a brief history of sports-watching

I fell in love for the first time in the spring of 1967.  It was a short lived affair, over by the fall.  

The Boston Red Sox hadn't had a winning season since 1958.  But they started winning in 1967, and I became an ardent fan.  In the damp of April, I'd be driving somewhere, and my car radio would be tuned to a game. I'd listen with intensity every time Carl Yastrzemski came to the plate, or Rico Petrocelli made an amazing play at shortstop. I cried when Tony Conigliaro was injured.   I knew everyone's stats. That spring, I even drove with a  friend to an opening of some gas station, just so I could meet Jim Lonborg. That summer, I was a lifeguard at a local pool.  And next to my chair sat a portable radio. I never wanted to miss a game. It was a dream season. The Red Sox surprised everyone and won the American League pennant. But them heartbreakingly lost to the formidable Bob Gibson of the St. Louis Cardinals,  in the seventh game of the World Series. My love for the sport began and ended in that one season.

As a sophomore in high school, I was a cheerleader, along with all my friends, for the local Y's basketball team.  Half the cheerleaders (not me) were dating the seniors on the team. This made for some fun after-game parties. In fact, Mark K. went on to marry Ellen R.; they remain happily married all these many years later.  Mark's cousin Michael married Evelyn, also a fellow cheerleader and good friend.  That marriage, though long, did not end well.  

My first year at Gillette, in 1981, I was part of a football pool.  I never watched the games but you could give me the names of any two teams, and I could tell you the spread within a point. When my son played football in high school, I went to the games. His team was awful and his coach was abysmal (and was later fired).  But all the parents were always there to support the kids, hoping less for the win than that no one got hurt.  Thankfully no one ever did.

And finally, there is this year in football.  I watched little, until the post-season, when Alexander was home.

My son loves football. I wish his memory for historical or economic facts was as good as it is for football stats. In fact, he often quizzes me. How many current quarterbacks can you name? (Seven). Name any player other than Tom Brady who plays for the Patriots? (One and half, if you count my version of Gronkowski as Growbowski). I never do well in my son's sport quizzes, though I think I do finally understand the whole four-down thing.  I watched the heart-stopping post-season Patriots game against the Ravens.  And then sat at home texting Alexander furiously, in the incredible last minutes of the Seahawks-Packers game.  And deflate-gate or not, the Patriots wiped out the Colts.

I love Russell Wilson.  He strikes me as a smart, stand-up kind of guy.  He'll never be in the headlines for felony-deserving behavior.  And Tom Brady?  Well, he's pretty perfect (pun intended).  It should be — and hopefully will be — a well-matched and exciting Super Bowl.

Tomorrow is the big game. My son and his seven roommates will be hosting a party at school.  My female friends here have zero interest in watching. Everyone I know in Massachusetts will be going to parties. And this displaced Bostonian will be home alone watching Super Bowl XLIX.  

winter feet

It's winter and my skin is exceptionally dry, especially my heels.

A couple of years ago, I thought I'd found a remedy. I did an online search and ended up buying a cream with one of the worst names in branding history: 

Honestly, you'd think the marketing department over at Zim's could have come up with something better. Anyway. I did buy it, did use it, and did see no results.

Then, more recently, I come across another product — this one, an electronic foot file with a nice french-sounding name, and no mention of crack. The gushing reviews make the purchase impossible to resist.

I happen to be speaking to M when I say, "Hey, are your heels dry and calloused?"  This of course comes after after our analysis of weighty world issues.

M gets all animated and says, "Yes.  OMG.  I just bought the most amazing product.  I'm addicted to it."  I ask if it's the Amope.  She is still in bed, reaches over to her night table, and says, "Yes!!!! It's the best thing.  I use it everyday.  I was even told by a woman who works at a high-end Boston salon doing pedicures that I should seek medical attention for my rough, cracked heels. I bought this instead.  It's a miracle machine."  

So I try it.  And man, this thing really works.  It buzzes along, and kicks up (what looks like smoke) but is actually dead skin.  After a week, I see a significant improvement.  I'll spare you the picture.

Today I have an appointment at a podiatrist. I pick this guy for three reasons:  he takes my insurance; his reviews on ZocDoc are great; he's only a few blocks away; and he has a friendly face.  His name is Alan Rosen and I picked superbly. 


