marla and me

1980. I am living in Chicago, separated from my husband, and falling in love with Lee, a fellow student at Kellogg.

But Lee is still not over his high school sweetie from Denver, Marla. Marla is creative. Marla is adventurous. Marla is exceptional. Marla is unlike anyone Lee's ever known. Marla can do no wrong. I want to be Marla.

Years pass. I hear through Lee that Marla moves to LA and becomes a producer. Then she moves to Paris. Of course.That's all I know. Lee and Marla lose touch.

Lee lives in Denver, and we sporadically keep in touch. He's married with a son in college. I have no idea what prompts this, but I Google Marla and find her on Facebook. She is is now in the fashion business.

I am looking for stylists to join my J. Hilburn team (let me know if you know anyone). I think hmmm. Maybe Marla knows someone who might be interested. We have never met nor have we ever spoken.

I message Marla. She responds. We email. She sends me her number. All this within 30 minutes. How can you not love social media?

We talk. Marla lives in New York. We have a lot in common. Know many of the same people. We schedule a time to meet for coffee.

I call Lee, who hasn't spoken to Marla in over 20 years. I tell him the story. He is not surprised. "You know," he says. "I somehow knew that one day you two would meet."

He was right.

free ride

In New York City, when you reach a certain age and you have an income below a certain amount, you may qualify for a rent freeze.

Today I go downtown to the offices of SCRIE (Senior Citizen Rent Increase Exemption). The words Senior Citizen sound like they apply to someone other than me.

I pass through security, go to the third floor, and walk into a drab, poorly lit room, filled with people.

I take a number from a number-dispensing machine; 116. The number currently displayed is 96.

Using Fairway as my barometer, 20 people before me should be about a 30 minute wait. A half hour later and the number displayed is up to 99. This is more time consuming than ordering sliced turkey. Plus, I'm guessing there are more people manning Fairway's deli counter than there are government workers here at SCRIE.

I'm starting to get impatient. I am only here to have two questions answered from the form I need to complete.  What constitutes a room, and what constitutes a window?  Is a dining area made into a bedroom counted as a room? Does a big window count the same as a small one?  Simple questions but there's no way to have them answered unless I come in person.

A SCRIE worker comes out from the back room and I grab him. "Hey, I just have a couple of quick questions," I say, and then I ask my questions.  He looks at me and answers, "I don't understand why these questions are even on the application. It doesn't really matter how you answer them."

Who creates these forms? Why do they ask irrelevant questions? Why isn't there an explanation on unclear questions? Why isn't there a number to call? Why did I have to come all the way down here? These are the questions I want to ask; instead I say thank-you and leave.

I'm grateful that Robyn gave me her free monthly metro card to use while she's out of town. At least it doesn't cost me  $5.50 to get my answers.

dressing for spring

It's almost April, and still, my coat closet is filled with shearlings and down.

A couple of girls go half-way spring.

But the majority of us have not parted with our winter wear. Hats. mittens, scarves, hoods, fur, ear muffs, wool and layering are still very much in vogue.

Hard to believe, at 28 degrees, it's time to ...

eyes wide shut

A few weeks ago I'm talking to a friend. 50 Shades of Grey has just been released and it is being promoted everywhere. My friend, an outdoorsy type who pays little attention to Hollywood gossip, says to me, "Hey, did you know that Dakota Johnson is Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson's daughter?" Did I know? Are you kidding? It's been all over the news for months. (Granted, not the nightly national news, but still). How does someone not know such an important fact?

M's mentally astute 85-year old aunt is telling M about her friend. "Poor Alice has had it rough. You know, her son has polio."  "Polio, really?" M asks. "Well, not the kind that was around when you were young and people were in iron lungs. I'm talking about the kind in your head." "The kind in your head?" M asks again.  It takes a while before she realizes that Alice's son is bi-polar, not stricken with polio.

Last night at book club one of the members isn't aware of the horrific news that the young co-pilot on Germanwings deliberately crashed a plane into the French Alps killing everyone aboard. But then, she hasn't heard that a plane even crashed on Tuesday.  In her defense, she's a professor at a top university, is taking classes full time to get another advanced degree, and is a single mom with two kids in college. 

