I'm such a pushover

Alexander agrees to spend Saturday night with me.  Sort of.

It’s his punishment for…well, it doesn’t matter.  It wasn’t much of an infraction reflected in the lax consequences. 

Today is close to 100 degrees.  I run some errands outside and by the time I come home, I do not want to leave again.  It is oppressive outside.  That’s fine with Alexander too. 

We recently discovered the world’s best thin pizza at a restaurant called Al Forno’s.  Around 8, we order in a large onion pie, and turn on a first-season episode of Law and Order SVU (our new addiction).  Then Alexander asks, “Is it okay if Sam comes over?”  Sure, why not.

Some punishment.

a quick intro

I’m seeing a screening of the new movie People Like Us with Robyn.  I’m on the screening committee of BAFTA and I was responsible for coordinating with the studio to get this screening.  So now I am the one who introduces it--- it takes less than five minutes.

And yet, every time I do this, I get nervous.  I write out my script, right down to “Hello, my name is…..”   Tonight I do the introduction with a woman I work with from the Producer’s Guild.  As I introduce her, I do a floppy hand gesture and say, “And now here’s Mitzi.”  I feel like Vanna introducing a vowel.

I grew up wanting to be an actress.  I guess I’ll have to settle for being in front of the big screen instead of on it.

four friends, two restaurants, one meal

Every couple of months or so, I have dinner with some women who were, and some still are, mothers of Horace Mann students.  We all have sons who were friends in high school and who graduated last year.  Over the years, we have become friends as well.

I’ve chosen the restaurant for tonight, and none of us have been before.  It’s called Jones Wood Foundry and I feel responsible for it being good.

I always agonize over what to wear.  Despite my proclivity for shopping, I prefer to wear no makeup, jeans, a white T, and comfortable shoes.  Tonight I wear none of the above.  Instead, I choose a black Wolford skirt I bought last June at half price, a white striped Wolford top I bought this June at half price, and red shoes (that are semi-comfortable AND stylish).  I ask poor Alexander to take a picture, which is an old habit from a couple of years ago when I was documenting my weight loss.  I look at the picture and see only ugly knees and big hips.

 I get to the restaurant at 8 and Zelia is already there.  Pam arrives soon after.  Shari, who was a maybe, texts us and cannot come.  Janice, a doctor, is in surgery and will be late. 

Our first impression of the restaurant is a positive one.  Nice ambiance.  Overflowing with young, good-looking people.  A friendly and attentive waitress.  Nice menu.  We order drinks and Pam gets a grilled corn soup.  We all taste it and agree it’s amazing.  We are liking this new restaurant.  We order, and the food arrives pretty quickly.  As we begin to eat, a couple of large groups arrive and sit near us.  Our food is excellent, but we barely notice.  What we do notice is the increasingly high noise level and an increasingly high temperature.  We are uncomfortable from the heat and frustrated in our inability to communicate across a small table.  Zelia totally shuts down and makes no attempt at socializing.  “I need to get out of here.  Now.”  We hurriedly get our check, and are gone from the restaurant a mere 75 minutes after arriving.

We meet Janice and go to Atlantic Grill, a popular seafood place we know and love.  It is busy, cool, and quiet.  Janice gets dinner; we get wine, and then we all split a chocolate fondue of “sweet bites and fresh fruit.”  We are among the last to leave.

I'm sure someone else will be choosing the restaurant next time. 

pennies for chanel

I shop everywhere. 

First, there are the obvious places: stores, websites, and sample sales.  Everyday, I get an email from Sample Sally and Madison Avenue Spy telling me of the day’s 60% plus sales of my favorite designers.  For example, just recently, I received emails for sample sales for Frette sheets, Brunello Cucinelli clothes, Ippolita jewelry, Manolo Blahnik shoes, and Dolce and Gabbana everything.  While others receive alerts for big news events, I get alerts for big sales. It’s truly amazing what I don’t buy.

The other day Robyn and I are going to theater, and on the way, I see a stylish girl racing to the subway.  Slung across her hip is the perfect bag.  Robyn, my fashion-savvy friend, of course knows the bag.  “Oh, that’s the Wallet On Chain by Chanel.  I’ve wanted one for years.”

