Wednesday, December 31, 2014

another year ends

This has not been an easy year.

Financial issues have dominated.  Real estate is more challenging than I thought it would be. Finding exclusives or even buyers often feels impossible.  And then when someone I am very close to lists their exquisite apartment with another broker, it more than breaks my heart.

So I am also trying to make a living selling luxury men's clothing.  The company is great (J. Hilburn) and the quality exceptional.  I just need to find more men.

Looking at the good all around me is sometimes difficult when I spend so much time worrying about the future, the immediate one.

But I am grateful for so much.

I live exactly where I want to live. I truly believe that New York City, while not right for everyone, is right for me.  It is where I am most comfortable.  I have lived in Boston, Chicago and even Portland Oregon for a short time.  These are all great cities, but not quite perfect for me.  New York is, and I wouldn't want to live anywhere else.

I am part of a close family. We may differ in our politics, our life styles, and even our values, but there is real heart among us all.

I have deep and lasting friendships.  My girlfriends are my everything. Without them I'd be lost.

Those I love are in good health; this is not something I take for granted. 

And of course there's my son.  Alexander often makes me crazy. He frequently causes me to worry (like last night when he came home at 2:30 when he promised he'd be home by 2). He sometimes makes me angry (Any big causes will never be revealed in this blog, but there have been some). And he makes me laugh.  I am thankful everyday that I get to be his mother.

Wishing you all a better year to come than the year that just passed.  And may 2015 give you many reasons to smile.


Tuesday, December 30, 2014

tipping faux pas

I think I'm a generous tipper.  Unless there is a good reason, I always tip 20% in restaurants.

I tip more for my manicurist ($2 on a $10.50 bill) and 20 to 25% to lovely Lyo, the woman who colors my hair.

And at this time of year, I tip my the paper boy (or paper man), and the building staff where I live.

Since I no longer have anyone who cleans my apartment or takes care of my son, I don't tip a housekeeper or nanny.

And since I have no private plower when it snows, or people who take care of my lawn (I have none) I don't tip these kind of service workers.

In other words, I think I tip everyone I should. 

Today I am getting my mail and see our very nice mailman. He is unlike the previous postwoman, who acted like she hated the world, and delivering other people's mail was her punishment for committing some heinous crime in a prior life.  Our new mailman is always smiling and quick to offer a friendly hello. Today he says to me, "I'd like to thank you for your very generous tip.  That was so kind of you.  I really appreciate it."

Huh?  I didn't tip my mailman.  Now I wonder if I should have.  

What do I say?  Do I take credit for someone else's generosity or do I embarrass myself and fess up.  I have no choice, really.

"I am so sorry, but that wasn't me," I tell the postman.  He asks if I'm sure.  Yes, I'm sure I tell him.  Then I add, "You are great though, but I'm sorry, that tip was not from me."

I check the government website and listed under Unacceptable Gifts for the Mailman are:
  • cash
  • checks
  • stocks
  • liquor
  • anything that can be exchanged for cash
  • anything of monetary value such as meals, gift certificates, and clothing.
Then this same government website adds:


Perhaps the best gift for your mailman is simply a heartfelt card saying "Thank you." (sic).

I wonder if the mail people agree.


Sunday, December 28, 2014

learning how to make a smoothie

I recently get a NutriBullet.

I unpack it, and then, for several weeks, the NurtiBullet sits on my kitchen counter, along with its accompanying plastic containers, instructions, and recipe books. Looking at  this new product makes me anxious. I think it will require a lot of learning, something I'm not up to doing right now.

But then Alexander comes home, and I have an excuse. I'll make him a smoothie.

I have everything I need.  

I fill the plastic container with half spinach leaves, half frozen mixed berries from Costco,  two tablespoons of flax seeds, and filtered water.  

It looks okay, but tastes awful. 

Over the next few days I experiment.  Using water as the liquid, as I did the first time, doesn't work well.  Skim milk or orange juice are much better.  Adding  a couple of tablespoons of fat free yogurt and/or a half banana help with the consistency.  I also omit the greens and flax seeds.  My goal right now is taste over nutrition.

I love making these things.  Same as I like watching a wound heal.  I like when things transform. Making eggs (sunny side or scrambled) is also a favorite.

But the best reward is seeing my son gobble these down and ask for more.  

I'll work on balancing nutrition with flavor, but for now, my son is happy so I am too.









