my apartment expands

Eight am.  I'm still asleep after a late night of Oscar-watching.

I hear loud banging, like long metal beams dropping on the sidewalk outside my window.

I look out and see exactly that: long metal beams being dropped on my sidewalk.

About ten workmen are unloading a truck.  It's filled with all sorts of stuff that's going to be erected in front of my bedroom and living room windows. Every ten years, by law, NYC requires repointing. In layman's terms, I think that means replacing the gunk between all the bricks. 

Creating a scaffold is the first step in this very long process. That's what the workers are doing today.

All day I listen to impossibly loud banging.  The beams are not lowered slowly. They are dropped. First on the sidewalk. And later on the planks outside my windows. Metal makes a lot of noise.

Last time repointing was done I remember two things.  It took forever.  And, more alarmingly, a large extended family of mice now had easier access to my apartment, and decided to camp out in my stove.  It was an absolute nightmare.

So now my street view is totally obstructed. I can no longer see if it's warm or cold by what people are wearing.  I can no longer see if the red blinking truck is for a fire engine in front of my building or for the one next door.  And I can no longer see the trees that line my street and that one day soon (assuming this winter will one day end) will bear cascades of white blossoms.

But on the positive side, I finally have a wrap-around terrace.

family reunion

I can't remember the last time I saw Jodi.  It may have been her wedding in 1984. 

She's my first cousin and lives in Massachusetts.  Her mother and my father are siblings.

Over the past few years, Jodi and I have become FaceBook friends and Words With Friends competitors.  She knows more obscure words than anyone else I play with. We now exchange brief texts, mostly on the level of, "Good play." Or, "Go Patriots." Still, it's nice to have reconnected after so many years.

A couple of days ago Valerie texts me that Jodi, her husband and their two sons are meeting at Fred's for brunch, and would I like to join them. Jodi's younger son Alex is in a play at 59E59, and they are all going.  

Jodi looks fantastic.  Her husband, whom I've never met, whispers to me, "It's about time." So sweet, I think. And he's right.  They've been married long enough to have two great boys, 28 and 25.  I meet them both today. Everyone agrees to a photo, as who knows when we'll all be together again.  Sooner, rather than later, I hope.

me, Ben, Alex, David
Jodi, Valerie, Abbey

hosting book club

Six women plus me.  Three couldn't make it.

Some people can whip something up on a moment's notice, and then serve it all beautifully.  I wish I had the skills and confidence to pull something like that off.  I don't.

Again it's very cold day; seven degrees with the sun out.  And, I have no heat (by choice).  So a little space heater will have to do.  I tell my guests to dress warm.  They are not deterred.

I contemplate and reflect multiple food options.  

Shari A's cold pasta dish? No, not good for a freezing cold night.

M's bourbon meatballs? Would be great if it didn't require a trip to Costco that I don't want to make.

Jean's lasagna?  Too much work, and too fattening if there are leftovers.

I finally opt for the simplest.  I'll order in pizza and make a salad.  I go to Agata and get salsa, prima donna aged cheese (amazing) and chips/bread for before. A pear tart for after.  A couple of bottles of red wine for during.

Table set. I'm anxious, even though these are people I've known for years and the one trait they all have in common is their lovely non-judgy attitude.

I had recently ordered a four-sided nail file from Amazon, and instead of getting one I received twenty. They make nice party favors.

Lynn, Andrea, Betsy and Laurie (l . to r.)

Laurie, Lynn and Andrea

Betsy, Lynn, Kathleen, Andrea, Penny, Laurie (l. to r.)

The food is fine, but it certainly isn't what makes the night. It never is.

bad date

As in me.  Not him.

First of all I'm late.

This is not intentional.  I leave in plenty of time, but don't count on the bus being 15 minutes late and crawling across 79th Street.  I arrive about 10 minutes after Eric W., who is already at the bar waiting.  Two glasses of red wine are in front of him.  I like that he knows I prefer red to white even though I don't ever recall telling him.

The meal and conversation are excellent.  Eric is a witty conversationalist and an active listener. He's versed on many subjects, but also interested in what I have to say.  Soon after arriving it feels like it's time to leave.

