a play worth seeing

I meet Jill to see a new play, Our New Girl. 

It premiered in London over two years ago, and is opening here at the Atlantic Theater Company in a couple of weeks.  Tonight is only the third night of previews.

The play is excellent. Two hours fly by, as the audience sits with rapt anticipation, waiting for some horrid thing to happen.  It is so engrossing I see not one person asleep.  It is a downtown play, though, so most of the audience is under 80.

A critic from Irish Theater Magazine could have been writing of tonight’s New York production when he wrote this of the London one:

Harris’ writing is razor-sharp, and in its delivery by the superb cast, the rhythm of her sentences is brisk and punchy. The tone manages to deftly shift from being genuinely disturbing, to suspensive, to humorous without ever detracting from the seriousness of the subject matter.

As we are walking out, Jill and I see both the female lead (Mary McCann) and the playwright (Nancy Harris).  We approach them and end up in a short conversation. They seem genuinely appreciative of our favorable comments.

Then, on the way to the subway, we bump into, and speak with, the handsome male lead, CJ Wilson. 

He, too, does not seem bothered by us.  I feel a little bit like a theater groupie. And yes, had CJ asked me out for coffee, I would have said yes.  But alas, he doesn’t.

a little watch story

In 2006 I was working and had a very good job.

I buy a Chopard Happy Sport watch at Tourneau.  Eight years later and I still love this watch.

Recently my watch stops running.  I bring it into Chopard.  There they service the watch, as well as clean and polish it, inside and out. It’s an expensive endeavor but it comes back looking and acting like new.

When I pick up the watch a few weeks ago, I notice that the serial number on the Chopard receipt is different from the serial number on my original Certificate of Origin (COO) from Tourneau.  After some investigation, it turns out that while both serial numbers pertain to the same model watch, Tourneau originally matched my watch with the wrong Certificate of Origin.  And then, to compound the problem, my original salesperson inadvertently spelled my name incorrectly when he entered it into the system. It takes Tourneau days (rather than minutes) to now verify the original purchase. 

I go to the store and ask for and get, the floor manager — an unsmiling and officious man named Michael G.  He is “willing” to re-issue a correct appraisal and COO.  And nothing more.  He is dismissive and not once offers an apology.  In fact, he seems inconvenienced by the whole mess.

Two days later, I follow up with Michael G. He sends me the revised appraisal via email.  It is unsigned and includes the odd phrase, site un seen.  I am sure my insurance company would love an appraisal where the appraiser claims to have not seen the item they are appraising!

I write back and tell Michael to delete the phrase and to sign the appraisal.  

He does, but begins his email:  I’m sorry for any confusion regarding the Appraisal...

I write back: Just to be clear, there is no confusion, as you note in your email. What I was sent was sloppy (words like site un seen on the appraisal) and unsigned (again, careless).

As a retailer of luxury items, I doubt this is the way the new CEO wants his store run.  So I email him and detail the problems.

The very next day Andrew T, Tourneau’s Regional Director, calls me.  He does everything right.  First he apologizes.  He says he is speechless, and actually sounds it, as he stammers over his words.  He makes no excuses.  And then he tells me he will pay the $540.02 for the servicing of my watch. 

Today I receive the check.  And then, in a separate envelope, I receive a letter from Ira Melnitsky, the CEO.  It is a lovely letter to a now, very satisfied, customer.

a million ways to die

Last night Alexander and I see a screening of Seth MacFarlane’s new movie, A Million Ways to Die in the West. The film is in incredibly bad taste, politically incorrect in every imaginable way, brimming with potty humor, and is still, hilarious.  As the title suggests, there were many ways to die in the late 1800’s if you lived in the west: gun fights, bar brawls, Indians, rattlesnakes, wild animals, and pestilence, to name just a few.

In 2014 New York, there are also many ways to die.  Guns. Crime. Weather. Cars.  Disease. And now, hordes of city bikers.

Not long ago a bike lane was added along the west side of First Avenue. 

The other day a woman almost hits me. She is cycling, at a fast pace, the wrong way down a one-way street. I naively assume she doesn't know that First Avenue is a northbound street and she is heading south. I yell out to her, "Hey, you're going the wrong way." She ignores me, as I knew she would.

Today I walk over to 79^th and First with my camera.  Within five minutes, I see:

A deliveryman ignoring the red light as he pedals through the busy intersection.

Another deliveryman taking a right on red, though I’m sure he knows this is illegal in NYC.

And a man pacing back and forth in the middle of the crosswalk waiting for the light to change.

Today I don't see any of the sidewalk bicyclists (and not the four-year old ones) weaving through pedestrian traffic.

When Alexander leaves the house, my usual warnings include:  Don't wear headphones when you're walking.  Take a cab if it's after midnight.  Only walk down the major cross streets if it's late.  

Now I must add: Watch out for bicyclists, and always look both ways when you cross, even if the street is one-way.

There are a million ways to die out there.  Even in this country's safest large city.

3 reading options, one book

I am often an early adapter.  For example, I owned an MP3 player before the iPod was introduced in 2001. Mine was a little gadget from iRiver that held up to 50 songs.

And in 1996, I thought the Palm Pilot was a brilliant invention (because really, it was).  All my contacts in the Palm of my hand. 

But it’s taken me awhile to adapt to a Kindle.  I love the feel of a book. I even like knowing the page I’m on, and not that I’ve read 38%.