I get home and research it.  First, it’s known by the acronym WOC.  It’s a classic bag with a long chain that can be adjusted and worn in five different styles: from a clutch to a cross-body messenger.  It’s small and will only hold some credit cards, money, a phone and lipstick. I want the black caviar with the double C’s.

I go to the Chanel department at Bloomingdales because I have over $200 in Reward Coupons.  I ask to see the WOC and the clerk says, “I’m sorry, we don’t have any in stock.  But if you like, I can add your name to our waiting list.”  Really?  A waiting list for a tiny expensive purse.  But it is a classic and I would have it forever and I can use it in a multitude of ways.  Then I wonder if there really is a list, or if this is just a marketing ploy to make me want the purse more.  If it is, it works.  I add my name to the list.

Immediately, I feel guilty.  I can’t afford the purse but then I have an idea.  I’ll pay for it with change.

Every time I have change I put it in a piggy bank.  I come home and empty it.

A nearby bank has a coin-counting machine, but they also charge a 6% fee if you don’t have an account with them. I’ll just do it myself.  I:

    Go to my bank and get the coin wrappers

    Label each wrapper with my account number

    Separate all my coins by denomination

    Count out 50 pennies for each roll, 40 nickels, 50 dimes, and 40 quarters

    Roll and roll and roll and roll

    Bring the rolls to the bank

    Wait 20 minutes while the teller….while the teller what?  I really have no idea why it takes her almost 20 minutes to do whatever it is she is doing

    Receive $183.35

It may take me a few years to have enough money saved for the purse, but I’ll love it all the more when I can finally buy it.  I just hope I’m still young enough to enjoy it.

Oh, and next time….I’m paying the 6% fee.

lost and found

Last Sunday I go to my sister's house for Father’s Day.  I take pictures at the train station where I’m wearing my favorite Chanel sunglasses that I bought in 2008.  These were my second pair of the exact same glasses.  I like the way they fit my face.  

My nephew picks us up at the train station and we go straight to my sister’s.  After dinner, my nephew drives us home.

On Monday I cannot find my glasses.  I look everywhere. I know exactly what I wore because of the pictures I took.  I check the pockets of my coat.  I check my purse.  I turn my house upside down looking but cannot find them.

I call my sister and she looks.  No, they are not in her house.  I call my nephew and ask him  to check his car.  It's in a garage that he won't be near until the weekend.  I am losing hope. 

I wear my Maui Jim frameless polarized sunglasses all week.  They belong on a beach, not the streets of New York.  

Today I am at Bloomingdales.  I try on a pair of Chanel glasses I liked last year and still like.  They are $295.  The salesperson says, “Oh, too bad you didn’t buy them last week.  You could have gotten $25 off for every $100 you spent.”  I see a challenge and ask for the manager.

After some discussion of what a good customer I am, the manager agrees to honor the two-week old promotion and gives me $75 off.  Chanel glasses never go on sale.  I buy them.

I come home and see an email from Adam.  “It's your lucky day!  Glasses were on the floor in the back seat.”


Hmmm.  Now what?  I've already fallen in love.

a story I rarely tell

Yesterday, Jerry Sandusky was convicted on 45 of 48 counts of sexual abuse of boys.  There is no question the jury made the right decision.

Kids (and I include teens) are naïve.  They are vulnerable, in particular, to adults in authority whom they trust.  A couple of weeks ago, a story broke about sexual abuse that happened over a 15-year period, ending in 1994, at the prestigious Horace Mann School in New York.  It’s also the school Alexander attended from 2004 (grade six) until he graduated in 2011.  Fortunately, he experienced no abuse while there, and his memories of the school are mostly good ones.

When I was a freshman in college (way back in1970), I did some modeling, nothing big.  Freshman year, I worked as a waitress in Boston at my friend’s father’s restaurant called La Crepe.  One night, I waited on a guy who said, “I’m in town casting for a panty hose commercial, and I think you’d be perfect.  Today was our last day of casting and I leave tomorrow to go back to New York.  Are you by chance free after work to come interview?  I think you are exactly what we are looking for.”  I couldn’t believe my luck.  Without hesitation, I said I was free.  I got off work at midnight.  He told me to come to his room at the Parker Hotel.  I told him I might be a little late as I wanted to return to my dorm to change out of my French waitress outfit.