Eric picks the restaurant; he does well. I pick the play; I fail miserably.

It's a one-man show called The Bullpen.  Reviews are outstanding. The actor, an ex-con, tells his story of being tried, and subsequently convicted of attempted murder and other tawdry charges. The critics love him.   

Hilarious one-man show full of heart and humility.

An extremely funny look at a dreadful situation.

Strap yourself in for a wild ride...at this insanely entertaining and thought-provoking one-man show.

Remarkable stage debut.

Brimming with keen wit and well-crafted dialogue

70 minutes. 2 Trials. 18 Characters. 

70 minutes feels like three hours. Eric and I are sitting in the front row of a half-filled small theater. I don't want to offend the actor, so I pretend to look engaged.  I can't understand half the characters the star is playing. Their broken-English is so broken I don't know what they're saying.  I also don't care. The story of the trial itself is not all that interesting told once, and in this short play, it is told twice — once as a mock trial and once as a real one.  It's a struggle to stay awake.  My leg is cramping. Did the critics see something else and mistake it for this play?

After the show Eric suggests going out for a drink.  I am so spent from sitting through this agonizingly bad play, I just want to go home.

So I arrive late. Recommend an awful play. Then turn down an after-dinner drink.  

Bad date?  That must be me. 

playing with M

M has a two hour conference call and I have a hair coloring appointment.  That doesn't leave a whole lot of time to play.  So instead we focus on some maintenance.

We get our brows shaped and tinted with Heidi at Benefit.  I think Heidi is great and leave pleased. M's experience is a little less favorable.  She goes to Bloomingdales and is accosted by people at the various cosmetics counters.  Two different people tell her that one eyebrow is darker than the other, so she later returns to Heidi to get it fixed.  But these same people get her in a chair, and slather her with the world's best ointments, oils, and neck creme.

"Such a difference."
"Here, look in the mirror."
"Check out how good your neck looks." (Not that it looked bad before).
"If you can only get one thing, you must get the neck creme.  It is amazing."

It's also $600.  M passes.

At 8:30, appropriately primped and shaped, we meet M's son Sam and his girlfriend Josie for dinner at Park Avenue Winter, one of my favorite restaurants.  It's restaurant week and many of the city's best restaurants have $38 prix fixe 3-course meals.  Ours is amazing, even with half the ingredients being things I've never heard of.

Here are our appetizers.

Josie's kale and manchego salad with chorizo and chestnut honey

Sam and M get the squash soup with toasted pepitas

my scallop sandwich

The main course.

Josie's amish chicken with savoy cabbage and black garlic vinaigrette

Sam and M's braised short rib with roots and aliums

my everything-crusted  branzino (inspired by the everything bagel)
with smoked cream cheese and pickled onions

And then of course dessert.

the Park Avenue Chocolate Cube is the clear winner

easy and delicious

M leaves 96 inches of snow in Boston. A buried house. A leaky roof. Eight foot high snow drifts. An icy driveway converted to a sled run. And drives to NYC.

She arrives around 8:30, carrying (among other things) two beautifully packed sword fish steaks, a bag of lemons, and herbs de provence.  M is the perfect guest; once she brought a Tempur-Pedic mattress to replace the very old one in Alexander's room where M sleeps when she visits.

As M is driving up First Avenue she calls.  "Preheat the oven to 375.  I should be there in five minutes."

She comes in, says hi, and within minutes is at work.  I have the sides.  

Within twenty minutes we are sitting in front of my TV watching the pre-recorded SNL 40-year anniversary special, eating a meal worthy of any top restaurant.

So here's the recipe. It's from Abby, M's college roommate, who now lives in sunny California.  

Start with a great piece of swordfish.  About 3/4 inch thick.  Trim the skin on the sides and then cut the "bloody" part. At least that's what M likes to have done.

-Shovel snow off grill (no need if you live out West). 

-Turn grill on  (If you live in NYC, pre-heat oven to 375). 