I bring my my new Amope with me as M wants me to show him the product and ask him a question.  So I do.

Me: Can you overuse this thing?
Dr. Rosen: Of course you can.
Me:  How will you know?
Dr. Rosen: You'll know when your skin becomes raw and starts to bleed.

With my new podiatrist and new Amope, I my feet are at last in good hands.  

an urban nightmare

Many years ago, soon after I moved to New York, I read a story about a young woman living somewhere on the Upper Westside. 

One day, she opened her linen closet, and there, nestled in among the sheets and towels, was a boa constrictor.  The woman called some reptile removal place. But by the time they arrived, the snake was gone.  

Apparently, someone in the building had this boa as a pet.  Somehow the snake had escaped (maybe through the pipes of the building) and ended up in this woman's apartment, never to be seen again.

I read this story a long time ago, but have never forgotten it.  If I had been that woman, I would have had to move. 

Which brings me to my own little horror show tonight.

I am sitting in bed, lost in All the Light We Cannot See, when I feel a plop, like something has just landed on my head.  I brush my fingers through my hair, and a giant bug falls out.  It is frighteningly huge, and is later described by an exterminator as "a super-sized roach that flies." I instinctively scream, then jump out of bed.

And then, I can't find the bug anywhere.  I take my bed apart.  I look under it, around it, inside the pillows, everywhere. It's gone.

I totally freak.  There is no way I can sleep in my room until that bug is found.

I go downstairs and am lucky.  Aziz, my favorite doorman, is just leaving for the night.  I am not afraid of bugs, only bugs in or near my bed.  He can see that I'm shaking and doesn't hesitate to help.

Aziz comes upstairs. With much effort, we stand up my mattress and look underneath.  No bug. We even look under the box spring.  Again, we find nothing.  Aziz says, "We've looked everywhere. I don't think he's here."  I beg him not to leave until we find him.  Then suddenly Aziz shouts, "There he is! There he is!" I see the bug scurrying across my bedroom floor.  Aziz is quick.  He gets him.  

I don't know how this bug got in, and I can only hope he came alone.

I'm just grateful it wasn't a ten-foot snake.

The comforting email I receive from M after sending her this picture doesn't help mitigate my fear.

"I have no idea what the hell that is.  I'd move."

much ado about nothing

6.3 inches in Central Park.

A very quiet city — no buses, taxis, cars or trucks.  

E. 79th St., looking east, 8:44am

First Avenue, looking north, 9:04 am

But hardly a winter wonderland.

So disappointing.

But few can sum up NYC's non-blizzard better than Jon Stewart, who begins his show with the announcement, "Our great city still stands."

http://on.cc.com/18tiX6U

the city prepares

Some would find the headline predictions scary; I find them thrilling.

Historic blizzard; the biggest New York City has ever seen.

Hurricane force winds.

Storm of epic proportions. 

Snow falling 2 to 4 inches per hour.

A foot and a half to two feet of snow expected.

Early this morning I go to Agata to pick up a few things.  It looks like the entire eastside is there, expecting to be locked inside for weeks.  Shopping carts are over packed.  These people must think they won't be outside for the next month. The line to pay snakes through the entire store, starting at the coffee bar at the entrance.  People are generally in a good mood.

Except for the lone woman behind the prepared foods counter; she is not happy.  Perhaps it's because she is the only one working this section and the line keeps growing.  As she is cutting up the whole roasted chicken I just selected (albeit while wearing rubber gloves; her, not me), she says (with attitude) to a nearby fellow employee, "I'm leaving soon.  I'm feeling sick."  I'm hoping she's just saying this because she doesn't want to handle all the crowds and is angry that she has to.  I even ask, "Are you really not feeling well?" but she ignores me.  Now I wonder if I'm buying a chicken that's been infected.  But there's no one else there to help, and I don't want to stand in any more lines.  I buy it and hope for the best.

It is snowing lightly and it's only 10am.

By two, the snow has picked up. 

East 79th, a major crosstown street, is deserted.

The governors of NY, NJ and Connecticut declare states of emergency. Businesses close early. Rush hour begins at one pm. Buses and subways will stop running at 11pm. And a travel ban is announced for all roads, also beginning at 11 pm, except for emergency vehicles. Even Judge Judy is cancelled in favor of more storm updates.