I raced back to my dorm and excitedly told my roommates of my evening’s good fortune.  No one suggested that going to a stranger’s hotel room at one in the morning might be a bad idea.    I remember exactly what I wore.  Black velvet hotpants.  A lavender-colored ribbed turtleneck by Settebello (the store is still in Cambridge).  Black sheer hose, and skin tight black patent leather go-go boots.  And I was a smart kid!

I get to the hotel in Copley Square, go to the room of the "casting director,” and knock on his door.  He must be stunned I've shown up.  He asks me to walk around so he can look at my legs.  He then picks up the phone and makes a call.  “We don’t have to look further.  I’ve found the perfect girl.”  I couldn’t believe my good luck.  He then asks me to take off my top.  I ask him why and he provides a plausible explanation.  “Well, when you model, there are all sorts of people everywhere and you need to make quick clothing changes.  I need to make sure you are comfortable doing this around strangers.”  This makes sense to me so I take off my sweater.

Then he does the next reasonable thing and tries to kiss me.  NOW I am suspicious.  None of his explanations for the kiss make sense to me.  I grab my clothes and leave, saying, “I don’t want to be in your commercial anyway!”  Hah!  I show him.

He was probably some guy with no intention of hurting me and couldn’t believe he had  found someone as willing and naive as I was.

I was lucky.  The boys molested by Jerry Sandusky and at Horace Mann were not.

a night out, alone

2004.  My sister Jean and her kids Jack and Sally come to visit us (they live in a small Massachusetts town).  Jack, who was 7 at the time, had never been to New York.  We take the subway to Times Square.  Upon exiting, Jack looks around at the flashing neon signs, the theaters everywhere, the hordes of people, the noise, and the energy.  He takes it all in and says, “This is what I think of when I think of New York.”

But of course what Jack sees is only a sliver of this great city.


Tonight I go out by myself.  It’s something I really don’t mind doing.  My friend Zelia and I split a membership to a downtown theater called Rattlestick.  She doesn’t want to see tonight’s play called 3-C, so I go alone. 

Although the theater is a dumpy one, it’s one of my favorites.  Rattlestick is known for staging off-the wall contemporary plays, and is willing to take risks. Most memorable is a play I saw at Rattlestick in 2007 called That Pretty Pretty; or, The Rape Play where someone actually pees onstage.  Tonight’s play is much less raunchy.  It’s a darker version of the 70’s sitcom Three’s Company.  Like many of Rattlestick’s productions, some parts work and others don’t.

Although I have been seeing plays at this little theater for many years, I can never find it.  It is tucked into a little side street in the West Village, and there is no marquis announcing the theater’s name.  Every time I go it’s like going for the first time.

I arrive minutes before curtain and there is a short line to the single bathroom.  To get to it, you have to cross the stage.  I get in line and the usher comes up to me and says, “I’m really sorry, but we need to start the play.  We can’t allow anymore people to use the restroom.” She justifies her directive by adding,  “The play is only 90 minutes.”  Do I really have to tell her that I just drank a bottle of water and I’d rather not be uncomfortable for the next hour and a half?   She reads my mind and lets me go, though I can see her thinking, “But please be fast.”

I quickly go to the bathroom, rush to my seat, sit down, and the lights immediately dim.  I imagine the usher nodding to the stage manager, “Okay, she’s done; we can start now.”


I doubt this is the New York Jack imagines.  But it is the one I love.

happy endings

I sign Alexander up for a two-month membership at a local health club at $119/month.  I come home and see an email for a Living Social coupon offering a month at the same club for $59 plus a free personal training session.  What should be an easy resolution isn't.  I have to:

• first speak with Moonli (the shamelessly perky and aggressive salesgirl who sold me the membership and who then makes up stuff as to why I should not use the coupon); 
• then speak with her boss Richard (who is similarly unhelpful and untruthful); 
• then field a call from Alexander whom Moonli contacts directly, saying she's confused; and
• then finally connect with Phil (at the gym’s corporate headquarters) who is more reasonable but still over sells.

 In the end, Phil and I negotiate a deal that works for everyone.