-Make a "pan" out of foil...just take a piece of foil and fold up about an inch on the edges and crimp the corners so that liquid doesn't run off 

-Coat fish lightly in olive oil and lemon juice...leave excess in the foil pan 

-Chop up a bunch of herbs (like thyme, parsley, dill) and some lemon zest. When chopped, spread on both sides of the fish.  Add some salt and pepper to both sides. (Instead, M users herbs de provence with lavender). 

-Put the tin foil with the fish on it onto the grill. Turn the grill down to about half heat. (cook at 375 if you are not using a grill). 

-Now the "ten minutes per inch" rule kicks in...total cooking time is 10 minutes per inch of thickness.  Cook a little longer on the first side than the second.  Tongs and a spatula are really helpful in flipping the fish over.  (M does 5-7 inches per side).

all about the cold

Stay In.

Near Record Cold.

Skin Numbing Temperatures.

Siberian Express Brings Record Lows to Millions.

Extreme Snap Grips Region.

Cross-Country Deep Freeze.

Even the brutal beheadings of 21 Egyptian Christians comes second to the headlines about the weather. 

Today I am helping a colleague with an open house downtown.  The sun is out, and yes, there are even brave people walking around.  Some with young children.  Babies even. They are not paying attention to the media hype.

I have all the right clothes for a day like this.  A long shearling coat that I bought in July 2004 and still looks great as it is rarely worn. 

A hat. A rabbit fur scarf that I bought a couple of years ago at a Saks outlet. I even wear gloves with fingers, something I almost never do.

I bundle up and go outside.  It actually feels invigorating. The open house is busy, filled with lots of people who are ignoring the dire warnings to stay in.  

My apartment is generally hot, so a few years ago I had my radiators removed.  Tonight my bedroom is a brisk 63 degrees, great for sleeping but little else.

But as cold as it is here in New York, and it is rather cold...

my son is always somewhere colder.

a lucky friday the 13th

February 13, 1970.  A Friday. That was the day I met Bob.

I was wandering around the Tufts campus with a few friends.  It was a cold night, and we were about to leave.  I hadn't yet transferred to Tufts, but in two years I would, for the person I was about to meet.

He was standing at an ice-cream truck in the middle of the Tufts quad, near Carmichael.  He was buying an ice-cream.  Strange to think about that now.  I mean, why would an ice-cream truck go to a college campus in winter? But anyway, it was there that night and so was Bob, a cute freshman. I don't remember how we started talking, but I do remember that my friends disappeared, I ended up in Bob's room, and he quickly became my first real boyfriend.

Bob, me, Brenda and ???

By the time we graduated, we were no longer a couple, though I wanted to be. But there was always that connection.

last day at Tufts, June 1973

A couple of years out of college, and I was falling in love with Don.  Still, I visited Bob in Greenville North Carolina where he was a VISTA volunteer.

Bob even flew in from California to attend my wedding to Tim.  Then later, he and his girlfriend (and later his wife) joined my new husband and me on our honeymoon to Martha's Vineyard.  That's even stranger to think about now than the ice-cream truck in February.

August  27, 1977

Our volatile relationship was filled with passion, and all the good and bad that passion brings. Our subsequent friendship has been more stable, and has lasted all these years.

I don't see Bob often, as he no longer has much business in New York.  But we speak regularly and keep up with each other's lives.  

My 18-year old self had good taste.  I was first attracted to Bob because he was cute, smart, and athletic.  He was also ethical, confident, and fun.  The content of his character has not changed. And even though he's become a full-blown Republican, he remains one of my favorite people.

Happy 45th.

a thursday evening party

Tonight I am going to the 9th Annual Beat the Winter Blues party, hosted by a couple of Horace Mann parents, Ida and David.

A few years ago, when Ida and I were fellow moms at Horace Mann, we worked together on the school's annual benefit.  I must have gotten on her invite list back then, and am happy she has kept me on the list. 

I am not a party person, never have been.  I especially feel awkward in rooms filled with happy couples who presumably know each other well.  But it is nice to be invited, and I have no good reason not to go.  