This week I receive an evite from our EVP Sales Manager at Bellmarc.

Anna is our beautiful, model-thin, model-tall, model-faced office assistant. She's about to have a baby?  I write back asking if Anna is adopting. She's not. She's 7-months' pregnant. How could I not have noticed something as important and noticeable as this?

It makes me wonder what else I'm missing.

the last break before graduation

Spring break at Cornell begins today.  

I haven't seen Alexander since he returned to school on January 4th. 

For the past few weeks, the conversations I've had with my son have gone something like this.

"So, did you book your bus yet?"

"No, I tried to get the Cornell bus but it was too late. I'll just take the other bus."
(Meaning the Shore Line bus where you: don't need a reservation; can be assured of at least a five hour trip;  will likely sit next to a questionable character; and will be dropped off up at Port Authority vs. a few blocks from our apartment. But it is half the price.).

"Okay. Let me know when you know. Can't wait to see you."

"Me too."

Then this week.

"Hi. Do you know when you're coming home?"

"I can't talk right now. I have something due every day this week." He sounds totally stressed.

"Okay, but..."

"Listen, I've gotta go. I really need to study. I'll call you later."

And then finally today.

"So how did everything go?"

"Good I think." He sounds relaxed and happy.

"Great. So when are you coming home?"

"I'm not sure I am. I need to start work on three big papers all due at once, and the books I need are all in the library up here."

Well, I guess it's good that I hadn't bought groceries yet.

extreme happiness

My friend Meredith and I belong to Manhattan Theater Club.  First, Terry and I were members. But then Terri moved, and Meredith inherited her seat. We will probably always be members, as it takes years to get seats as good as ours.

A few weeks ago we are scheduled to see The World of Extreme Happiness.  Neither of us feels like going on the day we are supposed to, so we exchange our tickets for a matinee today, which also happens to be Meredith's birthday.

Great, we both think at the time. We'll go out to lunch first, then see what sounds like an upbeat play; it'll be a nice way to celebrate.

This morning I call Meredith. "Would you mind if we don't have lunch before or dinner after?" she asks. I don't. We both have too much to do before the play, and 3:30 is too early to have dinner; the play is only 90 minutes.

I arrive early to pick up our tickets. The woman in front of me says to the woman in the box office, "Can I get any extreme happiness today?" The unsmiling box-office worker replies, "You could have yesterday, but not today." The patron picks up her ticket and says nothing. It's an unusual exchange, to say the least. 

Meredith arrives. We settle into our seats. The play opens.  

Act 1, Scene One: 

A young girl living in rural China in 1992 is about to give birth. She speaks mostly in obscenities. Her indifferent husband, in the same scene, describes a bird pooping on his face and into his mouth. Then the baby is born. It's a girl, so the infant is immediately discarded into a bucket of pig slop. But the girl is a fighter and surprises everyone and lives. She is named Sunny Li.

This all happens in the first ten minutes of the play.  Hmmm. Maybe the title doesn't mean the obvious.

The rest of the story follows Sunny as she moves to the city and becomes a factory worker, and later a rebel, of sorts. As the curtain falls — SPOILER ALERT — Sunny, in a mostly vegetative state, is suffocated by her brother.

I turn to Meredith and whisper, "Happy birthday." 

Seeing Hamlet would have been cheerier.

stood up

Twice in two days.

Yesterday I call a J. Hilburn client whom I inherited from a stylist who left the company. I'll call him Dillon. The conversation goes well, and soon we've decided to do a virtual meeting.  We speak around ten; then he calls me back with specifics of what he's looking for around one. We agree to speak again at six. He tells me he needs a couple of suits. A few shirts. And maybe a spring sports jacket. Our tastes (not that they have to) seem to align. I spend the next two hours picking out suiting and shirt fabrics, cutting and pasting them into an email, and then searching for an electronic version of the various options. I look on Dillon's FB page to get a sense of who he is. I look at what Dillon last bought, two and a half years ago. I print everything out. I am ready. Six p.m. comes and goes. I call Dillon's cell and no one picks up. I text him. I do not like this role. I feel like a stalker.  Finally, around 7:15,  Dillon texts me: "Hi Lyn, got busy at home. Can we connect tomorrow...?"  Today is tomorrow. It's almost 8pm; the two texts I send him today have not been answered. I feel like I've been jilted before the first date.

