Anonymous said: Paparazzi alert! check out the cover photo on eater's latest article on the Five Points revamp article. Love your blog and congrats on the new addition to your family!
Ok that picture is horrible and I now have way more sympathy for celebrities but more important — FIVE POINTS IS GONE??? That brunch is our go-to, you don’t even know. And yeah yeah I know they’re calling it a revamp, but new owner, new name, new cuisine … heartbreaking.
PS: Thanks! :)
33 at 33
On Wednesday, in my 33rd week of pregnancy, I turn 33. That means I’ve now lived longer than my birth-mother did, a milestone in any member of the Dead Parent Club’s life. My baby is active and apparently healthy but good lord if she can’t stress me out sometimes. I’ve never been jabbed in the ribs or hurt by her kicks, something so many women talk about that I started to wonder if she’d be born limp and listless. My doctor snorted when I mentioned this.
"Honestly, when women complain about painful kicks, I wonder how they’re going to handle the birth." (This doctor can be kind of an asshole.)
And then I am a bit small for my gestation. SMALL? It doesn’t seem possible, but there it is: 2 cm short of where my belly should be, on average. And I’ve “only” gained like 21 pounds (and not for lack of carbs ‘n cheese). I look more like 28 or 30 weeks pregnant, to a practiced eye. Is she going to be born limp, listless, and woefully undersized?
The doctor appraised me.
"You’ve got those hips," she said, meaning, plenty of room down there for her to chill, far from my ribs, cozy inside the pelvis, no need to grow a huge belly.
"You’ve got a good body for pregnancy," she went on, and I swear to god I could have kissed that asshole doc.
This is exactly what I’ve thought since oh, I dunno, puberty. And this pregnancy has certainly born it out. But to hear it from a professional….
Call me naive but — I am confident. About the birth and about caring for a newborn (what I worry about in the anxious wee hours is her health, her neurological development — an entirely different matter).
I mean, she said it — I’ve got those hips.
It’s high time they were put to use.
No matter how long you have been here, you are a New Yorker the first time you say, ”That used to be Munsey’s” or ”That used to be the Tic Toc Lounge.” That before the Internet cafe plugged itself in, you got your shoes resoled in the mom-and-pop operation that used to be there. You are a New Yorker when what was there before is more real and solid than what is here now.
He was writing this in the aftermath of 9/11 and already the Internet cafe reference is out of date — we all have smart phones now, even the recent immigrants — but the sentiment is so true. Don’t get me started about the area around Whisk & Ladle. It was a no man’s land when I first ventured there (remember this, tumblr?) and now it’s littered with Duane Reades and generic mid-price pan-Mediterranean restaurants.
Exotic means there, not here. Them, not us. You, but definitely not me. Exotic is a word defined by the speaker’s perspective, which assumes dominance and normalcy over the person being called exotic.
It’s a micro-aggression. It’s a backhanded compliment. And it’s simply inaccurate.
Yeah. Our daughter will probably be called ‘exotic’ and how weird is that? A born and bred New Yorker with two American parents? She’s a fucking patriot, man, and don’t you forget it.
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