It is an open house party, from six to ten.  I arrive around seven and the two coat racks outside the apartment are already filled.  Before I even make it across the living room to the bar, I see about ten people I know, most of whom I haven't seen in a while.  My fear of standing around alone pretending to be comfortable dissipates.

Ida makes all the food (except for the sushi and the most enormous shrimp I've ever seen);  it is impressive and plentiful.  I eat more than one dinner's worth, while sipping two glasses of some kind of winter sangria that is outstanding.  

Many of us know each other through our children.  So the first question is usually about the kids and what they're doing. I met  Shari in elementary school and her twins are already in grad school. Jennifer and Ida still have kids who haven't yet graduated high school; I am a bit jealous of them. But Chris has a son at Cal Tech and a daughter at Chicago; I am happy my son is closer. Once past the kids, the conversation turns to the adults and what we are up to. I don't have much to say about me. I do enjoy talking to Ed and what he thinks of the whole Brian Williams debacle.  He is a PR professional with experience in something called reputation management; his perspective is an interesting one. 

I come home sated with drink, food, and good adult conversation. I hope I stay on the list.

mark on madison

A few weeks ago I buy a Groupon for a hair cut. The salon is in a high-rent district near me, and the reviews are great.  I make an appointment for today.  

I have never had a bad experience with a Groupon.  

The salon, Mark on Madison, is in a quiet residential building.  When I arrive, a few people are by the windows.  "Hurry! Hurry! There he is."  Everyone seems very excited.  A big celebrity I figure. "Look at all the people with their cameras out," says one client as she rushes to get her iPhone. "I'm not sure who he is, but I happen to have my camera and catch a shot of him.  

A red-tailed hawk perched on a streetlight in the middle of Madison Avenue.  An unusual site, but still, I'd have preferred George Clooney.

While I'm waiting for Mark, a woman comes over to me and says, "Since we're fellow bird- lovers (which, by the way, I absolutely am not), let me give you my card."  She then hands me a business card that identifies her as a realtor from Corcoran.  Maybe this is what I'm doing wrong.  I would never think to randomly hand my Bellmarc card out at a hair salon. "I'm new," she adds, as if this explains it.

Mark arrives on time, and I immediately like him.  He's young, friendly, confident and adorable.

I hand him a picture I took off my TV and ask his opinion.

He doesn't hesitate.  "Absolutely not; that's too 80's.  You need something more modern."  I instantly develop absolute faith in him and tell him to  just go ahead, but keep it on the long side.

He does a great job.  He's fast (but not rushed), efficient, and clearly skilled.  

The end result is great.  

The matching attire is purely accidental.

sad news at Cornell

Everyday, just pick up a newspaper, turn on the news, or look online.  You'll easily find more than one story that makes you want to hold your child a little closer and tell him (or her), "Be careful. One careless step, or one reckless act, can ruin, or even kill you." 

There are over 14,000 undergraduates at Cornell.  The chances of asking a student if they know someone and getting a positive response are low.

Last summer, Alexander was moving out of one apartment into another.  He had a few days between the end of one lease and the beginning of the next one.  So he had the problem of where to dump all his stuff (and himself) for a few days. He asked a student in his apartment complex if he and his belongings could stay in his room for a few days. Alexander offered to pay the student $50.  I remember Alexander calling me and saying, "Hey, this kid is really nice.  He said sure, but and he's only going to charge me $20."  Who does that?  

I get an email from the school last week.

It turns out that this is the same boy who so thoughtfully took only $20 from Alexander last summer.

Then today I read about another Cornell student.  This too, is an awful story, but for very different reasons.

I text Alexander.

So much can go wrong so quickly.  One bad decision and lives are ended. And when it happens to people so young, it is all the more devastating.


.

eternal life

Until now, I thought that honey was the only food that never expires. 

Smithsonian.com even notes honey's eternal shelf life.  "A slew of factors—its acidity, its lack of water and the presence of hydrogen peroxide—work in perfect harmony, allowing the sticky treat to last forever."

I did know that honey never goes bad.  But today, I am surprised to learn that certain bread products can last forever too.

I am making a tuna sandwich and check the expiration date on the pocket rolls I bought at Fairway last week.