I went to a street fair at the beginning of June and bought two standard size shams from the W Hotel.  Yesterday I open them and instead of being 21 X 28, as the packaging states, they are 27 X 33 and too large for all my pillows.  I call the W Hotel Store and they tell me they cannot take them back; “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that was a final sale.”  “Huh?  You mean it doesn’t matter that your labeling was WRONG?!”  It soon becomes clear that Rene doesn’t want to deal with me and provides a number for the online store. Three phone calls and two emails have no result.  I try a number I find on the internet for the “worldwide corporate headquarters” and get Linda.  She really does want to help and her authoritative manner leaves no doubt that this woman knows what she's doing. She eventually tracks down someone named Laura in New York who works at the W merchandise warehouse.  Laura not only sends me a free return-shipping label, she agrees to take back a non-absorbing terry cloth robe I had bought for Alexander at the same time.  She will refund me for the entire order.  I love Laura.

My cleaners delivers a shirt for Alexander.  The doorman says it wasn’t delivered; the cleaners says it was.  I spend the day trying to track it down.  I approach my doorman, interrupting his reading of today’s Post.   “Who else received cleaning today?  Maybe my son’s shirt got mixed in with theirs by mistake?”  (This has happened before).  He becomes defensive. It is too hot to argue.  At the end of the day, Alexander walks in wearing the missing shirt.  “Oh, I picked it up late last night from the doorman,” he tells me.

I have an unopened box in my living room that has been there now for three weeks.   My handyman has been promising daily to install it.  Today he actually does.

I go to the post office to mail some clothes to my mom.  With one exception, everyone there is mean.  I believe they hate their jobs, hate every customer, and particularly hate me.  While there I buy some stamps. 

I look at the dour postal clerk and say, “See, you do have to smile now.”  She responds, “No I don’t.  My smiles are all used up.”

I leave happy knowing that mine aren’t.

maybe I just shouldn't cook

It’s almost 100 degrees.  I try to minimize my time outdoors.  On the way to the cleaners, I stop by a butcher shop and buy two pre-seasoned turkey burgers for dinner along with an avocado for a topping.  I ask the butcher how long the turkey burgers should be cooked; “About 7-8 minutes per side,” he tells me.  I figure (incorrectly, as it turns out) that the burgers will generate their own fat and I don’t coat the pan.  Dinner ends out being an avocado sandwich with mustard and a tad of turkey burger for the topping.  At least I saved on calories.

home for the summer

I love my son.  I love spending time with him; I actually enjoy his company.  He is, among many other things, very funny.   Like the other day.  We were on a crowded bus.  I was seated and a woman with a butt the size of two huge watermelons was pushed against me.  Her butt was in my face.  Literally and disgustingly.  She was oblivious.  I kept my nose in my book and occasionally nudged her with my elbow.  Alexander was standing and observing all this.  I hadn’t realized when she exited the bus, but I looked up from my book when another butt (albeit a much smaller one) was shoved again into my face.  It was Alexander and he had wordlessly observed my prior encounter.  I burst out laughing.  So he’s fun.

But there are other things I’ve noticed since he’s been home from college:

• I am constantly fluffing my sofa pillows.  He sits on the sofa, gets up, and wherever the pillows are they stay there. 
• I go through about a roll of toilet paper a day. 
• The soap in the bathroom dispenser is constantly running out.
• Food…he easily eats more than twice as much as I do.
• The dishwasher needs to be run at least once a day; he never notices when it’s full.
• A second air conditioner (even when its not needed) runs every night.
• Getting him to make his bed every morning requires a herculean effort.
• Hourly, it seems, I hear, “I need money for……” haircuts, metro card, shampoo ("I hate the girly one that’s in the bathroom"), new sneakers (his $150 ones that we bought last June are separating at the sole and cannot be fixed), more mozzarella cheese, more bread, more mango sorbet, etc. etc.
• Clothes pile up in Alexander’s small room;  moving clothes from on top of the laundry basket to inside it is perhaps too difficult.
• I like to make sure Alexander is in safely each night, so I try and stay up…then when it’s late I call and then he tells me he’s walking home from a nearby friend’s but its late and after all it is New York City, not Ithaca, and then we get into an argument; at least at school I don’t know.
• I ask him to do something, and then I need to ask him again and again and then he accuses me of nagging or yapping (his new favorite word for me).
• Things get used up without my knowing.  I go to get a Q-Tip today and we have none.
• Shoes stay in the living room, not in his bedroom where they belong.
• He never knows if he’ll be eating dinner with me, so I’m on hold, and IF his friends aren’t around, or IF he doesn’t feel like spending his hard-earned money, I might get a call around 4:30, “Hey, what’s for dinner?”