The snow keeps coming, but it's wet, and not that much has accumulated. But that's expected to change later tonight.  And so we wait. Some in awe. Some with dread. And some just happy for a day home from school.

monster storm on its way

It's Sunday night.  The big news is the impending snowstorm.  15-18 inches is the forecast. Starting Monday, into Tuesday.  I hope Al Roker and his friends are right.

I don't have to shovel; I don't have to drive; I can get to Agata easily; I have food in my fridge; and I'm not flying anywhere. 

The news excites me. I love the snow. 

When I was growing up, it used to snow a lot more than it does now.  I remember huge snowdrifts in front of my house, left by the plowers barreling up and down Brewster Road.  My sisters and I, along with all the other neighborhood kids, would build fortresses and snowmen.  We'd have snowball fights.  And go sledding at Thorny Lea, the golf course just up the street from my home.The better hills were at D. W. Parkway, near the tower.

But that required someone's parent to drive us. So typically we'd just drag our aluminum flying sauces  behind us, and walk to Thorny Lea.  Back then, 6-year-olds wandered the streets alone with others their same age. It wasn't unusual.

I miss those big blizzards.  The kind that last for days.  And where the snow stays white for more than just a few minutes.

The last big storm I remember was in January 1996. Alexander had juster turned four.  There was so much snow that East 78th Street was closed.

Some intrepid skiers even ventured up First Avenue being pulled by slow-moving cars.  

Last year it snowed a lot, but I don't remember any big blowout storms.  It's been a long time since the city has been buried in that beautiful white stuff.  

We are long overdue. I hope the forecast is right.

if you lug a lot...here's a product reco

In the spirit of people telling me, "Oh, I bought that curling hair dryer and love it."  Or, "Hey, I purchased that Japanese thermos you wrote about and liked it so much I bought more  and gave it to people as Christmas gifts." Here's something else to consider.

When I first started working for J. Hilburn, I needed a big bag for all my sample fabrics, catalogues, measuring tools, and forms.  I bought a rolling briefcase from Tumi. But it was too heavy and too big.  Dragging a rolling anything up and down subway stairs is not easy.  And forget boarding a train during rush hour. Then I got lucky.  The adjustable handle stopped working a week into using it, so I was able to return it.

M suggests a Tumi nylon carry-all called the Geneva.  She uses it for travel and loves it. So much so that she even makes me a video highlighting the bag's many compartments, pockets, and zippered spaces.

And the best thing? It's last year's model. I find it for almost 50% off on Tumi's site, and buy it in slate gray with black leather trim..

Today I use it for the first time.  I am going to Stamford to meet with a couple of new clients.  I love the functionality of this bag. It's lightweight, has a million pockets for organizing stuff, and fits everything I have.  I put my phone here, my glasses there, my Kindle in a side pocket, a lipstick in a small outer pocket, my coffee thermos on the large outside pocket, my wallet where I can easily access it, and all my J. Hilburn stuff in the middle.

I buy my ticket and board the train.  And then I can't find my phone.  I look everywhere.  I even ask a stranger nearby to call me, assuming I'll hear my phone ring.  I hear nothing.  I wonder if Worth Avenue Insurance covers for theft?  An hour train ride each way and no phone.  I think I'm as upset about the possibility of being phone-less as I am about the cost of buying a new phone.

I sit down.  Pour some coffee.  Find my paper.  Then find my phone — hiding in a pocket I'd forgotten about. 

Bottom line:  
This is a fantastic, more than decent-looking bag.  Looks professional but not too business-y. Great for carting stuff around the city, telecommuting, or for travel.  Brilliant for compartmentalizing; just remember where you put things. And then, if you want it, buy last year's model for over 40% off, and let me know what you think. I'd love to hear.  And no, I am not affiliated in any way with Tumi.

good news, first of its kind

I am on the phone with Erik from Apple and I see Alexander's number pop up on my caller ID.  This never happens.  Well, not often.

To reach Alexander, I need to text him first and ask him to call. I have learned that my unannounced calls will be ignored. I have reluctantly come to accept this.  So I need to text my son and ask him to call, and then he will.  But the time between text and call back is inversely proportionate to my needs.