I guess an expiration date of February 30 is the same as no expiration date at all! I can only guess at the slew of factors that have given this product its eternal life. 

poor choice

I am talking to Shari. 

Before hanging up, she surprises me with an impromptu invite. "Hey, why don't you come over for dinner tonight?  It's just Stew and me.  I'm making tacos."  Shari is an outstanding cook, but more than that, I haven't seen her in a while.  

I've known Shari and Stew for years.  Being with them is always easy. It'll be a no-fuss night.  I don't have to worry about what to wear. I could even skip make-up and feel comfortable.  

I arrive and Shari is in the kitchen. Some meat mixture is warming on the stove top, and bowls of olives, onions, and lettuce are already cut up.  We hang out together, and then watch a bunch of previews to help us decide which on-demand movie to see during dinner.  

Babadook?  Shari won't sleep if she watches this.  

Bird?  Stew has no interest. 

20 Feet From Stardom?  Possibly. Shari is a strong advocate for this one.  

John Wick?  Shari loves Keanu Reeves and heard the movie was great.  Too much shoot-'em up for me.  

The Voices? Maybe, but no one is wildly enthusiastic about it. Could be good, or could be very stupid.

A Most Wanted Man?  Looks confusing. Shari is unsure, but does add, "Ronda saw it and loved it." Stew and I like this one best.

Shari lobbies unsuccessfully for the rock-doc film, 20 Feet From Stardom, but then gives in to Stew and me.

Ten minutes into the film and no one has a clue what's going on.  Even on the most basic plot points, we are all confused.  Who is that?  What organization does he represent?  Is he American, German, or something else? Does this movie take place in 2001 pre-9/11, or is this current time? Shari is hating the movie.  I'm on the fence.  And Stew argues, "We are not supposed to know what's going on. Soon all the pieces will fall together."  They do, but at an excruciatingly slow pace.

An hour into the movie Shari is mostly asleep.  I am bored.  And Stew is semi-into it.  It's already 10:30, so I say my good-byes and thank you and leave.  I consider renting the movie on PPV just to see the last hour.
  
This morning I get an email from Shari:

Stew liked it until the ending. He said I saved myself over an hour of time. Hope you didn't rent it. 

I call Stew and he relays the unsatisfying ending.  

Glad I didn't rent it.  Sorry we didn't go with Shari's choice. But nice to have friends where even a bad movie can't ruin a good night.

application pending

This afternoon I am seeing a new off-Broadway play, Application Pending.  It's about the ridiculously competitive process of getting your child into a good nursery-school program.

Unlike most cities, New York students (and their parents) are subject to an excruciating process of school admissions, whether it's private or public.  I imagine in most cities the majority of kids go to the local elementary school that then feeds into the local middle school that then leads to the city's one high school.  If only New York City kids had it that easy.

Here it's a competition every step of the way, beginning with nursery school at age two-and-a-half.  

October 1995, just starting school

Nursery school is a nice, protective introduction to education.  Alexander loved it, though he was not happy at graduation. When giving Alexander his diploma, Wendy (the head of school) forgot to mention that my son wanted to be an ambulance driver when he grew up.  She mentioned firefighter and policeman, but Alexander was not happy with her omission of his desire to be behind the wheel of an ambulance.  In protest, he refused to stand and sing the school song at the end of the graduation ceremony.

May 28, 1998, Epiphany School  Graduation

Alexander next went to PS290, colloquially known as Manhattan New School (MNS).  

first day of Kindergarten at MNS

For sixth grade, Alexander applied to both public and private schools, deciding ultimately on Horace Mann, where middle school leads directly to high school.

first day of middle school at Horace Mann

The last days of summer before HS begins.
Coast Guard Beach, August 2007, Eastham Mass

And soon my baby boy was graduating.

June 8, 2011

I knew college came next.  

move-in day at Cornell, August 19, 2011

But now, all a sudden, Alexander is a college senior. There is no immediate next school. I didn't feel like an empty-nester when my son left for college; I feel like I'm becoming one now.

