Day 100: Elegy for the Anthora

That iconic cup
Happily serving us with
Steaming elixir

(It never occurred to me that NY's omnipresent Grecian urn coffee cup had been designed by a human; I always assumed it had descended from Mount Olympus. It turns out that both the cup and the man have an interesting story.)

Day 99: one of the many joys of apartment life

What are they cooking?
The funk seeps through doors and walls
Like a toxic haze

(The other night I walked into our apartment and was assaulted by such a horrible odor that I assumed the cat had had some kind of smelly accident. We traced the smell to, of all places, the kitchen closet. I became worried that an especially smelly mouse had somehow managed to sneak into our building and die in our closet. I held the flashlight while Intrepid Boyfriend searched every inch of the closet. We finally determined that the smell was emanating from the wall. Our neighbor's kitchen is on the other side of that wall; our kitchens share a fire escape. What could they have possibly been eating that night? Rodent souffle? Stewed garbage? More importantly, can I send them our dry cleaning bill?)

Day 98: kind of depressing

She takes a long drag
Then pushes her child's stroller
With renewed vigor

(Venture just a few blocks away and you're in helicopter parent territory, but in my neighborhood it's not uncommon to watch parents chain smoke with one hand while pushing a baby carriage with the other. I am always tempted to say something, but then I remind myself that it's really none of my business. Right?)

Day 97: April showers

An atonal wash
From the pavement to the sky
A study in gray

Day 96

If I must get hit
As I ride my bike to work
Let it be a Benz

(Yes, Mom. I'm extremely careful. You don't need to write a comment telling me to be careful. I'm more careful than the drivers.)

Day 95

Sari-clad sisters
Bright shoulder to bright shoulder
Sharing one iPod

(The two young women had such a protective look as they huddled around a single iPod, each with one headphone. It was like they were protecting a flickering candle.)

Day 94: thoughts on a New York icon

"Peel a carrot, then
Put it in your other hand
It's a new machine!"

(Ever since the death of the famous vegetable peeler man, his adult daughter has taken over the job of hawking Swiss-made vegetable peelers all over the city. I love that she uses almost the exact same loud, British-accented patter that her father used. He always referred to the peeler as his "machine" while skillfully demonstrating the best way to julienne a potato. Every time we peel a carrot [which Intrepid Boyfriend did last night], we feel compelled to recite part of his sales pitch in homage.)

Day 93: if I tried that, I'd lose an eye

With her makeup bag
The subway duckling becomes
A beautiful swan

(Her dexterity was as amazing as her portable beauty arsenal. Over the course of our commute she applied foundation, liquid eyeliner, mascara, lip liner, lipstick, lip gloss, cheekbone highlighter, and then topped it all off by waving a paintbrush that seemed to dispense some kind of goo all over her face.)