Our quick NYC get-away was, as usual, all in all a good thing. There is a remarkably endless array of places to eat. I really like places to eat, so it grieves me slightly to pick one in the sense that I must forego numerous others in the same neighborhood. Other times, other times.
Among the more discordant notes, there is nothing like a trip to exacerbate the noticeable neuropsychiatric deficits of chronic Lyme. Sometimes it means you fiddle around with your continental breakfast uncertain whether you need to pick up a fork, move your coffee cup, or get the muffin out of the way before you can eat your fruit. Your partner will almost certainly have to stop frequently, when walking in crowds, to make sure you haven’t lost sight of her, which you will do. A lot. You will not understand, or be able to keep track of, the day’s agenda even if your partner has discussed it with you several times. It is highly likely that if there are several blocks to go before you get to the subway stop (from which you will take a 30 minute ride across Queens to Forest Hills,) that you will forget that you haven’t done the subway part yet and ask a random stranger, in Greenwich Village, if he knows how to get to Forest Hills. This will chagrin your partner more than it does the random stranger who will merely look confused. It is also highly probable that, once on the subway, you may forget to sit down or grab the pole, and you will fall into the lap of yet another random stranger. Most random strangers, in my experience, are fairly good-humored.
The Hotel Gansevoort is a great place to stay if it entertains you to watch (from eight floors above) an endless processional of yellow taxis circling the block as they drop off and retrieve the hip in-crowd. I found it entertaining at midnight, and still so at 2 a.m. when my bladder called. By 7 a.m there was only a cab or two on the street, but there was a NY Times on our room door in a gray cloth bag.
The girls are all out. Somebody got Clunkola the Jeffmobile. I suspect it was Becca. It must be one of the pitfalls of middle child-dom. You get the yucky car. I feel strongly that I would like to go to bed tonight. Last night I got to feeling yucky on the train, and still did when we retrieved our car which was sadly low on fuel. We found a non-functioning BP station where Jeff failed to notice that he was not filling the car with gas while I discreetly barfed in the empty stretch of grass next door. Fortunately it was after midnight and no one was about. Fortunately no cop stopped to question whether I was fit to drive. Fortunately I was, as it had nothing to do with alcohol. And the next gas station had gas. But I just don’t think I can do the wait-up-for-the-girls thing tonight.
Today we discussed how there was no way for me to help Jeff with his activities of daily living without being--at various times--annoyingly solicitous, annoyingly impatient, or just plain annoying. He assured me that it is not a focused irritation he displays, and I must not take it personally. He is mad, he is frustrated, he is irked. But then, who wouldn’t be?
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