Thursday, December 25, 2014

xmas movie day

Since 2008, I have been inviting a few friends over on Christmas day to watch movies.

I choose two movies, one for late afternoon, and one for early evening.  I invite about 15 people; most don't come.  Some are away, some prefer staying home with family, and a few don't respond at all.

This afternoon, it's just Carol, Linda and her friend Judy.  It's a small group, and we get to spread out while pigging out on lots of junk food: peanuts, cookies, candy, chips, popcorn, water, wine and prosecco.  We chose Two Nights, One Day, a French film that got a 96% on Rotten Tomatoes, where the critics must be more sophisticated reviewers than we are.  None of us like it.  

The film is only 95 minutes long but it takes us almost twice that to get through it.  There's a lot of pausing.

We are done by 5:30 and Stewart and Sam (Shari's husband and son) and Robyn are coming over at 6:30 to watch American Sniper.  That's also when Alexander will join us.  So we don't have enough time to go out for dinner, and no one is really that hungry.  Judy has brought over a french baguette along with a tomato and mozzarella salad.  That becomes our dinner and it's perfect.

Robyn arrives with a homemade chocolate rose-shaped cake accompanied by brownies she also made.  Both are delicious.



I make everyone pose for a few pictures.  The woman do so with no resistance.  


The men (more specifically, the boys) do so with much resistance.



And then I ask for a picture with my son.  He must be feeling generous (it is Christmas after all).





Wednesday, December 24, 2014

just a few house rules

Alexander and I are up and out of the house by 9am, early for both of us but exceptionally early for my son.

We are heading downtown to argue yet again why he can't serve on grand jury duty for ten days.  He is starting a winter course January 5th and needs to be back at school. I am going with him for moral support; I will not talk.  I've promised.

But it's raining.  Alexander wants to take the bus, as he doesn't want to risk taking the subway near rush hour (he feels understandably safer in Ithaca).  A half a block away we look at each other and say, "Ya know, we can do this after Christmas."  We turn around and come back home, happy to settle in and watch Episode 5 of Homeland (Season 4).

It's nice to just sit around with my son.  Later, Shari, her husband, and her older son Sam (a friend of Alexander's) are coming over to watch Nightcrawler.  But right now, not doing much of anything is nice.

So I say to Alexander, "I love this.  Let's see if we can spend the whole day not arguing about anything."  

He responds, "Okay. Just don't bring up anything I don't want to talk about. Don't ask me to do anything. Just stay smiling and agree with me on everything.  Don't ask me to make my bed, put away my empty water bottles, or put my dishes in the dishwasher rather than leave them in the living room. Don't bring up anything controversial. Make my meals when I want to eat. Don't tell me I can't leave my razor on the bathroom sink. Don't look at me in that way of yours. Don't speak unless spoken to. And don't ask me about my plans, for tonight or six months from now. Do all that and it'll be easy."

Tuesday, December 23, 2014

theater and Alexander

I get tickets to see Kenneth Lonergen's The Time of Our Youth, thinking Alexander will like it.  

I am cognizant of the fact that my son detests going to theater.  When he was younger, I took him to a lot, thinking someday we'd be able to share the same passion. That never quite happened, despite my many attempts.  We saw musicals (Lion King, Beauty and the Beast, Oklahoma, Hair Spray, Mama Mia, Spring Awakening, The Boy from Oz, and Jersey Boys, to name just a few).  We saw Broadway and Off-Broadway plays.  Some at big venues, others at small intimate ones.  Some great, but most just average. Occasionally Alexander would like something, but mostly he got restless quickly.  And then there came the day when Alexander declared, "I am not seeing any more plays." I didn't take him at his word, but instead compromised: one play a year.


So tonight is that one-play-a-year night.

Alexander is not thrilled about going to Times Square.  He reads too much about world politics and he, like many, doesn't like what he reads.  Times Square is probably not the safest place to be around Christmas, and certainly not the most pleasant.  Not with sidewalks so crowded that walking on the street is the only reasonable option. Not with having to duck umbrellas, as there's a light rain tonight.

Our seats are great.  The play is excellent and relatable.  It's about three insecure NYC kids living on the Upper West side in the early 80's.  I can see that Alexander is enjoying it, as he laughs his way through Act 1.  I think it's a little long but my son surprisingly disagrees.  

This doesn't mean that the next play will be an easier sell.  My son's already told me that he's done with theater now for the next twelve months.  