"Call me," for example, is sufficiently vague to suggest a relaxed response.  But my son knows that this means there is something I really want to talk with him about, so a text like this usually takes additional clarifying texts.

Something more pointed, as in, "Call me.  Did you follow-up with your $90 refund from Short Line Bus?" could be ignored entirely.  Especially when the answer is — a very likely no.

But if I write, "Hey, what do you think of Deflation-gate?  Call me." Then I expect a quick response. Maybe even immediate.  

Same with, "I just watched Magnolia.  You were right, great movie. I have a question on it.  Call me."  This too will result in a very fast call back.  Although sometimes he gets suspicious and thinks of this kind of text as a ruse to get him to call me faster. He'll call me, but preface the call with,  "This better be why you wanted me to call."

But an unsolicited call from Alexander?  Very rare.  So when it happens today, I even put Erik from Apple on hold.

"Hi.  I can't talk.  I'm on the phone with Apple.  Let me call you right back."

My son ignores this and begins talking as If I've just said, "Hi.  What's up?"

"I got my grade." He's referring to the 3-credit, two-week course he just completed on Green World Blue Planet.  "I got a B+."

"Great," I say. 

"No, I'm just kidding.  I got an A+."

Since Alexander has been at Cornell, I have never gotten a call like this.  I'm thrilled.  He tells me his GPA will now increase by .05 points.

I wonder if instead of enrolling during Fall and Spring semesters, Alexander should have just taken classes during summer and winter breaks. There would be no distractions and an empty campus. Probably wouldn't have been much fun, but he'd have an enviable GPA.

a party, or sorts

I am invited to something I've never been to before: a networking party for women.

At least that's what I'm told it is.  The invitation reads, 

For the newbies on the list, this is an ever-evolving gathering of terrific women with the sole intent of sharing what’s going on for each of us, seeking counsel if so desired, and sharing a glass or two or wine, cheese, etc. 

Karen is hosting.  I reconnected with Karen in December, having not been in touch with her for over ten years.  We met briefly once, when I was looking for a job. Great is an adjective easily attributed to Karen. Great apartment. Great organizer. Great communicator. Great at keeping people focused. Great at making everyone feel welcome and important.  

About 12 women show up. All are accomplished and interesting. It's the perfect sized group. Small enough to sit around in a big circle and have one conversation, but big enough to have vastly different perspectives — from the practical to the more spiritual, from those seeking happiness to those seeking income, to those who believe the two can and should be intertwined.

Most of the woman have or had careers in television (which is also Karen's and my background). But others have chosen different paths.  There's also an accomplished blogger (as in 100,000 page views/month), a head of catering (at arguably the best bakery in Manhattan), a web entrepreneur, an ex-Google exec, a life coach, a prize-winning documentary filmmaker, a PR head, a non-for profit expert, a trainer and off-Broadway musical writer, and a rescued-animal advocate. It's an eclectic group of women. Some are more settled in their lives than others. Some are looking for advice/help. Some are happily in limbo while others are actively seeking new positions.

I've never participated in anything like this. I'm one of those weird people who actually likes going to meetings.  As long as they are led well. The participants have something of value to say. And you leave feeling the time has well spent.  Check. Check. And check.

a pop-up bar

I remember when I first heard about pop-up stores.  

It was 2006 and I was working at PHD Media.  Mostly everyone I worked with was young and hip. They knew all the latest trends, hottest restaurants, and best music. It was easy to feel old.

Now pop-ups are commonplace.  Just a couple of years ago I went to a pop-up hair styling bar. Free blowouts in midtown.  It was great.

Tonight I am meeting Eric W for drinks.  He lives on the westside, but graciously offers to meet somewhere in my neighborhood.  He impresses me even more by picking a new (as in opened six days ago) bar.  In fact, this new bar will have a short life; it closes January 24th.  It is described as a mescal den and is called Bar Illegal.  Something trendy on the eastside — that doesn't happen often.

I walk over. There isn't even a sign on the door, making the place feel even more special.  Though I'm not a big frequenter of bars, this is exactly the kind of bar I like.  Dark, cavernous, candle-like lighting, quiet, crowded enough to know you are somewhere good, but not too crowded to be loud.