And that I just love!

eye update

I remember reading somewhere that if something is wrong with your eyes, see a doctor immediately, as it could mean the difference between blindness and sight.

I didn’t follow that advice exactly when I got a floater in my right eye on Saturday.  But yesterday I do go to see my eye doctor.  When I arrive, I interrupt the receptionist who is busy scrutinizing her long green neon fingernails. She ignores me even after I say I am here for a 3:30 appointment. 

I wait 45 minutes before being seen by a technician who checks and dilates my eyes.  I wait another 15 minutes and then the doctor sees me.  He examines my eyes with a bright light and then I have an eye sonogram.

The result:  “You have a floater in your right eye but there is possibly some traction so I want you to see a retina specialist tomorrow.”

I walk home with plastic, wrap-around disposal sunglasses as I can’t find my own.  I look like I’ve just left a 3-D movie and have forgotten to take my glasses off.

This morning I see the retina specialist.  The exact tests I took yesterday are repeated today except a new unpleasant one is added.  A very bright light is shone in my eye at the same time that the doctor pokes around with something that looks like a steel probe.  I’m surprised when the doctor tells me that a good percent of his patients cannot tolerate this test.  I guess I can because a) I have a relatively high tolerance for pain (my son was delivered with no anesthetics); b) I don’t want to take any chances with my eyes; and c) I ‘ve had worse medical tests (a probe in my nostril and snaked down my throat comes to mind).

After all this testing the results are good: no separation from the retina and no tearing.  “Come back in a month and we’ll check it again.” 

“Do I really have to,” I want to ask, but don’t.

a family barbecue

We go to my sister Valerie’s for a Father’s Day dinner of grilled chicken, steak, caesar salad, and asparagus. Valerie is the quintessential hostess.  The food is always outstanding and she always has enough of it.  The place settings and serving pieces look like they walked off a cover of Town and Country. The house is exquisite.  And the company is always great. 

Before leaving for my sister’s, my son reluctantly agrees to be in some pictures.

Today there are only seven of us, including my son and two of his older cousins, Adam and Jason.  These two, along with their younger brother Michael who lives in LA, are as perfect as one can get.  Humble, kind, smart, athletic, successful at everything they do, funny, thoughtful, and all, drop dead gorgeous. I can’t imagine anyone knowing any of them and not liking them.  Now that they are adults, (Adam is 31, Jason will be 30 next month, and Michael will be 26 next month), I enjoy them all in a different way.  And Alexander, understandably, adores them.

I’m lucky to have a family I sincerely like.  Conversations are never flat with them, and I seem to be, more often than not, the one with the differing opinion. We don’t talk politics today so there isn’t much controversy, though we do get on the topic of privacy in social media. 

Jason recently heard Mark Sanchez say that whenever he’s photographed off the field, he tries to keep his hands below his waist.  That way, he can never be misconstrued as touching someone inappropriately or drinking when he shouldn’t be.  I think that’s great advice, though unnecessary for this photo I took of my two nephews and my son.

happy father's day

In September, my dad will be 89.   Until fairly recently, he seemed ageless.  My dad played tennis two or three times a week, golfed, created museum-worthy birdhouses as a hobby, fixed anything that needed fixing, and was a true lover of cars.  Being the unofficial neighborhood handyman, my dad was the person to call if anything was broken.  You’d also want his advice if you were thinking of buying a new car, as he had an encyclopedic knowledge of seemingly every car ever made. 

at home with my dad in 1978

with his best friend Eddie in 1982

on the Cape with Alexander in 2004

My dad worked until he was 80 or so.  He owned a waste-paper business that evolved into a recycling business. When my father sold the company to Waste Management, he became an industry consultant.  My dad grabbed at life and lived it fully.  He never looked back, never agonized over past mistakes or slights, and appreciated every single day.  He was a tempestuous guy; we had our share of screaming fights.  We are both stubborn and my dad is always right (at least he thinks so).  But my dad never stays angry for long; family is too important to him to ever let anything get in its way.

