This Place Has Gone to the DOGS

Excuse my absence. To make up for it, I have kept a scathingly long list of topics I'll be pouring over this week. But let me start with one of the most obvious "Only in New York" topics - that of all the freakin' DOGS! So, in Sydney (which I think is pretty representative of the real world), people have dogs or cats or turtles or no pets at all. The ones that have dogs usually have small ones if they live in an apartment and maybe bigger ones if they live in a house. They walk them and play fetch and clean up their poos (well, usually). They do these things at the dog park or occasionally the beach if it's late at night and there is no sign of lifeguards or council workers. They feed their dogs dog food. They take them to get a wash before the relos visit. They buy them bones from the butcher. Here is what they do NOT do, which has made us pause and wonder if we somehow ended up in Paris by mistake:

1. Let them poo and pee in the middle of busy sidewalks, forcing people to catapult over rivers of smelly liquid, while praying that the wet smudge they just landed on is a dropped chocolate ice cream cone.

2. Buy them matching designer "pucci" dresses, then glare at anyone who thinks it's funny.

3. Regularly visit places like the New York Dog Spa & Hotel - where owner and pup can arrange for a Saturday night red carpet, champagne party for just them and their closest canine friends.

4. Pay for weekly dog massages. Humans extra.

5. Keep Great Danes in their one bedroom walk-ups. Yes, our landlord actually has two of these residing in his abode. Needless to say, rent is always paid on time.

6. Expect that your rat sized pup, carried lovingly in a bright pink Chanel handbag, should be admitted anywhere you choose to go. Then throw a hissy fit like a yappy little bitch when the restraunteur mentions health code violations.

7. Buy treats from buttercupspaw.com - where doggies have loads of decorated "pawstries" to choose from. While my fav is the polka dotted bone shaped pawstrie, the more athletic dog may prefer the soccer ball designs. However, if you have a little diva in your life, who can resist the tulips?

In the streets of Sydney little old ladies coo and baby talk any tot they lay eyes on. In New York the same reverence is saved for the dogs, while small humans are merely tolerated (or sneered at if they get in their poodle's way). This place has really gone to the dogs....

What is Your Starbucks Name?

Right, so a bit of a delay on the blog updates. But I have big stuff to show for it -we found a place. Let me rephrase - we found a shoebox with bedrooms! At 1,200 sq ft it's meant to be "generous" Manhattan accommodation. At least on the Upper West Side. Funny that - the apartments seem to be directly in opposite proportion to the size of, well, just about everything else.

Spending copious amounts of time at Starbucks. To those of you in Europe or Australia, this may sound HORRIFIC. But let me say, if you want espresso based coffee, Starbucks has the market cornered here (and seriously on EVERY corner!). Here's this blog's dilemma: What do you say your name is when they ask? I started innocently by saying "Nova" to which I received the following responses:
* Did you say NON Fat?
* Melva?
* Nadia?
* Because we need to call you.
After a few attempts at honesty, I started saying my son's name "Hayden", to which I usually end up accepting will become Kayden, Brayden or Aiden. But then my partner suggested I put on an exaggerated Yankee accent and say "Jen-uh-FER". Coming from an Aussie this was ridiculously funny. Especially considering the response would very likely be, "Jonathan?" - correct! So we came up with some other Starbucks names that, when yelled out, would provide serious entertainment:
*(With a straight face) "Serial Killer" - "Serial Killer, Double Tall Non-fat Latte for Serial Killer?"
* Biatch (or Bee-atch, to which you can say "WHAT did you just say!?")
* Tyrone (but only if you are a white blond girl, try "Sarah" if you are a six-foot-six black man)
* Coffee (say it with a Parisian accent - the guy writing it is never the guy yelling the name)
* Aussie (use when you miss home, then yell in response: AUSSIE AUSSIE - OI OI OI!)

Don't fear you won't be believed - I met a guy named Breakfast this week!

Bigger and Better

There is a saying that in Texas everything is bigger and better. Apparently those Yanks didn't make it far enough north to see how inadequate their little ranch ramblings were because in the BIG Apple BIG takes on new dimensions.