Eric is already there when I arrive, sitting with two shot glasses of tequila infused with ginger (one is for me). He is easy to talk to, interesting, and knows a lot about a lot of things. Our conversation is all over the place: current news stories, photography and cameras, football playoffs, the death penalty, theater and movies, family enigmas, and some personal reveals.  We flip from topic to topic, comfortably and often.  And the two additional shots of tequila taste better and better.  

As we are about to leave, someone at the table next to ours says, "Is that your glove?"  I look over and see my favorite fingerless leopard glove sitting on the red leather banquet I just vacated. But there is only one. The other is gone.  I check my pockets, the floor, and my bag. Nada.  The iPhone flashlight with its laser beam is pulled out by more than one person and an earnest search begins. Everyone is treating this as a major loss, making me love this new bar even more.  But alas, I leave one-gloved.

I come home, take off my coat, and snuggled in the arm is the second glove.  A good omen, I'm sure.

going darker

Last year I added  bright bleached streaks to the front of my hair.  I liked it for a while.  I liked it even after one of my sisters asked, "Did you do that on purpose?"

For the past couple of years, my hair has become lighter (not exactly by itself). My natural hair color is dark brown, almost black.  And that's what it's always been. But as I've grown older, it's become harder and harder to maintain.  White roots are a lot more noticeable bursting through a head of dark tresses than blond ones.  

But as my hair has grown lighter, I've begun to feel more like someone else.  So yesterday when I saw Lyo, I asked her to darken my base.  She did, and  even added a few lowlights. I'm still lighter than my natural color, but closer to feeling like me (even though I'm not really sure what that means).

book club sans book

Eight of us meet. Betsy is hosting. 

Tonight has been planned more as a get-together than a book discussion. Unlike most meetings, Betsy goes all out and makes a four-course meal: appetizers, salad, main course, and dessert.  Well, actually, Betsy's husband makes the meal. He artfully makes some kind of baked dish of cauliflower and parmesan, couscous, and meatballs. Everything is delicious. Dessert is cut up fruit and an amazing upside down apple tart, prepared in a cast iron pan.

Tonight's book club is more like a dinner party.  Our animated conversations cover a wide range of topics. From:

Je suis Charlie, and freedom of speech

to

The economics of working women.

to

Summer camp.  One in the group attended a liberal summer camp, where all campers were required to write letters to LBJ in protest of the Vietnam War.  She was 7 at the time.

to

Our kids, who are all in college, about to start, or freshly out.

to

The job market.

to

Losing a parent.

to

Our children's boyfriends and girlfriends, even the ones we don't like.

to

The flu, picking swatches for a slipcover, and much in between.

This is a smart, strong and likable group of women.  The common bond is parenting; we all met through either elementary or middle school.  We all do different things professionally.  Among us is a lawyer, a programmer, a college professor at an Ivy League school, an artist and performer, a world traveler, a banker, a therapist, and a manager of a rock band (featuring her three sons).  Six of us are Jewish; four are not (although one is married to a Jewish man).  Three have lived abroad, including one who grew up in Holland.  Most of us grew up on the east coast, though one of us is from Nebraska. Four of us are single; the rest are married.  When we started the book club, only two of us were single. We've shared our thoughts on books, but also on politics, social changes, and most importantly, our personal life challenges.

I joined this book club in September 2004.  We even had a rule back then: no hardcover book recommendations because, "They're too heavy to carry around."  I was so happy when Amazon introduced the Kindle.

So I host next.  I'm already nervous about what to serve.  If only Andy were for hire.

lost font

I lose a lot of things, some more memorable than others.

I still miss my  long, Calvin Klein pale yellow raincoat. I was living in Chicago then, and the purchase was a splurge.  But oh did I love that coat.  And then one day it was gone.  I think I may have left it on an plane, or at an airport, but I'm not sure.  I still remember the clean lines of the coat, its great color, and how special I felt every time I put it on.  I think it was more than a year before I gave up thinking it might magically reappear.

More recently I mourned the loss of a my favorite S. T. Dupont ballpoint pen that I got when I worked at Gillette in the early 80's.  At the time, Gillette owned this luxury pen maker and employees were able to buy rejected pens that sell for over $300 for $35.  I never let this pen outside the house, and was amazingly able to hold on to it for over 30 years.  Then, a few months ago, it disappeared. I have searched every coat pocket, every bag, and every drawer.  I still believe it will one day just show up.