Many months ago I bought The Goldfinch.  It’s a big book. 771 pages and small type.  I read the first 200 pages and then lost interest.  I put the book down, and there it sat, on a shelf, for a few months.  In between I read other, less significant books.

A week ago I pick up The Goldfinch again.  If I can read on the bus or when I’m out, I will finish the book sooner.  So for $7.50, I download a copy onto my Kindle.  And quickly I am drawn to the book's exquisitely developed characters.  Its beautiful writing.  And the big, engrossing world of Theo Decker.  It’s no wonder this book won the 2014 Pulitzer for Fiction.

Today I am returning some things I had bought for Alexander, and get to J Crew fifteen minutes before the store opens.  I have nothing to do while waiting.  Until, that is, I remember I have the (never-used) Kindle app on my phone.   I open it up and it queues automatically to the right page. The readability impresses me.

 Later I meet Robyn and a couple of her friends. We hang out on Robyn’s rooftop (the equivalent of a nice back yard if you don’t live in a city).  We sunbathe. Eat. Talk. And read (no glare on the Kindle).  Then I come home, curl up in a chair with my hardcover, and read some more.

By the end of the day, I am on page 587 of the book. 75% done according to Kindle.  4 hours and 44 minutes left to read, according to my iPhone.  

I am not ready to give up the hardcover, but having both (rather all three) is ideal.

my eating machine

I am in awe at how much my son can eat.  And even more amazed that nothing sticks.  He easily wears the slim fit at J Crew.

Around four, Alexander has lunch.  He arose from bed after two so his meal schedule is truncated.  He begins with a gigantic bowl of pasta.  After that is consumed he announces, “What else do we have?  I’m still starving.”   I go through the short list of what I have, since he’s finished off most of what was in the fridge from my Whole Foods shopping spree just two days before.  “Take some salad,” I suggest. But before he takes it, he quizzes me.

Where did you get it?

Whole Foods.

When did you buy it?

A couple of days ago.

What’s in it?

Cranberries, goat cheese, and walnuts.

I just want lettuce.

Then just eat that.  Geez.

All this while he sees me trying to read The Goldfinch.  Then comes,

What kind of dressing do you have, I don’t want the vinaigrette one that comes with it.

I recommend the fig vinaigrette I also bought at Whole Foods.

Where is it?

On the side door of the fridge.

I don’t see it.

It’s there.

Oh I see it.  Have you tried it yet?

Yes (I lie).

Is it good?

Yes (I lie again as I haven’t tried it yet).

Do you think I’ll like it?

Yes.

Never mind.  I’ll just make oil and vinegar.

Ok.

What vinegar should I use?

The conversation continues, but finally he settles on just plain balsamic.  The fact that I am trying to read my book is of no consequence to my son.

We have dinner early, around seven.  “Sam is coming over and I need to be done by eight.”  So I rush to meet Alexander’s schedule, although Sam doesn’t arrive until nine.

I make a great dinner.  Alexander eats:

·      Three good-size Berkshire pork medallions.

·      Two potato latkes (from Zabars, the best).

·      Roasted kale (He picks out the tofu and drops it in my plate with the appetizing comment, “Here, I’m not eating this; just looking at it makes me want to throw up.”).

Around ten, I hear Alexander rattling around in the kitchen.  I of course have been banished to my room and jokingly (I hope) told, “Pretend you’re not even here.” 

I hear pots being taken out.  Cooking going on.  And Sam being asked, “Do you want some pasta?”

One day it might catch up with him. But for now, I wish I could eat just a fraction of what my son eats and still stay thin.

late night

I go for a late afternoon manicure.  When I get home, around 5:30, Alexander says, “Hey.  I’m going to a seven o’clock movie with Daniel, can you make dinner now?”  “My nails are wet,” I tell him.  “You’ll have to wait a half hour.”  I love his response.  “Next time you’re going to get a manicure that will incapacitate you, please don’t do it around dinner time.”

So instead of my cooking, Alexander makes pasta with fresh parmigiano.  Then he’s gone. 

I text Alexander around 11:30.  He’s with Daniel and a group of friends from high school. He’ll be home later he texts.

I tell myself, he’s 21; he lives without me most of the time; and I shouldn’t worry when he goes out.  But I can’t sleep soundly until I know my son is home.

I wake up at 3:15 and Alexander’s not in.  I text him and get no response.  I call and no one picks up.  I vacillate between anger that his phone isn’t on and fear that he’s been kidnapped by Al-Qaeda and lying in an underground terrorist cell somewhere.

Do I call his friend’s home?  I can’t do that; I don’t want to alarm anyone. I don’t have any of his friends’ cell numbers.  Now I’m wide-awake.  What if he’s fallen asleep somewhere and I can’t reach him?  That leaves the whole night to stay up imagining all sorts of dire scenarios.

Finally, around 3:30, Alexander walks into my room and says hi. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t hear my phone.  I walked home with Maddie, Ethan, Peter and Daniel; everyone was going back to Ethan’s house.”  Should I be grateful he didn’t go?

This morning I leave at 10 to meet Ruth and Andrea.  We are going to the Neue Galerie to see: Degenerate Art: The Attack on Modern Art in Nazi Germany, 1937 (which, by the way, is excellent).

Alexander is asleep when I leave.  And also when I come home, four hours later.  I like knowing where he is, even if it’s not where I want him to be.