Our first night we arrive at our serviced apartment in Murray Hill (visitors, don't bother with this area - BORING!). There are no take away menus in the room, nor is there a phone book. So we look out our seventh floor window and see a pizza place across the street advertising it's number. Perfect. We order a couple of large pizzas (er, here that is PIE) - we're hungry.

Not hungry enough. The pizzas arrived and I stood in front of the delivery guy aghast - were the boxes going to fit through the doorway? These puppies were the approximate size of our coffee table. Inside was more horrifying - each slice was big enough to serve as a tank top for my four year old. Oh my God, are they serious?!

And bigger is something I am adjusting to - the Footlocker is the size of the ANZ stadium, the Toys R Us is the biggest in the world - boasting a full sized ferris wheel ride inside, and the gargantuan sized meals everywhere you go make you shiver with disgust. But we're learning. We hit shops when they open to avoid the masses of people that fill the masses of space and we order "starters" instead of "entrees" (yes, yes, that's what they call the entrees and mains, but that's for another day).

Welcome to New York

It's March 25th and we arrive at JFK with no lost luggage. Now, remember when I said that I sold all of our possessions? Well the upshot of that is: 8 pieces of checked luggage, 6 carry-ons, a bored six year old (why can't he play his DS in the airport?!), and an overtired four year old diva-in-training - at 8pm, which could be 3am Aussie time for all we knew, standing like a private family island of hell waiting for a big enough cab to take us and all we had in the world to a hotel.

Note: New York cab drivers do NOT like exceptions. They like rules. And their rules say, no more than 4 bags and 3 people, and if you don't tip appropriately they have the right to start moving the car before you have fully exited.

So you can imagine how charming it was when my partner began argueing with the cabbie that, "the drivers in LA could fit us". To which, the driver crossed his massive arms and growled he wasn't taking us anywhere. Then we all got to watch in horror as Jonno started showing him how all the luggage would fit. Ok, sidebar: If you are not Aussie, you must understand that Aussie men don't understand "that won't work" or "that won't fit". If you challenge them on this, be prepared to eat your words. So, the cabbie was growling at him, he was yelling back, and then there's this cool guy who is kind of a cab line conductor (his own uniform and everything) who was trying to calm the situation. I then step into the ruckus and suggest that my daughter and I would go in this cab and Jonno would take our son and half the luggage in a second cab. The conductor is saying he doesn't want me to be upset (was my chin twitching?), so I tell him that I am not upset, but I just want the driver to be pleasant. Then, like the mother that I am, I glare right at the cabbie and ask him if he can do that. He nods yes but refuses to speak for the half hour trip in. Fine with me, did you know they have t.v.s in the back of every NY cab now? You get to watch news updates and trivial entertainment tidbits during your ride, as well as see a clear tally of the cab fare on the screen. Smart thing, really, it worked a treat distracting me from my colourful intro to the Big Apple.

Welcome to New York....

An Intro...Or, How it Began....

Hi. I'm Nova and let me confess straight up that I was born in America - smack in the middle of the country but as a dependent of a military lifer, I moved to more states than your country may even have. I claim Texas, but that's another blog! I have spent the past 12 years living the good life with my husband, Jonno and two gorgeous kids in the Land Down Under. I love Australia so much I became a dual citizen and, of course, had my babies there. Needless to say, when I married an Aussie and moved to the Eastern Beaches, I accepted I would NEVER move back.

We begin the day my Canberra born partner announces we "may" be moving to NY - ok, really this part of the story would be self indulgent and boring to everyone but perhaps me. So, speeding right along: HATED IT! Jonno was excited, the kids were curious, but I was devastated. I had a life! I drove a luxury 7 seater. I had a 5 bedroom house on the cliffs. My kids were in the BEST private schools in the country. I had lunch with the girls (or mums of the Eastern Suburbs, if you like). So after weeks of crying at the drop of a hat and selling all of our personal possessions, I boarded a plane with my other three giddy family members and prayed I would stop crying by the time we passed through L.A.