I have lost plenty of Metrocard cards.

Keys.

Surprisingly, never a wallet, at least none I can remember.

Gloves.  

A bike once.  In college, I left my green Schwinn on my boyfriend's porch and in the morning it was gone.  But I suppose that falls more in the category of stolen than lost.

Debit cards.

Credit cards.  I have had many Amex cars Fed Expressed to my house.  They were never stolen, just lost.

And then there was my Toyota Corolla in Boston. M and I went to get my car one night and it was gone.  Turns out I had accidentally parked in a neighbor's space instead of my own, so he had me towed.  M and I ended up at a towing lot at midnight.  But I guess that doesn't really fit the category of lost, just temporarily misplaced.

I've left packages on subways and buses, and have gotten home absent the thing I just bought.

I've lost single earrings.

Phone.  Never lost that.  

But in all my many years of losing things, never have I lost a font.  That is, until, now.

Somehow, Century Gothic is no longer part of my Font Book.  

This discovery comes after hours and hours on the phone with a great senior tech guy named Andrew from Apple.  "How did I lose a font?" I ask, totally bewildered by this unforeseen conclusion as to why I can't send emails any more in my favorite default font.

"I have no idea, but it's gone."  The only solution Andrew can offer is reinstalling my Operating System. Much as I love my font, it's not worth that! 

So I'm going to have to live without Century Gothic.  I am substituting with Avenir Next, but it just doesn't feel right.  It doesn't have that rounded, familiar, comfortable look.

Maybe I'll get used to my new default font.  But in the meantime, if you find my Century Gothic, please let me know.  I miss it.

that annual thing

I think about canceling the day before.  I conjure a million reasons to reschedule, but in the end conclude I'm being ridiculous.  So I go.

Men are lucky.  The anxiety of having a mammogram is huge.  Your breasts are squished onto a cold glass plate while a heavy machine is lowered onto them until they become flattened.  You are asked to hold your breath.  And then the technician says, "Just relax."   As if that's even possible.

But it's not the discomfort that makes the visit dreaded; it's the imagination and the what if's that do.  After the actual mammogram, I wait a few minutes and a doctor comes out and asks to see me.  I think he has a funny look on his face.  I think my life is about to change.  I literally begin to feel weak in the knees.  But he smiles warmly  and tells me everything is good. I'm immediately flooded with relief.  

Next is the sonogram.  Within minutes of slathering up with a warm gel all over my breasts, I strike up a conversation with the beautiful, blond, dimpled Juliane.  By the time the exam is over, we have shared confidences that are usually reserved for the best of friends.  I immediately like her and start thinking.  Hmmm.  I would love to work with her.  She is poised, gorgeous, personable, and men would love her.  She looks stylish even dressed in a white lab coat.  By the time I leave, we have exchanged cards, and she is excited about possibly joining my J. Hilburn team (well, actually she would be the first and only person on my team).

When the doctor comes in to tell me that everything is fine, I've almost forgotten why I'm even there.

visit with a stranger

I get a call from a man I don't know.

He entered his zip code on the J. Hilburn site and my name and contact info popped up.  He tells me,  "I am not interested in buying shirts.  I just need a few suits."  He asks me a lot of questions about the process; he lives nearby; he sounds perfectly nice.  We are on the phone for about 30 minutes, ending with an appointment for last week.

But then Henry (not his real name) gets a cold and cancels.  A few emails and texts later, we schedule an appointment for today.

But then I start thinking.  I watch a lot of Dateline and 48 Hours.  Interesting that the two businesses I am now involved in require visiting apartments with strangers.  But I'm a trusting person, and think I am good at telling if someone is decent.  Although those who met Ted Bundy probably thought the same thing.

Henry says he's in his 60's, is a grandfather, lives in a nice building, and has a beautiful British accent.  To be safe, I set up a  precautionary system with M. She will call me twenty minutes into my appointment.  If I say, "I'm sorry the shirt doesn't fit," she will send the police.  