Saturday, December 20, 2014

like father, like son

Eric was 26 when I met him, only four years older than Alexander is now.  

When my son was born, everyone would comment, "Oh, he looks just like Eric."  And it's true, he had Eric's thin lips, almond shaped brown eyes, and similar eyebrows.  He looked nothing like me.  And no one ever mentioned that he did.

I saw some resemblance, but not as much as others did.

Tonight I am sitting in my room as Alexander is struggling to get air play to work, so we can watch an Australian horror movie my son thinks I'll like called  Babadook.  It's ironic that Babadog is the name Alexander created when he was about five, for a heroic super dog. He drew illustrated books about Babadog, and I later built a website called Babadog Productions.

Alexander is sitting in profile and I catch a glimpse of him.  The resemblance to Eric is striking.  I happen to have my camera next to me (yes, really) and snap a photo.


I then look for and find a photo of Eric in profile (here with Alexander).


Alexander (age 2 months) with Eric (almost 30)

Oh, and my son is right about Babadook. It's surprisingly good.

did you know...

My refrigerator is generally fairly empty. Usually I only have half and half, yogurt, fruit, maybe salad stuff, water and other drinks.

I buy food daily; it's fresher that way and it keeps me in check.

But when Alexander is home, I need a different strategy.  So I go to Agata and shop for things I know he'll like.  

When Alexander finally gets up, I hear him yell to me, "Hey, thanks mom.  I hate having gluten in my prosciutto."  I have no idea what he's talking about.  He doesn't eat a gluten-free diet (so I know he's joking), and isn't gluten only in products having grains or wheat in them?



Could this portend new labeling laws? 

Stickers on apples saying "no artificial sweeteners have been added."

Or on brussel sprouts saying "no animals have been harmed."

Or even steaks with signs saying "contains no peanuts."


Friday, December 19, 2014

welcome home

Around one, I text Alexander, "What bus r u taking?"  I get no response.

I am at Cafe Jax, a great (relatively new) little coffee place on the Upper East Side.  I am with Karen, someone I haven't seen in over 10 years.  I think we met through networking.  She was in television marketing at Showtime for a long time.  Karen and I reconnected through Facebook or Words With Friends; I can't even remember now, but am glad we did.  

Karen is easy to be with, smart and likable. We  have a lot in common, and already have plans to see each other again in January.  

Before leaving, Alexander calls to tell me he's on a 4:15 bus, so will be home late.  Great; that means I can go to Book Club at Penny's.

About six of us show, and no one loves the book (Wild).  Actually there have been few books, over the ten plus years we've been meeting, that we've all loved (or even liked a lot).  Good books may be harder to find than good men.

I'm the first to leave as I want to be home for my son.  I don't want him walking into an empty home.

Around 10:30 there's a knock on my door.  It's Alexander.  He looks great.  He's wearing untamed hair (he only gets haircuts when he's home; cheaper for him that way) and a big smile.  It feels good to hug him.

Within ten minutes Alexander is all settled in.  Duffel bag in the living room, open with a few things pulled out. Coat thrown over a chair.  A month-old MacBook Pro on the dining table,  still unprotected, despite having a new Speck cover ("I've been studying for finals; I'm sorry; I haven't had time to put the new cover on yet.").

Then, "What do you have to eat?  I'm starving."

Followed by, "Where's the Gone Girl DVD; I want to watch it now."

And then, as a concession, "But if you want to watch an episode of Modern Family, I'll do that with you."

It's as if my son never left.  

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

working the city

I go to bed late.  Around 1 a.m., most nights.  

This morning I am meeting Gail for breakfast at 8:30 and am fearful of oversleeping.  I set my alarm for 7, and then wake up at 8:30.  Damn.  I must have turned my alarm clock off in my sleep.  I text Gail, get dressed, put on make-up, run to the subway, and am sitting across from her at Macaron Cafe by 9. 


We have a quick breakfast, do some catching up, and get to the screening of Citizen Four by ten.  We are done by noon, and I have a screening of Cake at six.  Gail suggests sushi but I decline.  My plan is to stay in midtown to try and recruit stylists and customers for J. Hilburn. It's an ambitious plan.


I start at Bloomingdales. I go to the Moncler coats where Easter works.  She's savvy, smart, not pushy, and knowledgeable.  I ask her if she'd be interested in joining my team (consisting only of me right now), and she says she'll think about it.  Easter would be fabulous, but I'm not sure this is what she wants to do.

