Friday, June 28, 2013

no way to end a friendship


When I was 40, I had a friendship with a woman named Susan.  We had met through work, and had been friends for a couple of years.  She came to my surprise 40th birthday, and gave a beautiful, heartfelt toast.  I never saw her again.  I tried getting in touch with her, and she never responded.  I have no idea why.

To me, a good friend is someone I can count on, someone I can trust.  I don’t want to guess what you are thinking.  If you need me to help you, tell me how.  If I’ve offended you, let me know. But don’t just disappear.  If you do, than the friendship I thought we had never really existed. 

I am on the uptown bus today, checking emails.  I get one from Leslie (not her real name).  The subject line reads:

Re: no tv...what i am sending to lyn....i am so not in a good mood..read blog first...

It takes me a while before I realize this email was intended for someone other than me.  Probably a friend of Leslie’s.  I don’t take offense as I do this too.  If I am sending a sensitive email I might want a more objective person to read it first.

The email suggests I should consider giving up TV (as Leslie has) and save money.  Further, Leslie doesn’t see me making any changes in my life that might inconvenience me, in order to spend less.  (I have given up much, and yes, I know I could give up more.) She writes, “I can go on and on but I am in a miserable mood and do not want to take it out on you.”

But she already has.  I write back:

(My post about the cable company) had nothing to do with money; my son watches TV too.......and plse don't take your bad moods out on me.  Thank you.  And...,you have no idea about the small sacrifices I do make every day...

She responds within minutes,

I have come to the conclusion that our friendship is not a productive or mutual one.  I wish you only the best. 

Leslie ends our (almost) five-year friendship with a dismissive email.  

I have seen Leslie walk away from long relationships without explanation or tears.  So many times throughout our  friendship I have said to her, “Promise me you will never do that to me.”  And in the end, that’s exactly what she does.  I am sad that our friendship is over, and I am sad the way she chose to end it.  Perhaps I was naive to think she would never do to me, what she has done to others.

I will miss her, but at the same time, I now must wonder what kind of friendship we really had.  

With all that is fragile in life, friendship shouldn’t be.

Thursday, June 27, 2013

small injury leads to big meal


I wake up and weight myself.  Down since yesterday.  I’m feeling good about Weight Watchers.  I picture myself thinner. 

By ten, I already have my low-cal meals planned for the day.  But that all changes when I get a call around three, and caller ID identifies the caller as Camp Ramapo, the place where Alexander is a counselor.  I pick up, and hear Alexander’s voice.  I immediately ask, “Is everything all right?”  He answers, “Yes, I’m fine, but…”   The but is that he’s hit his head on a hose in the pool and it’s been bleeding a ton.  The camp nurse doesn’t think he needs stitches, but suggests he get it checked out after camp.

Alexander’s cut is right below his hairline.





We go to CityMD.  We are in and out in a half hour.  Alexander’s injury needs only to be glued, not stitched.

Now it’s after seven and we are both hungry.  Alexander really wants a burger. How can I deprive him?  Poor baby was injured today.

I have a Groupon for The Burger Bistro, a new restaurant right around the corner from CityMD.  It’s only been open a few months. 

We both get burgers on a brioche roll with caramelized onions and french fries.  The price is high, the place is tiny, but the food is great.  I’ll probably have to starve myself for the rest of the week.  But that’s okay.  A burger this good is worth the sacrifice.


a short story about my cable company


Two days and two nights without television.  No Matt and Savannah in the morning.  No John Oliver and Jay Leno at night.  And no DVR’ed shows.  I feel disconnected from the world.

Here’s my little story of how this came to be.

TUESDAY

10:30 PM:  
The TV screen in my bedroom is pixilating.  I try to re-set the cable box and nothing happens.  Just a blinking light.

The TV in the living room is fine.

I call Time Warner Cable.  An automated voice informs me there is an outage in the area and  they are working on it.  “It should be fixed soon,” I'm told when I get connected to a real person — a real person who has no explanation for why one box is working and the other isn’t.

WEDNESDAY

8:00 AM:
No change.  I call TW again.  This time I’m told the problem has something to do with Con Ed and they need to wait until Con Ed gets to work at 9am.  Apparently, the automated voice from last night was misinformed.

11:00 AM:
I return from Weight Watchers and have a message on my phone.  Again, an automated one.  TW is happy to tell me the problem is fixed.  

Except it isn’t.  My cable box looks the same.  No time.  Just some rotating numbers and letters.  I re-set it.  Nothing changes.

I call.  I am told a signal will be sent to my house that should fix the problem.  It doesn’t.

11:50 AM
I call back, and get Devonne.  She is quite nice, but “the next available appointment is on Friday.”  Having no TV for almost three days is not acceptable. I ask for a supervisor.  I am on hold for a very long time, though Devonne checks in every ten minutes or so offering solace.  In the meantime, I am forced to listen to some dreadful-sounding crackly music.  Periodically an announcer offering me random facts interrupts the so-called music.  “Did you know that in 1904, grease pole competitions and mud-wrestling were popular sports?  Gee no, I didn’t know that.  Thanks.

Finally, after 38 minutes on hold (really, I’m not exaggerating), Devonne comes back on and says, “The supervisor’s line is still busy, but in the meantime an appointment has opened for tomorrow.”  Great.  Now I’m thinking, she’ll tell me it’s between 8 and 5.  But Devonne surprises me.  “Someone can be there between four and five.” I’m thrilled.

