Some of my favorite moments of realization that I'm not in Kansas anymore:
The other day I was in a meeting at work and we were discussing different media for advertising. I had an insight and spoke up. Since I'm generally not too vocal in most meetings, I glanced around for confirmation of my idea as I began, "So, you know at Target when you're getting married and you register...?" Blank stares. Empty gazes. Their looks spoke for themselves, "Target? Well, I think there's one in the Bronx... But as a place to register? Me and my fiancee are planning on Crate & Barrel and Williams-Sonoma to start." Some things from the suburbs just don't translate.
A gallon of skim milk costs $3.69 at my neighborhood grocery store.
Yesterday I went down in front of my building to make a phone call on my lunch break. While I was obviously talking on my phone, a man came up to me, held out his cigarette and said in a thick New York accent, "You got a light?" Do I look like a smoker? Or someone who otherwise carries a lighter? I don't think so.
Two days ago Seth and I were walking down Seventh Avenune looking for a place to have lunch. In one of those awkward sidewalk encounters where neither party knows exactly which route the other will take to move forward, Seth paused. Then the woman said in a husky and loud yell, "DUH!!"
I paid $30 last night for a bowl of lo mein and a chocolate cupcake ('molten chocolate cake' in its smallest form).
I ran to the top of Manhattan island with the Hudson on one side, me on the other, and about a dozen baseball fields inbetween filled to capacity with Hispanic young men playing the all-American sport.