neighborhood, you can even walk! Once discovered, it's hard to pass up this hidden gem--and I'm afraid the Larchmont, Mamaroneck, Thruway (RIP), and Nautilus Diners have all lost our business for the duration.

Steam Eat is at 179 Main Street in New Rochelle, just across from Salesian High School and just North of the UPS store.
914-355-2063.

Yes, there ARE poets in New Rochelle! And they are reckless drivers!

As if delivered from the gods, TWO of my questions (#1 and #14) from yesterday's post have already been answered. All it took was five bucks to get to the root of this one, folks.

First of all, although I usually tromp the hellish wind tunnel past the Trump Plaza to and from the New Rochelle train station, I just couldn't do it tonight. For about the second time since I've lived here, I decided to take a cab home.

As those of you who do this regularly already know, the cab drivers here are willing to pack in a couple of extra passengers and deliver them one by one to their homes, school-bus style, charging each what a ride straight to his or her home would have cost.

I jumped into the front seat of a cab already occupied by two passengers in the back. The driver roared off while I fumbled for the seat belt, which was stuck fast.

"Aw, don't worry about that," he said. "I got insurance!" He immediately pulled right into the path of a car, which honked and swerved out of the way. Insurance? I continued to "worry" with unusual fervor about the seat belt until it was secure.

Meanwhile, we were driving over half of New Ro to deliver the first passenger. As he whipped around on her street, he suddenly announced that the gas tank was on "red line empty." It began beeping ominously.

"I can make it!" he shrieked. "Let's keep going!"

"If you run outta gas," said the woman from the back. "I will be I-rate!"

"Me too!" I chirped. We were steadily getting farther away from my home and walking was now an impossible prospect.

He dithered about it for a while, driving erratically about the city, while the indicator beeped.

"Get gas NOW!" said the other passenger.

"Aw, maybe I stop and get some gas. You ladies like that Hillary Clinton?"

"I prefer Barack Obama," I said, and the other passenger agreed.

"But she is a woman. You're not sticking with your kind?" he said, aghast that we would so betray our gender. "She's got all that experience in the White House!"

"Grrr," I said. Other Passenger and I both explained our reasons for supporting Obama. Cab driver still clearly regarded us as traitors to femalekind. Meanwhile, he pulled wildly into the "Jesus King of Kings" gas station on North Avenue. This station is all about delivering Jesus with your fossil fuels, and is covered with bumper stickers that shout "Repent America!" But the best thing about it is that right across the street we have the MACKADOCIOUS Hair Salon. You have not lived until you get your bangs trimmed at a place called MACKADOCIOUS.

We waited while the driver filled the tank. Then he roared off in his wild way, yammering about Hillary's qualifications the whole time. "She's a woman! She's powerful! She's got the stuff! etc. etc." We were unmoved.

After he dropped off the other passenger, made two illegal turns, and shot the wrong way up a one-way street on the way to my house, my cab driver then informed me that he is a published poet!

I think that he has been inspired by our fair city, eh? Sky scrappers, indeed!

My Top 15 Questions About New Ro

Now that my blog is being featured on The Larchmont Loop, a great local resource for news and information, I am on the prowl for New Ro scoops. As a chronicler of all that is weird in this little hamlet of 72,182 souls, I find my curiosity piqued by the following 15 questions. I shall not rest until I have pick-axed my way to the truth of each!