Ahead of Alexander are dreams waiting to be lived.  Dreams that remain undefined.  I almost wish he had an application pending. At least then I'd know what was coming next.

a day in the life of a nyc realtor

My first walk-in.  

A couple comes into my office a week ago while I am on floor duty.  They are looking for an apartment;  their request is specific, and their timing tight.  They need a two-bedroom apartment, in a rental building, zoned for a specific elementary school.  They must have a signed lease by February 13.

I do an analysis.

Step One: 
Find all the rental buildings in the general area (about 50).

Step Two:
Cross check the buildings and eliminate those that don't specifically say they are zoned for a certain elementary school (about 20).

Step Three:
Check and double check the websites of each building to see if any apartments are available that come close to meeting the couple's criteria (about 6).

Step Four:
Call or see the remaining six.  

• Eliminate the one that won't be ready until March.  
• Eliminate the one where the owner has decided to rent it to a relative.
• Eliminate the one near Madison that turns out to be in a crumbling building with no doorman, and boxes and strollers in the hallway. 
• Eliminate the two that are priced 50% higher than the couple's budget.

Step Five:
Stop over to see the one remaining, only to be told by the super that the tenants are still there, but in the process of moving out.

Step Six:
Tell the client about the apartment.

Step Seven
Call the managing agent, who has already gotten some calls, as the apartment is in a desirable building with almost no turnover, in a great neighborhood, and little inventory.  She tells me it won't be available to see for a week, as workers will be painting the apartment and re-doing the floors. I politely plead and she agrees to let me see the apartment today, as the the work will begin on Thursday.

I am excited.  I think I've done everything right.  We are to meet at ten.

Late yesterday I get an email from the client.

Hi Lynn,
Hope you are well! Wanted to cancel tomorrow's appointment as we have found  something we like.Thank you for your help.
Warm regards

Today I see the apartment anyway.  It's perfect.  Gorgeous wooden floors. Beautiful crown moldings throughout. Fireplace. Walk-in closet. Foyer. Washer-dryer in apartment. Stainless steel appliances.  Fantastic pre-war full-service building.

I think the client should still see the apartment.  If for no other reason but to have a basis for comparison.  But my calls and emails go unanswered.

This is a very very tough business.  And can be so disappointing, even when all the stars seem to be aligned.

secret vices

My very good friend is smart.  Harvard undergrad. Wharton grad. She is sophisticated, well-read, and versed in more topics than most.  She was President of a big division of a major company; is on the Board of Harvard Medical School; sits on another board for a New England Bank; and is part of a newly-elected Governor's team. She is, by any standard, an accomplished person.

We have been close friends for over 30 years. I know her well.  But recently I've learned two things about her that I did not know.

Not too long ago she admits her love for romance novels. "I like a book with a good love story too," I tell her.  It turns out that she's not talking about books like Wuthering Heights or even Love Story.  No. She's referring to the kind of book with covers like these:

It's a surprising revelation.

Then today, we are talking about yesterday's thrilling Super Bowl Game.  I am sure that any guy overhearing us would think we sound like third graders trying to sound smart about international politics.  But thanks to knowledgeable TV broadcasters and astute sports writers, we have quickly accumulated knowledge.  We know what a slant is. We know the significance of the two-minute warning in the fourth quarter. We even understand why Pete Carroll's decision to throw a pass play vs. having Marshawn Lynch run the ball was a monumentally bad idea.  In the middle of our discussion, M suddenly yells, "Hold on. Hold on."  "What? What?"  I'm thinking something happened.  Something serious,  Like maybe her husband cut himself chopping onions.  Or maybe an important call is coming through.  I start to talk and she cuts me off, "Shush.  I need about 20 seconds."  And then I hear her shouting out random words.  "Carrots."  "Kidney."  "Paper Clips."  

I hear the TV in the background.  Finally she says, "I should be on that show.  I get the #1 audience answer every single time."  Family Feud.  My smart friend's favorite show.  Her other secret vice.

I think we all have hidden secrets, some bigger than others.  And if your close friend's love for romance novels and mindlessTV shows are all you don't know about them, then you know them pretty well.