a simple move becomes an all day affair

Today I am helping Sam (M's son) move into his new apartment.  Sam is on a plane on his way back from Europe. He has asked me to oversee the move.  

Sam always has it together.  He is well organized and a master at getting things done. He arranges the move with Schleppers.  He emails me multiple times with all the details. Times. Places. Names and numbers. Lists of what’s being moved.  Who has keys. How to get them.  Where to return them.  Everything is exquisitely detailed in an impeccably organized email. All I have to do is show up and make sure the movers do what they are supposed to do.

Sam asks me to be at his Murray Hill apartment at 7:50 a.m.  "The movers should be there around eight," he writes.  

At 7:45, I am sitting on a bench across from Sam's apartment. By 8:15 I am getting impatient. I call Schleppers to see what's causing the delay.

“Yes, they are on their way.  They left the Bronx a while ago. They should be there soon.”

At nine, I call again.  “They are only a few blocks a way.  Any minute they’ll be pulling up. Oh, and by the way, the scheduled pick-up is between nine and ten so they're not even late."  They have no record of an earlier pick-up time.  

By ten, I am livid.  I call yet again.  While the two previous responses were totally fabricated, this response is absurd.  “I just spoke to the driver.  They are there, they’re just circling around looking for a parking space.” 

“WHAT?” I respond.  “First of all, there has not been a Shleppers truck down this street.  I know because I am sitting outside watching.  But what are you talking about?  They are looking for a space? What moving company does that?  What if they find a space three blocks from the apartment?  Are they going to carry mattresses and tables and a sofa two or  three blocks?  Think about how ridiculous that would be.  I am sure they are not looking for a parking space!”

The movers arrive at 10:10.  I've been waiting almost two-and-a-half hours.  I am not happy.

The move itself goes well. It takes a little over an hour.  Sam's roommate and his roommate's dad are in the apartment.  When we are close to being done, I ask how much longer they think it’ll be.  “Not more than 15 minutes,” Manny, the foreman, tells me.  The new apartment is a short drive away.

So I go ahead of them.  I walk the 30 blocks to the new apartment, meet the new super, and collect the keys.  It’s now around noon.

I expect the movers any minute.  This is a walk-up with no lobby, so I sit on the stoop outside and wait.  Almost two hours later, at 1:45, they arrive. 

It turns out the movers had to take apart a sofa that didn't fit down the narrow winding staircase of Sam’s third floor walk-up. That took an hour. And when I called Schleppers to see what was taking so long, I was simply told, "They'll be there soon."  

The unloading at the new apartment goes smoothly.

I get home at 4:15, exhausted. 

Moral of the story:  
Don't use Schleppers to help you move.  
Grade A to the 3 guys who did the move; Grade F to the administrators who planned it.

caught in a crowd

I grab a bus heading downtown. It’s Sunday, shouldn’t take long.

Well, it does.  There’s a Lexington Avenue Festival so my bus needs to detour for 20 blocks.  Then there’s traffic.  A person in a wheel chair.  And a twenty-minute bus ride takes over an hour.

I get to my destination.  The J. Crew Sample Sale.  It’s the last day so everything is marked down an extra 50%.  I figure I’ll start with the women’s sale then go over to the men’s sale across the street.

The better sample sales have fitting rooms and mirrors. This sample sale has neither.  Just hordes and hordes of shoppers.  At least there are plenty of people to ask, "How does this look?" as there is no way to see for myself.

After much searching, I end up with one item:  a basic, boring summer cashmere cardigan in white.  From $188 to $45.

It takes 30 minutes to get to a register. But everyone in line is friendly.  By the time I am ready to check out, I have exchanged numbers with a fellow shopper.  

I leave and hope to cross the street to the men’s sale.  I can’t.   Today is the Gay Pride Parade.  There are so many people on the sidewalk walking is impossible.

But worse, pedestrians are not allowed to cross the street.  At least not from 34^th to 14^th  , and I'm around 26th.  I fight my way to the nearest subway to escape the crowds, and end up in Soho — a nice place to spend the rest of the afternoon.

leaving on a jet plane

Alexander leaves today for six weeks in LA.  He’s interning at Mark Gordon Productions.  He is so excited, and I’m excited for him.