1. Are New Ro drivers, like the proverbial "mass-holes," really worse than others in Westchester? Or does the city attract horn-thumping fools like a magnet?
2. Is Sound Shore hospital really a medieval fright-fest, where women wander the halls like wraiths desperately looking for a bite to eat, and the emergency room has a layer of filth an inch thick? Or are these just scare stories meant to keep kiddies from leaping dangerously off high places and needing stitches?
3. Is Donald Trump embarrassed yet?
4. Why do people, when driving up the Post Road through Larchmont, discreetly hang onto their fast-food wrappers and old bottles--only to toss them wantonly out the window as soon as they cross the New Rochelle border?
5. Were there just as many geese pooing like crazy on the grass at Glen Island when it was home to Big Bands and was an elite destination for hip New Yorkers in the 30s?
6. Will there be lots of geese also pooing at the brand-new Echo Bay waterfront development when it is finally finished in 2044?
7. How many car dealerships can I hit with a pellet gun from my attic window?
8. Is it really a good idea for people in my neighborhood to hang their undergarments out on the line to give them that clean, springtime scent?
9. What's up with that Wykagyl area? Every time I drive through there it seems like people are on their way to worship the Lord. Are there any "bad guys" there?
10. Will I ever meet anyone who is member of the incongruous-looking, swollen beach clubs down on Davenport Avenue? Will they invite me to one of their parties? Will I get to swim in a pool? Will the other members like me? Will I want to write a very snarky blog entry about the experience afterward?
11. Have the Huguenots finally escaped persecution, or do they feel peeved about the food wrappers and offal mentioned in Item # 4?
12. What retail stores will go into New Roc City to replace the arcade? Will there be a "Chess King"? How about a "Dress Barn"? I like stores that refer to "barns." They make me feel womanly, and hungry for a snack.
13. Dude, who moves out from Manhattan to live in the Trump Plaza?
14. What goes on in the Poet's Corner on Main Street? Are there poets in this town? Do they write poetry with titles such as "Sweet Avalon, on the Sound"?
15. If I begin to use a thick parody of a French accent whenever I speak the name "New Rochelle," will the town take on a new "coolness" and European je ne sais quoi?

Oh! Dyslexic Goats!

When I was in high school, my best friend and I became very interested in two things:

1. Rodents
2. Root vegetables (and also cruciferous vegetables, such as the cabbage)

It has occurred to me in recent years that these obsessions were, perhaps, a bit strange. I do not use the word "obsessions" lightly. We were deeply, religiously, and pathologically obsessed with rodents and unattractive veggies. The more empurpled, lumpish, slitty-eyed, and fanged the better.

The rodent category included such creatures as chinchillas, marmots, marmosets, ferrets, bunnies, weasels, and squirrels--with the occasional bird or odd animal (vulture, auk, elk) thrown in for fun. As for root vegetables, we were highly intrigued by turnips, rutabagas, parsnips, and beets--with the occasional fruit product (kumquat, banana) also thrown in for laughs.

In our discussions, we imagined that the rodents and the veggies would breed with one another to produce an uber-race of bizarre fiends. The Supreme Leader of the rodent-veggie race was a being called Lumpen. He was a giant rabbit with a wart under one eye, carroty red hair, and horrid sharp fangs. He didn't walk, he "lumped" about. He made strange noises such as "Bok, bok, bok!" He crept around people's gardens at night and growled menacingly. (I must confess that the inspiration for Lumpen was a particularly annoying high school teacher who happened to be red-headed and to have a small wart under one eye.)

One had to merely mention a turnip, stoat, or weasel to send my friend and I into an apoplexy of laughter. Once I made my friend piddle her pants by impersonating a cabbage, and how it might sound if poked with a stick and angered. (Another time I caused her to piddle when I impersonated Skeletor, ruler of all Eternia, but that's another story.)

At a time when most girls were fascinated with Revlon, curling irons, and footwear, we were making up songs and doggerel about rodents and rutabagas. One simple verse went like this:

20 rotten rutabagas sitting in a row
100 weasels in a vat
Stab me with a crow!

Our mythology grew and began to reach epic proportions. We drew sketches of "attack weasels" and turnips with piggy eyes and teeth in the margins of our notebooks, called ourselves "The Ferret Force" (teamed with a third peculiar girl who grew to share our obsession), and shot each other feral, toothy glances across the schoolroom. The panoply of veggie marauders and their rodent minions grew to include an evil carrot, some demon-like potatoes with dangling "eyes" that stuck out like swords, and hell-ferrets who launched themselves from cliffs to sink their fangs into the unwary. (The "unwary" were usually sketches of fellow students who we didn't care for.) We eventually had notebooks filled with this stuff, as well as bags of loose pages and hidden passed notes. We should have become cartoonists, but we were too stupid.

Now, looking back on that, it reminds me of something from another era--a story my mother might tell of her fun with "school chums" growing up in New Jersey. How they all wrapped dental floss around their noses and turned them tomato red, how they dressed up in costume and pretended to be pirates, or the time she trimmed off her eyelashes in the hopes they'd grow back lusher. A charming time, when silliness reigned and girls giggled for hours in their rooms without getting in a wit of trouble.

Were we dorks? Quite possibly. Ah, but we were slutty, drunken dorks! In addition to beets and stoats, we also liked boys and beers. In between assignations with both, we penned poetry like this:

Brussels sprouts wearing wigs.
Hyperactive stoats!
Fanatical ferrets in pea soup.
Oh! Dyslexic goats!