Next I stop in the designer shoe department where Bill, one of my favorite sales people works.  I tell him about J. Hilburn and he responds, "I would never want to work in men's clothing.  I love women's shoes; I would never sell anything else. And especially not to men."


I stop by Apple to recharge my phone, but there's no one there to approach.  Everyone is too young and too hip.  Nice and helpful, but clearly more comfortable in a T-shirt than a button-down shirt.

I then go to Bergdorf's.  I wander from department to department, but see no one I want to ask.  

I grab a sandwich at Au Bon Pain and contemplate complimenting the two strangers next to me (well-dressed men) on their clothing.  I recently watched a video where this is a strategy to get clients.  But I'm not ready for such a bold approach. On the same video (shot in Dallas), a top J. Hilburn stylist  with a beautiful southern drawl, suggests a good way to meet men. "Ladies, one of the best places to find customers is the local shooting range.  I recently sold to three men on the spot, and signed up two more."  She doesn't mention anything about Au Bon Pain.

I go to the screening, and end up sitting next to a nice young woman who works at a production company.  She tells me her boss is an incredibly creative dresser "and might be perfect for J. Hilburn."  I give her my card.

4.9 miles of walking.  Two movies.  One possible stylist.  Another potential customer.  Zero purchases. Good day.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

the first night of chanukah

When Alexander was little, we celebrated Chanukah.  Every night we'd light the menorah and say the blessing.  While my son never mastered the four questions, this one blessing he knew.  And every night, for eight nights, I would give him a carefully wrapped present I had kept hidden in my bedroom closet.

It was always easy finding the right gift.  Books with a theme of trucks or emergency vehicles were always welcome.  Play Mobile sets of any kind. And anything Lego, as these were probably my son's favorite.  I spent tons of money on beautiful Brio wooden pieces for Alexander's train set, though he never liked them as much as his Lego's.  Brio was my favorite, not his.

But that was then.

Now, I don't even send out holiday cards;  I don't receive many either.  I wonder if I've fallen off lists, or like myself, many have cut back on this annual tradition. I like to think it's the latter.

Most of the cards I now receive are from people I don't know well, or don't know at all — my doormen, my super, my handyman, the NY Times delivery person, the Poland Spring driver, and the various schools my son and I have been— or are— affiliated with.  Very few are from friends.

Similarly, I don't exchange gifts with anyone.  I am envious of my friends who do, even offering to help.  Just recently, I sent both M and Hazel  a list of under $25 ideas (The Grommet and Uncommon Goods are two great sites to visit).

I will get my son something, and of course will tip the guys in my building, but that's about it. 

Except for the BAFTA screeners.  Almost every day, between late November and late December, I get a package.  In it, are one or more DVD's.   Because I vote for the BAFTA Awards, studios send me the films they think are deserving of recognition.  Receiving close to 50 DVD's of movies playing in theaters (or about to be released) makes me very very popular during the holiday season.

So tonight is the first night of Chanukah.  Alexander is at school studying for his last final.  

Two nights ago he called me totally stressed.  "My Nutrition (Health and Society) exam was so hard.  I don't think I did well.  The professor asked questions about...." And he went on and on, becoming increasingly anxious the more he spoke. And of course so did I.

But late this afternoon Alexander calls to tell me he got a 90 on the exam he was freaking out about the other day. 

What a  perfect gift for the first night of Chanukah. I'd love more of the same for the nights coming up.


Monday, December 15, 2014

holiday party

No one would ever describe me as a party animal.  Not when I was young, and certainly not now.

But tonight is the annual BAFTA holiday party and I feel I should go.  It's always a nice event, held at the British Consul General's exquisite apartment.

I should go because it is the right thing to do.  I am active in this organization, and know a lot of people.  Plus, it is a good networking opportunity.  

I leave my home dressed in black (of course), armed with a handful of business cards. My goal is to come home with none.

I get to the party and am immediately approached by a a new member of the screening committee, a woman I just recently met.  "I'm all caught up on your blog, " she tells me.  "Yours is the only blog I read." I had no idea she reads it, and am truly flattered that she does. I get some red wine, and end up in conversation with her and another BAFTA colleague.

