About Amanda
I’m a disgruntled LIRR commuter by morning, real estate journalist by day, insomniac by night, and cancer butt-kicker for life.
Where To Find Me
The Scandalous Note
Published January 17, 2012 | A Writer’s Book of Days (01/17) – Write About A Time You Found Out About Something You Weren’t Supposed To Know
I’ve been an avid reader, ever since I was a child. I’d read anything I could get my hands on, and the wall-to-ceiling bookshelf in our old living room was a gold mine – my particular favorites were a National Geographic anthology and the Lexicon Universal Encyclopedia set. Strange kid, I know.
One day, when I was eight, I pulled out an illustrated herbal encyclopedia. As I flipped through the pages, a white piece of notepaper fell out. I read the decidedly adult cursive, which described a man my mother was to meet at the airport. He was tall, had a mustache, was a romantic, and would bring flowers. He had a very basic name, like Paul or Allen. Oh, it was scandalous. My parents were divorced and my father had remarried, but I didn’t know there was such a fellow in my mother’s life.
I couldn’t breathe a word of this – I didn’t want to get in trouble for snooping. Nor was I going to tell my little sister, who would likely use it as ammunition against me later. I had no one to tell this secret. I tucked the note back into the book – it was between the marjoram and marshmallow root pages. I made sure to put it back in the exact place I found it.
As far as I knew, there was never such a man. Once in a while, I’d take the book out and look at the note again. Then we moved, and the book was long forgotten, stored in a box with cookbooks somewhere in the basement.
But when I was in my early 20s, a renovated kitchen meant there was more room for the books. Mom brought the box up from the basement and took the books out one by one, piling them on the table. At the top of one pile was the herbal dictionary and I quickly grabbed it, shaking out the pages. No note fell out. I thumbed through to the marshmallow root page. Nothing.
Mom asked what I was doing. So more than 12 years late, I confessed my knowledge of the mysterious stranger. She looked baffled. Apparently, she didn’t remember the note, nor had she ever met such a man. I described what I read, and she laughed. She said it sounded like a dream a friend had and wrote down for her or something an astrologer might have told her. I believed her – there would be no reason why she’d not let me in on a romance so many years after the fact.
It was certainly the longest time I’ve ever had to keep a secret. And when you’re eight, that seems like an eternity.
A Bedtime Conundrum
Published January 16, 2012 | A Writer’s Book Of Days (01/16) - Write About A Bed
It seems that any time I’d like to take a nap, it’s easy to fall asleep. Any place easily becomes a bed – a couch, a chair, a car seat… even a floor, if needed. Public transportation is especially snooze-conducing.
Why the heck is it that when I actually want to go to sleep for more than four hours, it’s impossible to fall into a peaceful slumber? Suddenly that comfy couch I usually sink into feels as hard as a rock. Forget my actual bed – the blankets are uneven, the pillows are not fluffed right, and I can feel every wrinkle beneath me. Instead of falling quickly asleep, I toss, I turn, I think too much, and then eventually get up, defeated.
I’ll then do something to make me tired, like read a book. When my eyes become heavy and I’m reading the same sentence over and over again, I’ll attempt sleeping again. But the bed still isn’t as comfortable as it is when I go to take a nap.
Is there some bed coziness-to-sleepiness ratio I’m unaware of?
One Man’s Trash is Another Amanda’s Treasure
Published January 15, 2012 | A Writer’s Book of Days (01/15) – It’s Saturday. You’re Not At Home.
I rummage through the rack of scarves, picking up a gold-embellished pashmina. Only $2! I put it in my cart, which is filling up with clothes, books, board games, and other long-discarded items. It’s just another Saturday rummaging through thrift stores with Lexcie. He’s off looking for Coca-Cola glasses, which are found in almost every store we go to.