He has found an apartment with a friend from school, right across from the UCLA campus.  Though it’s ridiculously expensive and they are sharing one room, he did it on his own.  The room has one bed, so they plan on borrowing an aerobed from either his cousin or aunt who live in LA.  Then his friend calls (the friend he is living with and who is already in the apartment) and I hear Alexander say, "Oh, that's great.  Yes, Take it.  See if you can find a TV that someone's thrown away too."

I jump in.  

"Take what?"  

"Daniel found a mattress that someone threw away."  

"Are you kidding?  DO. NOT. TAKE. IT.  It could have bed bugs.  You never take a mattress from the street."  

"No, someone in our apartment building threw it way."  

An apartment building filled with college kids.  Yes, this is so much better.  He calls Daniel back and tells him they'll borrow an aerobed and to forget the discarded mattress option.

I had hoped for a stress-free good-bye.

Last night I’d even suggested that we go out for breakfast this morning.  Before going to bed I remind Alexander to pack and be ready to leave, so this morning won’t be chaotic.  That doesn’t happen.

“I need suntan lotion.  Can you go out and get me some?”

I do.

"Do we have any new toothbrushes?  I need one."  

We do.

“I have no earbuds.  I wonder if I have time to go to the Apple Store and buy some?”  Is he kidding?  Of course he doesn’t have time. 

I find a brand new pair in an old iPhone 4S box and give them to him.

The phone rings.  People calling to say good-bye.  “I don’t have time to talk.  I’ll call them from the cab.”

“Hey, can you print out my boarding pass?  I forgot to do that.” 

Then he can't easily find the email with the boarding pass.  He finally does.  "Why is your computer so slow? This is taking so long to print."

“Do you have sheets and towels?” I ask.  “No, I’ll buy them there.  Are they cheap?”  I hand him two large bath towels and some sheets.

Finally it looks like he’s ready.  His United flight doesn’t leave from Newark until 3, but he’s catching a bus from Grand Central to Newark.

Alexander’s oversized Cornell duffel bag is so heavy I can’t lift it. 

My son gets frantic.  “Do you think I’ll have to pay more?”  “I really don’t know,” I tell him. Alexander does a quick google search and learns that if a bag is over 50 pounds, there is a $100 upcharge.

He tries to put his enormous bag on my tiny floor scale and concludes, “It says it only weighs 30 pounds but I couldn’t fit the whole bag on the scale.”  And my son is a smart kid.

I tell him to stand on the scale and get his weight.  170.2.  Then stand on the scale again holding the bag. 220.0.  So the bag weighs 149.8.  Without thinking I say, “You better not eat anything before you check your bags.”  Without hesitating he says, "I may eat but don't worry, I won't let my bags have anything."

Alexander's solution if he is over 50?  “I’ll just throw away the big towels."

"Did you bring khaki's?" I ask.

"No, I don't need them."

"Bring them.  What if you all go out for a nice dinner?"  

"Can you just send them to me if I need them?"

"NO!  Take them."

Alexander finds a pair, then goes through the whole weighing thing again to make sure the pants don't put his bag over 50 pounds.  They don't.

As we are getting into the elevator, my son turns to me and says, "That went smoothly, don't you think?"

Alexander easily finds a cab.  I take a few pictures.  

And with that, he's off.

good hair, bad look

Think Cher. Circa 1965.  Stick straight hair.

That’s what mine looks like when I first get the Keratin treatment.

I started doing this in 2007; at that time I paid $300 and it took four hours.  Today I pay $99 and am done in under an hour.

And I love Julie, the woman at Sergio Limpopo whom I’ve been going to, once a year, since 2012.

The back looks great.

And so does the front, if you exclude my face (which does not mix well with flat, hanging hair).

In three days (a very long three days) I will wash my hair.  And then it’ll be great.  A quick blow dry, no frizz, some body, and even shine — for six to nine months.