But of course that isn't necessary.  Henry is a perfect gentleman, and very personable. I learn about all three of Henry's sons, see pictures of them as well as his grandkids, see paintings his father-in-law did when he was a young man, learn that his couch is 79 inches long while most are 84, find out that all of his sons are "very, very smart: one's a partner in a law firm; one's an architect; and one's a banker." I also learn that Henry recently bought 15 ties on the internet and shows me one.  I see a  sport jacket Henry bought many years ago that he takes from his closet, puts on, then  asks me to guess its age.  I learn that until recently, Henry had 80 suits, but now he is down to 40, and plans to donate another 20 soon.  Henry wants to update his suit collection, "But as you can see, I really don't need any new ones."

I measure Henry. Then he spends lots and lots of time looking through all the fabrics, carefully analyzing each one, and asking questions no one else has ever asked.  For example, "What is the gram or ounce weight of the suiting  materials?"  I call J. Hilburn and they don't have that information.  He looks at more fabrics.  Then, after almost two hours, Henry sits back in his chair and says, "There are three unknowns that concern me.  Number one.  I don't know the weight of the jackets. Number two.  I don't know what the actual suit will look like (he says he can't tell from the detailed drawings, and sample photos).  And number three.  There are excellent tailors in the neighborhood I could use for custom clothes."  I think, WTF?  I say, (as politely as possible), "So, does that mean you don't want to purchase anything?"  I try to smile.

Henry smiles back and says, "I'll tell you what.  Let's order a sports coat, and we'll see how that goes."  And so we do.  He chooses my least favorite style (patch pockets and double-breasted) and one of my least favorite colors (a plain khaki wool).

Already I'm anticipating its return.  I hope Henry surprises me.

need just five men

I am not asking you to find me a job.

I am not asking you to invest in me.

I am not asking you to spend money.

I am simply asking you to email me five names.

Through this blog, I connected with a woman who introduced me to J. Hilburn, a clothier for men.  I did some research on the company and was impressed.  Two Wall Street guys started the business in 2007, and by 2013, J. Hilburn was the fastest growing custom menswear brand in the world, with sales of $55 million. 

After seeing the fabrics, and meeting some of the senior executives, I was sold.  J. Hilburn's quality is exceptional; I would not feel comfortable selling the brand if it weren't.  And so in late October, I became a personal stylist for them.  I love their products and I love what I do.  And, it is possible to make a living doing this, which is my goal. But I need more clients.

So I was thinking, if everyone who reads this blog could send me five referrals, it could really help launch my business, and the males in your life would be introduced to luxury clothing at a reasonable price. 

Brioni and Zegna, for example, use the exact same fabrics (from the exact same mills) that J. Hilburn does.

Five names.  That's all.

Send me five names (or more if you can) of males who would be interested in seeing what J. Hilburn offers. I just need their names, email addresses, and phone numbers. You can email me at lynj@me.com.

I would then send an email to your referrals introducing them to J. Hilburn. They will get a coupon for $25 if they buy something for $125 or more (within 30 days), and you would get one too.

Your referrals don’t even have to live in Manhattan, although that would be preferable. I can't measure a man from Chicago for a custom shirt (unless he’s visiting NY). However, he might like the ready-to-wear and accessories offered by J. Hilburn.

https://lynfamilant.jhilburn.com

The fabrics are gorgeous. Egyptian cotton for all the shirts. Esquire Magazine even named J. Hilburn as having the best dress shirt, offering "tons of fabric and styling options” (with prices starting at $99). And, fit is guaranteed.  If the shirt doesn't fit, it will be totally remade.

The wools and cashmeres are from the best mills in Italy, including Loro Piana. 

Prices are significantly less than one would find for comparable products at retail because there is no middleman. Suits start at $745.

Perfect for professional men.

Perfect for your son, brother, boyfriend, nephew or grandson who may be starting out in the business world.

Perfect for that recent, or soon-to-graduate senior who wants to look good for interviews, or his first job.

Perfect for any man looking for great style — in casual, business or formal wear.

Just five names. 

• You’d be helping me launch my business.

• You could feel good about helping someone out.

• But most importantly, you'd be introducing your male friends and relatives to high quality apparel at below retail costs.

I deeply appreciate your consideration.  Yikes, I sound like I’m accepting a Golden Globe.  At this stage in life, I think I’d rather have the names of five good men than a statue.  But then if I had that statue, I might have all the men I need.

why all the fuss?