After a few passed hors d'oeuvres (the stuffed crab is the best), I make my way over to another circle of friends.  Everyone is polished and well-dressed.  We talk about movies and exchange thoughts on our favorites.  Dorine loved Inherent Vice, the one my friend had an anxiety attack over. She hated it that much.

I make it over to say hi to Christina, BAFTA's chief executive, and an exceptionally nice woman. We talk for a few minutes before I leave; too many others are vying for her attention.

I return to my small circle of friends to say good-bye.  It is already 15 minutes past the end time of this party. I know this may sound hokey, but really, I feel lucky to be part of this organization.

I leave with all the business cards I came with. I have not given out even one. But that's okay.  I had a great time socializing with people I genuinely like.

And the best part?  I'm home by 8:15.

wild

I'm 77% into Wild; I'm reading it (on my Kindle) for book club. This is not the kind of book I would chose on my own.  It's a memoir about a young woman's journey through a long, punishing, self-exploratory 1100 mile hike along the Pacific Crest Trail.  I'm not particularly liking it, but do appreciate the author's bravery.  

I am nothing like Cheryl Strayed.
  • She grows up fatherless and poor.
  • Her mother dies young.
  • She prefers the rural outdoors to big cities.
  • She is (at age 26) promiscuous, thinking nothing of hooking-up before that was even an expression.
  • She uses hard drugs, including many experiences with heroin.
  • She is not close to her siblings.
  • She changes her last name just because.
  • She packs only two T-shirts for a multi-month hike.
  • She leaves college a few credits short of graduating.
  • She is comfortable having no human contact for days and days.
  • She knows how to use an ice axe.
  • She hikes alone over treacherous territory knowing there will be bears, mountain lions, and rattlesnakes in her path.
  • She wears ill-fitting boots for miles and miles, days and days, resulting in blisters, bleeding feet, and unbearable pain.
  • She loses two toe nails.
Ah, there it is — a similarity.  

Last September 26, when I was debating what shoes to wear for the Gone Girl premiere and party, I accidentally slammed a metal door on my left big toe. It made the shoe decision easy.

Today, after turning an array of colors, the nail finally falls off.  Not that that makes me anything like Cheryl.  It just gives us something in common.


Saturday, December 13, 2014

mother-son conversation

My son must be the only student who never answers his phone.  It's either I didn't hear itit's almost out of batteriesI was in class and couldn't answer; I was with friends and couldn't talk; I was in the library;  or I was sleeping. It's never I didn't have it on me.  He knows that excuse is not a believable one.

Since I've threatened to disable his phone for not responding, Alexander will now call me back within a reasonable period of time. But the best way to reach him (maybe the only way) is to text him and ask him to call.

As evidenced by this recent sardonic text; my son  knows I worry about him when he doesn't respond.


So when we do finally speak (and it's almost always brief, unless we are discussing movies), here's how the conversation goes:

Me:  So how's your studying coming?

Alexander:  Good.

Me:  When are you finished?

Alexander:  Wednesday.

Me:  So are you coming home Thursday?

A:  I'm not sure.

Me:  When are you thinking you're coming home?

A:  I don't know, maybe Friday.

Me:  Maybe?

A:  Ya, or I might stay up here an extra day.

Me:  Okay, so I assume you won't mind if I go to book club on Friday night.

A:  Nope.

Me:  Let me ask you something else....

And before I can even ask, Alexander has to hang up. Class is about to start. I'm with Daniel and it's rude to be on the phone.  I thought this was going to be quick or I wouldn't have called. I'm outside and it's freezing and I can't hold the phone any more. Or, most commonly, I really need to study. 

But in a few days he'll be home.  I can't wait.  I'm looking forward to giving him a big hug.  And sitting down to a long conversation.

And I'm sure that's exactly what he's looking forward to as well.  Chatting with his mom.  What could be better than that?

Friday, December 12, 2014

I was once proposed to

It was a Sunday.  That much I remember.

I was sitting on a chair and Tim was in the kitchen.  We were in his apartment in Chicago, near Lincoln Park. I lived around the corner where I shared an apartment with Hazel, a friend of mine still.

Tim and I both worked at Continental Bank, me in Human Resources for the Trust Department, and Tim in financial planning for the bank's high-net worth customers.  We had been dating for only a few months.

I can't remember the casual conversation we were having, but I do remember my response to something Tim  said.   "Well, if we do that," I replied, "people might think we are getting married." Tim's counter, from the other room, was a nonchalant, "So let's get married."