2008 at Foxboro;  at an NCAA lacrosse semi-final game against Duke

Three years ago my dad pulled a groin muscle playing tennis.  Then, in February 2011, he had his right knee replaced.  Since then, he’s had a few other medical issues.  Before 2009, my dad had never spent a single night in a hospital.  In the past two years, my dad’s activities have become severely limited as his mobility has declined.  Getting around is difficult and painful.  My dad now spends much of his day in his favorite chair, interacting with Ellie, his cat, and my mom (who has shown remarkable resiliency as his caretaker).

My dad never complains; he has always been a man content with life.  He loves his family and his beautiful home on Cape Cod.  I doubt that he would change one thing in his life if he could do it over.  So yes, his life has been a good one.

But still, it’s difficult to see such a robust man in his old age become so diminished.  I call him today to wish him a Happy Father’s Day. While he says all the right things, there is no passion behind his words.  Life seems to be seeping out of him.

I miss my father’s vibrancy.  His enthusiasm for things.  Even his occasional angry outbursts.   The color has faded from his life, and I so wish I could add some back. 

April 15, 2012

aging sucks

Before leaving for theater, I sit down for a quick bowl of gazpacho soup.  I am seeing a matinee called Murder in The First.  Alexander asks me a question. I look up to answer, and all of a sudden I see specks of black in front of my right eye, sort of like looking through a spider-less cobweb.   Wow, this is weird, is my first thought.  It’s like having a tangled hair in my eye, though it doesn’t hurt.  I’m pretty sure it’s a floater but I call my ophthalmologist to be sure.

From my description, my doctor thinks I’m right.  “But to be sure, you might want to go to the emergency room,” he says.  My immediate two thoughts are time and money:  it’ll cost $200 and I’ll be waiting forever, watching people with far more serious reasons to be there.  My ophthalmologist advises me not to do any heavy exercising (which of course won’t be much of a sacrifice), and to see him on Monday.

I go to the play (excellent), cancel plans with Zelia for the night, have sushi for dinner and google floaters.

As we grow older, it is more common to experience floaters as the vitreous gel changes with age, gradually pulling away from the inside surface of the eye.

Damn.  I was hoping it wasn’t age-related.   

example of a good day

I have a promising meeting at a big agency regarding the new product I’ve been working on since January.

I stop by for an impromptu visit at the company I am consulting with.  I have two short meetings with two guys there I really like.  My boss has told me that “some people” think I’m condescending.  Based on these meetings, I think her characterization of me is inaccurate.  I think it’s one guy there who thinks that of me and that one guy is dour and difficult.  I leave feeling good.

Alexander’s support check for May is very late.  Today I finally get an apologizing note (very rare) from Alexander’s dad saying “It’s on its way.”

My mom emails (something she now does regularly) that my dad went for a check up and is doing well (a relative term).

I finish a book I love, Expats by Chris Pavone.

The sun is shining.

Alexander and I have dinner together and watch a movie, Good Friends, an intriguing indy film we both like.

My son leaves around 10 to meet up with some friends.  He seems happy, so I am too.

shopping with alexander

So here’s the plan.  I’m meeting Alexander in Bloomingdale’s shoe department as he needs new shoes.  Last June I spent $150 on a pair of sneakers; here they are today:

Alexander’s first question upon meeting me is, “How long will this take?”  I roll my eyes and say, “Listen, I’m doing this for you.  I have no idea how long this will take.”  Another woman (obviously a mom) overhears the conversation and smiles at me knowingly.

The shoes Alexander wants (the same ones as last year) are not available in his size.

We then go to the shirt department, which is basically an entire floor.  Alexander is working in an office this summer and he is short on dress shirts.  Today is the last day of Bloomingdale’s big June sale.  There are complicated, multi-tiered discounts everywhere that involve formulas even Jamie Dimon wouldn’t understand.  It’s hard to know how much anything costs except that it costs less than the tag says.  

I end up buying Alexander some gorgeous Billy Reid dress shirts that start at $185 but end up more than half off.  Same with four Vineyard Vine ties, and a couple of gorgeous linen casual tops also by Billy Reid.