Flickr: Pete Boyd
Thrifting is relatively new to me. Once in a while, I’d stop at a garage sale or local thrift store to see what things people were getting rid of. Sometimes I’d end up with a new novel for a quarter or perhaps a nice basket. It wasn’t until Lexcie introduced me to the mega thrift store (Salvation Army, Goodwill, Savers, and consignment boutiques) that I’d really become a convert. I’m constantly finding brand new clothes, expensive books, and vintage accessories for mere dollars. (That is, unless Lexcie watches my shopping cart. A lot of things for mere dollars can add up to $50 or $60, I’ve learned, especially when you’re in Great Britain and thrift store density is akin to Starbucks in New York City.)
Some of my best finds include: a $60 pencil skirt for $3 (new with tags); a vintage teal Samsonite Fashionaire carry-on, which I now use as my briefcase; a $50 Ann Taylor scarf for $4; and plenty of spectacular, signed vintage brooches for my jewelry collection.
I hardly shop retail anymore, which is good for my wallet and overall materialism. It feels nice to give something a second or third home. I’ve found some really great buys that I may not have necessarily sought out elsewhere, opening me to new fashion, new ideas, and new inspiration.
An Accidental Trip
Published January 14, 2012 | A Writer’s Book of Days (01/14) – Write About The Horizon
“Wait a second, are we supposed to be going over a bridge?” Mom asked as the J train rumbles into daylight.
Crap. I forgot that Essex Street and Delancey Street were the same station and missed the stop.
In a few months, I was moving to the Bronx for college and was still learning the intricacies of New York City’s subway system. We certainly weren’t supposed to be going over a bridge. Nor did I know that the next stop, Marcy Avenue, wasn’t in the greatest neighborhood.
We got off the train at Marcy Avenue and waited for the next uptown train. There were some interesting characters loitering around the station, and I knew Mom was a bit nervous. She hadn’t ridden the subway in decades, and this wasn’t exactly a mistake that would calm someones reservations.
Finally, an M train pulls into the station and we hop on, taking a bench seat by one of the windows. It starts moving back toward Manhattan.
“Look at what God painted tonight,” Mom whispered, pointing to the sun setting over Manhattan’s horizon. The sky towards the front of the train was filled with brushstrokes of orange, red, gold, pink, and purple. It was one of the more spectacular sunsets I’d seen.
Flickr: bondidwhat
“Look!” she said more loudly, pointing towards the east. Not only we were witnessing a beautiful sunset, but a rare moon rising over Brooklyn’s horizon.
Sometimes missing your stop isn’t such a bad thing after all.
Ticking On and On
Published January 13, 2012 | A Writer’s Book of Days (01/13) – After Midnight
“After midnight” means different things to different places. If I were to step outside my front door after midnight, I’d experience the eerie calm of a bedroom community sleeping. There aren’t many cars on the road. House lights click off one by one. You can hear sounds from miles away – a Long Island Railroad train in the distance, traffic driving down Sunrise Highway, an ambulance racing towards Southside Hospital, a dog barking. It’s peaceful, but often times unsettling.
It’s like the world’s heartbeat has gone silent and I need to know it’s alive. Sometimes I feel slightly unnerved as I walk the block home from the train station, past the dark apartment complex and houses. There are people inside of those houses, but it doesn’t feel like there’s life. The only movement is from the 7-Eleven on the corner.
One of the most interesting ways to experience that time of day is to spend an entire night in Manhattan. Lexcie and I did that two summers ago. Our trip started late in the evening, and ended when I boarded a 7 am train back to Long Island. Some neighborhoods are like my own – quiet streets, no cars, and perhaps some boat horns in the distance. Times Square is almost like a casino – you’d couldn’t tell if it was 9 pm or 1 am with all the people milling about. Diners were packed with barflies and people ending late shifts at 3 am, while the Staten Island Ferry was surprisingly packed for 4 am. It’s certainly the city that never sleeps.
Flickr: Coffee Maker
Although it was the heartbeat I was looking for, I felt something was also unsettling about the constant movement. Would I give up the eerie, yet peaceful silence of a bedroom community for this? I’ve yet to find that happy medium.