THURSDAY

3:45 PM
The cable guy arrives a few minutes early.  “Yup, it’s your box,” he observes.  He switches it out.  My TV is back.  All in about ten minutes.

So just when I am starting to like my cable company….

I call to get credit for my two-day loss of world news, culture and entertainment.  $5.45.  That’s what I’ll be credited.  When I suggest that’s small compensation for my inconvenience, I’m told, “Well, we didn’t charge you for the service call.”  Huh?????  The service call to fix my piece of RENTED equipment that just stopped working?

My like is short-lived.

The end.

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

drama at a comedy


I’m on the BAFTA screening committee.  Working with Twentieth Century Fox, I arrange a screening for THE HEAT at an AMC multiplex theater on 42nd Street.  BAFTA does not have its own venue, so the studios pay for space at theaters and screening rooms throughout the city.

I arrive early as I am doing the introduction.  We expect about 200 people.  The ladies room across from the theater is disgusting.  No toilet paper.  Water all over the place.  Clogged and overflowing toilets.  I exit behind a well-dressed-normal-looking woman who approaches the three security people from Fox, plus one BAFTA representative — they are all standing outside theater #9 where the screening will be shown.  “The lady’s room is awful,” she tells them.  They of course have nothing to do with this.  I overhear her and say, “I know, you’re right.  I’ll go get someone to clean it up.”  I turn and walk away.  I’m about thirty feet away, heading toward the escalator, when I hear her shout, “Nice that you care, BITCH!”  And she’s loud. 

I return and ask for her name.  She gives it (probably not her real one) and I ask if she’s with BAFTA.  “What’s that?” she answers.  In other words, no.

I go down a level and find the appropriate people to 1) clean the bathroom, and 2) get the woman removed from the theater.

The security people from the theater approach her. She has transformed into an amnesiac.  She looks at me and says perplexed, “I’m sorry.  I have no idea who you are.  I don’t’ think we’ve ever met.”  “You don’t remember calling me a bitch?” I ask.   “I never did that,” she answers calmly, suggesting of course that I am the crazy one.  I say to the security staff, “ I have four witnesses.  Ask them.  They are all too eager to tell you.”  She looks over, and the four people in front of the theater are nodding in agreement.

She is escorted out, with a look of confusion.  Then I hear her say, “Boy, that woman is so intense.  I didn’t even do anything.”

I announce the film.  Give the requisite thanks.  Take my seat.  And watch a movie that really makes me laugh.



I'm back


Just a few pounds.  It shouldn’t be that difficult.  And besides, I really don’t want to start measuring, weighing and then tracking every single thing I eat.  I’ll just do it on my own.  How difficult can it be to lose five pounds?

Apparently very.  I’ve been saying this for months.  Okay, this week I won’t eat any desserts.  But then I buy a 7-layer cake at Zabars.  Or, no afternoon snack.  But then I’m hungry, so I grab a handful or two of uncounted cashews. They are so good I take more.  And soon my clothes are feeling uncomfortable.

The gorgeous turquoise Yigal Azrouel skirt I bought last summer doesn’t zip at the top.  The black Jil Sander skirt from 2005 that I still love is now tight.  The dress I wore for Alexander’s Horace Mann graduation in 2011 pulls where it should drape.

In 2009 I joined Weight Watchers for the first time.  I lost a lot of weight and loved being thin.  I revamped my wardrobe to reflect the new, skinnier me.  I threw out all my “fat” clothes, and replaced them with sizes 4 and 6.

Last year, everything fit beautifully.  This year it doesn’t.  It’s time to admit defeat.  Today I return to Weight Watchers.

My last visit was a year ago, and I weighed 124.6.  Today I weigh 131.4.  Almost seven pounds up.  My goal is 123 by my nephew’s wedding on October 26.

This should be a doable goal. Especially now that I have a plan — a plan I completely control. I like that.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

poor me


I know what most people think.  They think I’m not trying to find work.  I wonder if they believe I like living like this. Constantly worrying about money.  Having  life at a standstill.  Never going on vacation.  Contemplating every penny spent.  Rarely having dinner with friends.  Not giving Alexander what I want him to have.  Could they possibly think this is a happy way to live?

Today I am talking to someone who knows me well.  This is someone who appears to have no money concerns. This person lives the way I would love to live.   We are talking about an upcoming black tie event.  I will have to wear a gown; probably one I will wear once.  I mention that I can’t spend more than $500.  This person responds, “I hate to say it, but just get a job.”  “You don’t think I’m trying?” I ask.  “Truthfully I don’t know.  All I know is that I have many friends who have gotten jobs.”  I don’t know how to respond.  I change the subject.

Taking real estate classes toward a license is something I am not interested in doing, but I am.  Building a website for college counseling is something I enjoy, but finding clients is difficult.  And applying for jobs online is useless.  I can’t even get as far as an interview.  There’s not much of a market for 62-year olds, regardless of talent or skills.  I never thought I’d be here, but here I am.

I need a good connection to get the interview.  Apparently I have none.

I am embarrassed by my situation.  I hate thinking my son feels the way I know others do.  I often feel invisible, and by having no productive work, that veil of invisibility is growing.  Soon I’ll hardly exist.  Oh how dramatic I sound.  

I debate posting this.  It is whiny.  Self-pitying.  Raw.  Private.  But if I’m to be honest in what I write, it also feels disingenuous to skip the thoughts that haunt me in the middle of the night.  And on some days, too.