Alexander’s patience (little that there is of it) disappears entirely after trying on two shirts.  He says we have to leave as he is meeting some friends for dinner.  I later learn he’s not.  He just thinks it's a good enough excuse to get us to leave the store.  


 Alexander loves wearing nice clothes, but his idea of shopping for them goes something like this:  “Why don’t you just buy them, bring them home, and whatever I don’t like, or doesn’t fit, you can return.”  I have to admit, his plan would definitely be a more pleasant way to shop.

goal-setting

For most of my life, I didn’t own a scale.  I was thin, ate what I wanted, and never thought about my weight.  And then, one day, in the late summer of 2009, my mom said, “A friend of mine saw you the other day and almost didn’t recognize you, you’ve gotten so heavy.”  I was vacationing on the Cape, and this was my last day before leaving.  We had just come from a dinner at a local restaurant where I had actually ordered a broiled swordfish instead of the fried clams I wanted.  My mother’s words offended me. I mean really, did she have to be so blunt on the last day of my vacation?  But then, would I have acted on her words if she hadn’t been?

Immediately upon returning to New York, I joined Weight Watchers, got a scale, followed all the rules, and lost 40 pounds by May of 2010. 

In the two years since, I’ve pretty much kept off all the weight I’d gained. I no longer track what I eat, but I still weigh myself most days, and am conscious, though not compulsive, about what goes in my mouth.

Wednesday was my Weight Watchers meeting day, and I used to love going.  I liked the people in the group (still do), the leader (who left last fall), and my weekly report card  (known more familiarly as my official weigh-in number). 

Now I am a Lifetime member and need to stay within two pounds of my goal weight, which is 124.  Another requirement is that I must weigh-in at least once a month.  Today I go just to weigh-in.  The last time I went was only two weeks ago, and I’m down a pound (I weigh 124.6, and stand about 5’4 to 5’5”).

I miss the discipline of having a goal.  Especially a reachable one. I am probably one of the few people who actually enjoyed the process of losing weight.  Too bad I can’t be a surrogate weigh-loser for others.  Now that would be an interesting job.  I bet it would pay well too, considering how much the demand would exceed the supply. 

a must-have app

I’m half way into a long and expensive process to get a tooth implant.  Incompetent dental work in May of 2006 led to a near nervous breakdown (I am not exaggerating), a crown, a root canal, and months of unidentified agonizing pain, dizziness, no appetite and insomnia.  It was the single worst medical issue I’ve ever faced.

This year I discover that because of all the problems in 2006, I lost a lot of bone around my tooth (it’s way in the back) and now have to have the tooth removed and replaced with an implant.  Before this happened, I had no idea what the phrase tooth implant even meant.  Now, unfortunately, I do.

In December of last year I have the tooth removed, and last week I have the implant put in (which is basically a screw in your mouth, that forms the basis for the crown, that will be added in another three months or so).  It’s a year-long project at a cost of about $6,000.

I am at the periodontist’s, when his assistant begins talking to me.  My face is covered by a gas mask and I am just beginning to feel the lovely affects of nitrous oxide.  “So, do you like to read,“ Lisa asks me.  “Yes,” I’m surprisingly able to answer.  I ask her for recommendations.  She tells me she loved the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy… three books everyone is discussing as literature but seems to be a kind of acceptable porn.   I think I’m number 545 or so on the reserve list at the library.  Lisa then says, “Do you have an iPhone or iPad?  If you do, I can just email the books to you.”  Really?  I had no idea one could do this.  “You mean you can send me your books  and I don’t have to pay for them?  “Sure,” she says, and emails me links to the three books.  “All you need to do is download a free app called iBooks.”  This is so much better than even using the library.

Who’d have thought I’d go in for a tooth implant and come out with three hot books?

starting out in the big apple

At 7:13 am my phone rings.  “Hi.  We’re leaving now.  You don’t have to get up.  I’ll call you later.”  It’s Sunday morning.  I was up talking to Alexander until almost 2 last night.  Of course I’m not up.

The call is from M, one of my closest friends.  She lives in the Boston area and her son Sam, who just graduated college, is moving to New York for a job in finance.  I am thrilled because a) this is great for Sam, and b) now I will definitely see more of M.