I hadn't really thought much about it.  We weren't even close to that stage in our relationship.  I was still partially in love with Don, the man I had been living with in Boston, and the man I had followed (despite his lack of encouragement) to Chicago just the previous September.

Don with Hazel and Barry, April 1976

Don, 1976

Don with me and my dog Jesse (a gift from Don), 1976
But I was after all 25.  Sort of old for not being married back then. And Tim was a kind, generous man who adored me.  He had a good job.  Was fun.  Smart.  Educated. Liberal.  Cute.  And the exact opposite of Don.  Don was a creative type; Tim was a businessman.  Don was Jewish; Tim was Christian. Don could be described as kind of crazy; Tim was reserved. Don was musical (played the guitar and wrote songs); Tim was not.  Don was hilarious; Tim appreciated good humor but was never the one to make me laugh. Don was naturally athletic; Tim was a more practiced athlete. Don was unreliable; Tim was not. Don was moody; Tim was not.  Don was dark. Tim was light. Don wasn't ready to get married.  Tim was.

And so just as casually as Tim had asked me to marry him, I just as casually responded yes.  

Tim before I knew him, circa 1974 in Michigan
Going to a Halloween party; the medals are real; Tim was an Eagle Scout
Tim in 1976;  oh how I wish there were digital cameras back then
The marriage didn't last long, as I don't think my heart was ever really in it.  But Tim went on to become fabulously successful, even appearing on the cover of Worth Magazine a few years ago. Don became equally successful as a Hollywood producer and writer.

Don is till an important part of my life; Tim I never speak to.  But this afternoon I think of him.  For on December 12, 1976,  38 years ago today, he asked me to marry him and I said yes.

 

Thursday, December 11, 2014

awful night

My doorman calls to tell me I have a package.  I'm not expecting one. Especially not a box from Apple. Damn. It's a big box of Christmas cards I made recently for M.  I forgot to change the delivery address and it defaulted to my own.  

Then I eat a quick and early dinner.  Salad with chicken.  I'm out the door by 5:45 in order to make a 7pm screening of Inherent Vice at 53rd and 7th.  About 2.2 miles from my apartment.  I am meeting MF (as in my friend, as I'm sure she'd prefer remaining nameless), and our plan is to meet at 6:30 (in case the movie is oversold).

If I had more time, I'd walk.  Instead, I take a crosstown bus.  It's 6:15 when I get on the C train at 81st and Central Park West.  But then, the C train doesn't move.  We all sit there wondering why. Then were told there's an incident on the subway line further south. 15 minutes go by and the initial announcement of "we are being delayed" morphs into "this train ain't moving (or words to that effect)." 

So en masse we leave the subway.

I walk a block to catch a bus.  But I see none in view.  I walk about 10 blocks before finally spotting one. But it turns where it shouldn't.  "We have to detour," says the bus driver. "There's road construction ahead."  There's also gridlock. I feel like I'm in that movie After Hours where the main character is stuck in SOHO and just can't get to where he wants to be.

It takes 90 minutes to get to the theater.  I could have driven to the Hamptons in the same amount of time.  I am not happy.

By the time I arrive, the movie's been playing for 12 minutes (according to the studio rep at the door).  I have to crawl over two people to get to MF.  I whisper, "What have I missed?"  She whispers back, "I have no idea."  She means this literally.

About an hour into the movie MF (who NEVER EVER talks during films) turns to me and says, "I want to kill myself."  I suggest she leave but we are in the middle of the row, and there are two super-sized couples guarding each end.  "I think I'm having a panic attack." She later tells me she felt trapped.  Trapped watching an impossibly complicated very long film with the lead actor sporting hideous mutton chops.

And the ride home, too, was hell.  It takes MF two hours, and me, just a little bit less.  This headline helps explain why.



Apparently, the subway problems that started around six are no better after 10.







And then, as if an impossibly long unpleasant movie, unhappy friend, and dreadful transportation aren't bad enough, I exit the train station instead of transferring.  This means I have to pay again, another $2.50, to get back into the station.  

I get back to my apartment just in time for Jon Stewart, so happy to be home.




Wednesday, December 10, 2014

hair

I am glad I have it, but I do not like dealing with it.

It's expensive and time consuming.

Color every 4-5 weeks (when it should be 3).

Occasional highlights to make it more interesting.

Cuts every other month so it doesn't hang limply.

