A Mismatched Night's Dream

For a long time, I've wished that I could have a job that allowed me to live in the hinterlands and commute to the city. Not so much anymore. While I love catching up with everyone, albeit much too briefly, I really miss my family and don't like being away from them for even a few, short days. And I cannot afford to live here with exorbitant property costs, maintenance fees, private schools, etc. But I saw a 7-8 year old boy guiding his soccer ball through the lobby yesterday and later spied a few, free-range, ten(ish) year old boys goofing off as they walked up Broadway together (sans parents) and I thought, "What if?"

In the midst of running around, meeting Janette at Rosa Mexicano for lunch and Melissa for dinner at some sushi joint near her apartment in Brooklyn, we ended up at a bar called Spike Hill to see Melissa's friend Pete Sinjin's band. Instead of really enjoying the music, and they were good, I stood out on the sidewalk in front and called my little guys. Son #2 kept calling me "Mommy Mommy" as if he were two years old and saying, "I'm hugging the phone right now." Me tooooo. (Insert aching heart here.)

There we were, uptown girl, podunk girl and artsy girl hanging together, having fun and watching an appropriately mismatched, but talented, band. The drummer looked like Ty Webb, the bass player like a trendy jazz accompanist, the lead singer like a hulking (but cute) lumberjack and the hillbilly-hip-grunge lap steel guitarist (who apparently is quite accomplished judging by the "discography" page on his site) like Dwight Yoakam meets Vincent Gallo. They looked like they played in entirely different bands but they sounded great together.

And that, the bizzare confluence of craziness, the huddled masses, the friends thrown together from all stages of life is what makes NYC so great. Next time, I'm bringing my family.