Until then, I should (but can't) remain inside and undercover.

a guest for dinner

In the midst of my son’s frenetic need to get a million things done before leaving for six weeks in LA, my niece texts him that she’ll be in New York today.  Sally and Alexander were born exactly 50 days apart.  Though Sally lives in the Boston area, and has spent the last semester in Spain (she’ll be a senior at Hamilton in the fall), the two cousins are close.  But Sally’s visit could not have come at a worse time.

In typical Alexander fashion, or maybe typical 21-year-old-boy fashion, Alexander is overwhelmed with all he still has left to do.  It’s as if he learned of the internship today and needs to leave on Saturday. 

But by the time Sally arrives, Alexander has things under control.  And her arrival brings only sunshine.

My sister Jean (Sally’s mom) is an incredible cook.  I’m not.  But Sally acts as if I am, even though everything I serve is imported (already-made) from Zabar’s, Whole Foods, and Ottomanelli’s.  I open a bottle of Prosecco and we toast to Sally and Alexander’s senior year.

These two rambunctious little kids have grown up.  

Cape Cod, August 1994

Cape Cod, August 1996

Sturbridge Village, October 2001

Easter on the Cape, April 2004

Thanksgiving, 2011

NYC tonight

NYC tonight

fraud protection, really?!

I get a text from Jill early this morning.  Do I want to meet her at the Rag and Bone Sample sale near Chelsea Market?  I tell her no, and feel good.

But then it gnaws at me.  R&B’s amazing boots.  White tees.  Excellent reviews from last year’s sale. 

By noon, I am foraging through the very long table of tees.  I see none I like, and wander over to the shoes.  There I find a great little pair of short navy boots.  I was hoping they’d be uncomfortable, but they are not.  At 60% off, it’s a great deal. I buy them.

Alexander needs new jeans and we had planned to meet uptown after he was done with work.  But there’s a great selection at this sale, so I ask him to meet me here.  Now I'll have to wait a couple of hours.  But there are worse places to wait.

I grab some soup in Chelsea Market, then find a quiet little park on 15^th and 10^th. 

Around 2:30 Alexander arrives.  He finds two perfect pair of jeans and a much-needed distressed leather belt.  We go to pay and I take out my Citibank debit card.  The same card I used a few hours earlier for my boots.  “I’m sorry,"  the young, hip, nose-pierced cashier says.  “But your card has been declined.  Do you have another one you can use?”  I know my card should be fine.  I tell her to try again.  She does.  I can tell from her sorrowful eyes that my card has been rejected again.  I use my Amex and leave.

I get home and there’s a message on my phone asking me to call the Fraud Division at Citibank.  They’ve noticed suspicious activity on my card and have put a block on it. 

I call. The first person is so unhelpful I ask and get Chris, the supervisor.  Here’s the abbreviated version of a lengthy, frustrating and eventually pointless conversation.

Chris:  "We noticed suspicious activity on your account and that’s why we put a block on it."

Me:  "What kind of suspicious activity?"

Chris: "A pattern of unusual spending?"

Me:  "What do you mean?"

Chris:  "Multiple purchases at the same place."

Me:  "First of all, we are talking two purchases, and two is not multiple.  It is just one more than one.  Further, two does not a pattern make. A pattern is a series of events." (I know this Chris guy is hating me by now; I would hate me too if this weren't so moronic).  "And most importantly, are you saying that I can't buy more than one thing at the same  store?"

Chris (switching positions):  "Well, we flag accounts when we see unusually high-valued purchases."

Me:  "But these purchases weren’t expensive!" 

Chris (ignoring my comment):  "Our Fraud Division also tracks purchases in places where the cardholder doesn’t typically frequent."

Me (not calm, as you can imagine):  "Are you kidding me?  You mean I can only shop at places I have been to before?  And by the way, I was shopping in NYC and I LIVE HERE!"

I have a debit/credit card I can’t really use as a credit card because the Fraud Protection restrictions are so restrictive they prevent normal usage.

I think about this for awhile and then finally it dawns on me.  Oh I get it.  The only thing that makes any sense.

I must have a friend who has wiggled her way into Citibank's Fraud Division to prevent me from  buying clothes!