Products to make it shine and give it body.

And then there's the self-drying. That I hate.

I usually lose interest half way through and it shows.  

The left side of my head is easier for me to style than the right, so if I do a good job, it's only on half my head.  MY sister Valerie can't understand (nor can I, really) why I can't do a decent job blow drying my own hair.

I get a keratin treatment once a year, and love it.  But for the first four weeks or so, my hair is too flat.  And, my last one was in May, so my hair is becoming dryer, frizzier and less manageable.

Over Thanksgiving, Jean tells me about a new combination hair dryer and brush that she loves. It's called the Conair Pro Spin Air Rotating Styler.


http://www.amazon.com/Conair-Infiniti-Spin-Rotating-Styler/dp/B004INUWX0

I buy it.

It arrives a few days ago.  I always feel a little overwhelmed when I get a new product.  I don't like reading instructions and unpacking anything that is plastic-sealed.  I finally get around to it today.

I even watch a 3-minute youtube video.  

Okay, I'm ready. 

The results?  Amazing.  

In under 8 minutes, my wet hair is dry, styled and shiny. I am not sure if it would be great on short hair, but for longish hair, it's fantastic.

Okay.  Done.  No more product endorsements for awhile.  I'm beginning to sound like an infomercial.  

But I love this new thing, and on this rainy wet day, it's all I have to write about.  Unless you want to hear about my squirting laundry detergent into my toilet bowl thinking it was toilet bowl cleaner.


Monday, December 8, 2014

a travel mug (or holiday gift) recommendation

I spend a lot (perhaps too much) time in front of my computer with a cup of coffee.

My new coffee maker (the Bonavita 1800) is great.  Simple to use and makes great coffee.


I recently read about a stainless steel travel mug from a Japanese company called Zojirushi.   I do some online research and am impressed with the reviews.  Amazon users give it (the 
Zojirushi SM-SA48-NM Stainless Steel Mug, 16-Ounces) a rare 4.8 stars out of 5.  


http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00HYOGTU0/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o00_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1#customerReviews

I buy it, even though I don't travel often, and sitting at my desk is not that long a trip from my kitchen.

It arrives today. And as proof of the company's heritage, all the instructions are in Japanese.  But at least there are diagrams, and figuring out how to use a travel mug is not all that complicated.

Here's what I love about it vs. my Nissan Thermos that I used to love.  It's more compact and has a convenient pouring spout. I've tried pouring from the Nissan on the Bolt bus and the results weren't good.


I make coffee this morning and pour it into my new thermos.  Seven hours later and the coffee is still steaming hot.


I know this doesn't make for the most exciting blog post, but when a a simple travel mug can make you happy, it's worth passing on.  Even if you don't travel.





Sunday, December 7, 2014

invisible friends

My friend Q calls this morning.  I can tell immediately from her voice what she is going to ask.  

"Would you mind if I skipped theater today?"  We are seeing a matinee of Lost Lake at Manhattan Theater Club, where we've been members forever.  A week ago we were scheduled to see this play but didn't feel like going, so we rescheduled for today.  But it has finally stopped raining and it's a crisp, cold, sunny New York day.  The call doesn't surprise me.

I hardly ever see Q, though we speak daily.   She is one of my closest friends.  Today she says, "You know, it's amazing we are such good friends since we don't like to do the same things." She is right.

Q has an adorable dog named Scout, and she spends a lot of time with Scout in the Park.

She doesn't like movie theaters (even nice screening rooms) so she almost never comes with me to see a screening.  We are both cutting back on spending, so we don't go out for dinners anymore, too expensive.  And despite being one of the most well-informed people I know, she doesn't read fiction, so discussing and recommending books is something we don't do either.

But we still, always, have so much to talk about — from important news stories (the travesty of failing to get an indictment on the officer who killed Eric Garner), to frivolous ones (the man on Discovery who wasn't eaten by an anaconda).  We talk about petty annoyances and the many things that make New York City great (Q grew up here).  We often ask each other, "What would you do in this situation?"  Although I probably ask her that more than she asks me, and she always knows the players I'm referring to, even when they are nameless. We agree on most things, but not everything.  And I can always count on Q to give a truthful answer.  It's a wonderfully long, healthy, friendship (almost 20 years).  And we barely see each other, despite her living a crosstown bus away.