The news is not good.

Random acts of violence around the world.
A 30-year old son shoots and kills his hedge fun dad for cutting his allowance.
A man tosses his child off a bridge.
The NYC police turn their collective  backs on the mayor.
And the frigid cold.

Local and national news does not make one feel good about the state of things, both at home and thousands of miles away.  We are no longer safe anywhere.

But the cold?

For the homeless and the poor it can be tragic.  And for those working outside it can be miserable. But for most of us, it shouldn't even be an inconvenience.  Dress warm, and enjoy.  

The sun on your face. 
The crisp, clean air.
The joy of being able to get out.
The possibility of striking up a conversation with a stranger.

I am in Chinatown, waiting for an uptown bus.  The woman next to me is standing, also waiting, but without gloves.  I ask her why she's not wearing gloves.  She forgot them.  And then, for about 35 city blocks, I learn a lot about her.  She's Russian. Her name is Irene.  She lives in Brooklyn, is married, and his going to her house near Hunter Mountain today. Irene's husband (who is not interested in a custom shirt, I ask) is picking her up later and will bring her gloves. Irene's daughter is in school in Florida. She's doing post-grad work to become a medical technician. She's beautiful. And an excellent tennis player too. She doesn't listen to her mom as often as she should (what child does?). It's obvious how much Irene adores her.

If you wear the right clothes and open your eyes, there's a lot to appreciate.  Even when it's very very cold. 

small problem, nice solution

I've often heard, "Don't forget, half the doctors out there graduated at the bottom of their class." You just have to hope your doctor isn't one of them.

Well, it's the same thing when you call a company's Customer Service number. Sometimes you get a person who barely speaks English, or has no knowledge of your problem but pretends to, or is having a very bad day and loathes you before you say a word.

But sometimes, on rare occasions, you might get lucky.  Just as I did today.

I have been having a problem with my TV.

The "start over" option for The Today Show isn't working; in fact, it hasn't worked for months.  I've called Time Warner Cable (TWC) before.  I've been told to try this and try that; I try this and I try that and nothing works.  I hate calling my cable company so a month goes by before I try again.

Next time I get someone was tells me it's my two cable boxes (never mind the fact that one is from Cisco and the other from Samsung). "We will  fix it on our end in 48 to 72 hours. If not, you'll have to get new boxes."  A week goes by and nothing has changed. 

Today I happen to be talking to my neighbor and she is having the same problem.  Clearly it's not the boxes.

So today I call again.  

"Hi, this is Laurie, how can I help?"  Even starting out Laurie sounds smart and really eager to be of service. She has that kind of voice that says, "Don't worry, we'll figure this out."

I explain my problem.  She listens patiently and then surprises me by saying, " I know exactly what you mean.  It happened to me also.  I spent a lot of time troubleshooting and researching before discovering that it's the network.  NBC has decided not to offer this option any more."  Not good news, but at least I know it has nothing to do with my cable service.  Why did the people I spoke to before Laurie not know this?

I mention to Laurie that there are two movies I want to watch, both on networks I don't subscribe to.  I ask, "Is it possible to get these for a short period of time?"  Laurie responds, "I'll just give you both movie channels for a month. You shouldn't have been given wrong information twice."  And poof, within minutes I have both EPIX and STARZ.

I take Laurie's extension for any future issues, and hang up thinking, ya know, maybe Time Warner's been given a bad rap.  

I wonder how long these warm and fuzzy feelings will last?

first snow

If you have the right clothing, how can you not love winter?

I bundle up.  Long shearling with big shawl collar. Wool hat. Gloves with actual fingers. Ugg boots. I grab my camera and head for Central Park.

Today is the first snowfall of the season, and the city is not ready for it.  Buses up and down Lexington have stopped and the passengers have been asked to get off.  The roads have not been plowed and the bus drivers are saying it's too slippery to drive.

Traffic is at a standstill.  It's faster to be on foot.

The temperature is low, but there is no wind. It feels good.  I almost wish I'd worn a lighter coat.

Just a few feet from honking horns and creeping taxis is the pristine park.  

A winter wonderland, just steps a way from the chaos of the city.

This truly is a glorious place to live. Especially when it snows.