An hour later the phone rings again.  “Hi.  Are you up?”  Well, I wasn’t, but am now.  M, her husband, Sam and his friend, are on their way, towing one of those U-Haul trailers.  By 1:00 pm, they have arrived.

Alexander and I go to help with the move-in.  Along the way, we pass a series of fruit and vegetable stands, which is typical for New York.  Everything looks like it just walked off the farm.  We buy some vine tomatoes, corn, a box each of peaches, baby nectarines, and small black plums, and a tub of fresh farm-churned butter.

Sam’s new two-bedroom apartment (he’ll be sharing it with a friend) is in a nice part of town. It looks like a studio apartment that's been converted into a two-bedroom.   It’s a three-story walk-up, no doorman, and a kitchen that is smaller than my very small bathroom.  There are no counters and three tiny closets (one in each bedroom and one in the living room).  A girl could never live here.  But it's perfect for two boys.  And, it only costs $3200/month.

Here is everyone in Sam’s new “kitchen,” following an arduous three-story climb with a mattress on an 85-degree day.

And here are M and I:

It’s hard leaving your son after he graduates college.  Before then, you know he'll be back for summers and vacations.  But once he has his own place, his departure feels more final.

We say good-bye, shed some tears, and get back in the car to leave. The battery is dead. It’s another 45 minutes before help arrives, but it’s also another 45 minutes to spend with a close friend.

half wrong

I’m meeting Zelia (a very close friend) to see Over the Rainbow, a new play about Judy Garland’s last days.  Around seven, I take the subway and exit in Times Square.  Even as a New Yorker, I sometimes get directionally confused when I’m in Times Square.  I typically will use tall landmark buildings (like the Chrysler or Empire State building) to determine which side is east.  As I’m looking up, I hear a couple having the same conversation.  The twenty-something guy says to his friend, “Which way is East?”  His friend, who is more creative than I am, looks around, sees a gorgeous setting sun, points to it, and says,  “That’s east.”  I feel bad having to tell him that the sun sets in the west.

I arrive at the theater just as the play is starting.  The female lead, Tracie Bennett, is mesmerizing.  She is deserving of her Tony nomination.  At intermission, I overhear a conversation behind me.  An older gentleman leans over to the young women (mid-20’s I’d say) next to him and asks, “Do you know who Judy Garland is?”  The response is a quick one, “Yes, she’s Liza Minnelli’s mother.”

where are the rules?

My son is home for the summer from college.  Thursday night he and some friends from high school met up with some friends from college and went to a concert.  Here’s my son (on the left) before leaving.

I call him at midnight and he’s back at his friend’s house.  He tells me he’s sleeping over.  When I ask why, he caves and tells me the truth.  “Ok, I’m not sleeping over, but one of my friends (a girl) was so drunk she ended up at the hospital and I want to go see her and make sure she is okay.”

He does, and she is, but still. 

My son and his friends are smart kids, if the colleges they go to are any way to judge.  But the teenaged mind is a funny thing; it causes stupid behavior.

My son was born around 2am.  I was grateful he was born in the wee hours of the morning, as the hospital then let me stay an extra day.  I went to Lenox Hill Hospital on November 10, 1992, around 4pm.  It was a Tuesday, and I had been in some type of labor since waking in the middle of the previous Sunday night.  Eric, my son’s father, met me at the hospital and stayed with me through my son’s birth.  This was a wonderful surprise since Eric and I barely spoke throughout my pregnancy.  I was 41 and he was a young 29.  He was definitely not planning on becoming a parent quite yet.

The labor and delivery went smoothly, and like all births, my life was irrevocably changed in an instant.  I had no idea how to be a mother, but was allowed to stay at the hospital until Friday where I was taught the basics of breast-feeding and diaper changing.  Here's me and my mom leaving the hospital.

Fortunately, my baby developed at the same speed that I learned.  Until he got older.

I am good at following rules.  I am organized and like order in my life.  When I wanted to lose 40 pounds a few years ago, I joined Weight Watchers, followed their rules, and poof, in 8 months all my excess weight was gone.  In school, I was an all-A student, because there too, the rules are spelled out.  Study, don’t miss deadlines, go to class, and you will do well.

But where are the rules for mothering a teen?

It’s so much easier to manage one’s own life than to parent someone else’s.