It's the same way with M.  I talk to her most days as well.  She lives in Boston and I live here.  But it's easy to forget the geography barrier . She is a constant in my life.  Our friendship dates back to 1981, when we first began work at Gillette, fresh out of business school.  I was even a bridesmaid in her wedding. She knows my family (as I do hers) and she knows me.  I trust her judgment and more than anyone I know (except maybe my son), she makes me laugh the hardest.



Jill (another 20 plus year friend, and one of my most favorite people) ends up coming with me to see Lost Lake (an engrossing and exceptionally acted two-person play).  She is not an invisible friend and she lives very far away...all the way in Dumbo!

Saturday, December 6, 2014

shouldn't have gone

Get home last night after waiting in the cold rain for a cab.  I feel movie-ed out.  I email Jill suggesting we not see today's screening of The Gambler, knowing rain is again predicted.  Jill responds,  "Let's go; fun movie on a miserable day."  And so we do.

Apparently, the steady downpour that falls today does nothing to deter tourists and locals from swarming Times Square.  This is my least favorite part of the city on a good day; and today is not a good day. Everyone is walking around with oversized umbrellas, oblivious to those around them. It's amazing there aren't more eye injuries.

I hate umbrellas, and instead wear a long raincoat hooded up.  It's much easier to navigate the city this way. Plus, I don't have the added complication of figuring out where to put a wet umbrella when it's not in use.

Verdict?  Well, Jill was right about it being a miserable day. Other that that? The music was good. 


Friday, December 5, 2014

sharing space with a star

I get to the theater early, as Angelina Jolie is doing a Q&A after tonight's screening of Unbroken. I want to get a good seat in this 350-seat venue, so I arrive half an hour early.  Apparently not early enough.

I had hoped to sit in the first five rows.  Instead, I am in the second to the last row of the balcony. And, despite this being The Director's Guild Theater, the seats are barely raked and four big heads block my view.

Eric (W, not V) arrives a bit after me.  Unlike most BAFTA events, every seat is taken by 7:10; the movie starts at 7:30.

The girls in front of us have more audacity than I do.  I hear them say to the two guys in front of them, "Hey, would you mind scooting down in your seats so we can see better?"  They do.  I don't have the nerve to ask them to to the same.

But once the film starts, the screen feels bigger and the heads smaller.  It is an epic story told convincingly, though it's a hard film to enjoy.  And it's a long 137 minutes. It is a brutal tale of one man's extraordinary resilience in the face of unimaginable conditions.  Despite this being an emotional story, I feel none of it,  only the horror.  It is a movie to admire more than recommend.

After the movie ends, the producer, four actors, and Ms. Jolie take the stage.  I know it's them from the introductions, applause, and my poorly taken photos, not because I can really see them from my seat so far away.  


Anjelina Jolie and Jack O'Connell
Anjelina Jolie, Jack O'Connell, and Miyavi
Anjelina Jolie and Jack O'Connell

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

spending a lot with little to show

I resist Black Friday.

I don't click once on a single purchase over Cyber Monday.

I delete the exorbitant number of emails that arrive daily telling me of unbelievable-once-in-a-lifetime bargains.

And I even ignore the 70% discount on scarves and leather gloves shown on The Today Show.

But I do need to eat.  And I do need to clean.  And I do need vitamins.  So I go to Costco.

Costco in the city is probably more of an event than it is in the suburbs.  First, there's getting there. On a nice day I could walk, but today is miserable.  Cold and raining and the buses are all late.

The Costco in the city is near a Target, so I go there first. I buy some Mrs. Meyers dish soap, some make-up remover, and then I get lost in the hair dryer section. I end up (after checking reviews on Amazon) buying a Bed Head Curlipops.  I hope it lives up to its promise of tight curls on top, loose curls on bottom, frizz-free and shiny.

Next stop is Costco.  I pick up the usual paper towels and toilet paper. Some stuff for the holidays, in anticipation of having people over and Alexander being home: chips, Tates chocolate chip cookies, and Lindt Truffles.  I get some toothbrushes and toothpaste, and a few cleaning supplies. Then I pick up two bags of frozen berries in the hope of making delicious smoothies for me and Alexander.  Oh, and some tomato/vegetable soup.

I spend almost $300 (including $55 for renewal of my card, and the cost for a cab home).  I unpack everything and look in my refrigerator.  It is still empty, except for soup. I go to Agata to pick up something for dinner.

Hmmm.  Somehow this doesn't feel right.