Today I have a noon appointment with someone else. I'll call him Peter. This is another inherited client. I connected with him a week ago and we schedule a meeting for today. I send Peter a confirming email yesterday, and hear nothing back. I send him a text today, again confirming our meeting. Finally, less than two hours before our appointment, Peter cancels. He suggests maybe this weekend, but nothing definite yet.

I love the styling aspect of the job. I love interacting with my clients. I love the gorgeous quality of the fabrics, as well as the finished product. I love when my clients are happy.

But this sitting around hoping for promised calls that don't come. Or texts that go unanswered. Or appointments that don't show. Not fun!

little white lies

Who hasn't told one?

Some are innocuous enough.

"Hi, how are you?" "Great thank you," when your life is falling apart.

"We should really get together for lunch." "I'd love that," when you'd really rather be having your teeth drilled.

"Alexander, where are you?" "In the library," which is so often the answer I never believe him.

Some are more complicated.

M was on Sales Training for Gillette in Louisville Kentucky. Long before caller ID, she recovers from her answering machine a message on a Friday from her boss. She calls him back and he asks, "Hey, are you at home?"  "Yes, she responds." "Great, can you pull the file on Piggly Wiggly?" Yikes, now what? But M is quick. "Oh, I didn't know you meant home, home.  I thought you meant home, as in Louisville home. But I'm not at my apartment right now. I'll have to get the file later." In fact, M is almost 1,000 miles a way, visiting her fiancé in Boston.

Some are protective.

When Alexander was in middle school he got himself thrown off the water polo team because he hated it. But every day after school when I asked how practice was going, he'd always answer, "Fine." That is until I found out, during the course of another conversation with the school's dean. Was he really thinking I'd never learn the truth? What would have happened at the first match when he wasn't there?

Some white lies are just plain stupid.

"Did you send the form I asked you to mail? I question Alexander on Monday. "Yes," he answers without hesitation.  On Friday I ask him again. "I still haven't gotten the form, did you really mail it on Monday?"  "Okay," he confesses. I just mailed it yesterday."  As if I wouldn't notice when the form doesn't arrive when it's supposed to.

Today I meet Jill to see a little off-Broadway play, A Happy Ending. I get there exactly on time and she hasn't arrived yet. I use the bathroom, and my phone rings while I'm in the stall. Thinking it's Jill calling to tell me she's on her way, I answer and it's Eric W, the guy I last saw and spoke to when we went out a month ago.

"Hi. Wow; you've caught me in a really awkward place." I have no idea why I blurt this out, as obviously he can't see me.

"Well, that begs the question, where are you?"

Caught off guard, I answer truthfully.  And then immediately wish I hadn't.

Now this would have been the perfect time to use one of those little white lies. I wish I'd been quicker.

the first day of spring

At least that's what the calendar says.

celebrating with friends at Yefsi

Usually it takes a few weeks to accomplish.

Someone will initiate an email, suggesting dinner to celebrate someone's birthday.

On Mar 16, 2015, at 10:57 AM, Shari wrote:

Hi Friends,

How about celebrating Lyn, this Thursday night, with dinner in the neighborhood...

I am in, how many of you can join?

Let me know soon so I can make a reservation at a favorite haunt!

xoxo

Within a couple of hours we have a plan:

On Mar 16, 2015, at 12:49 PM, Shari wrote:

Booked for 6 people at 7:30 at my new favorite neighborhood Greek!!! 

http://yefsiestiatorio.com

York Avenue and 78th street.

Truly YUMMY!!!

xoxox

This in itself is extraordinary. Everyone's confirmed within two hours. Usually it takes dozens of emails and a few reschedulings and even then, not everyone is available.  But this time it works.

We never got together for Shari's birthday in late February because of the weather, and a few friends who were traveling at the time. So we make it a dual celebration.

There's me, Shari, Zelia, Pam, Ronda and Janice. We have a great table in the outside heated garden.  We have the hunkiest waiter there. The food is divine, especially the appetizers. And the conversation jumps all over the place, and is always fun and provocative.  Tonight, our strong Democrat and equally strong Republican have not one political disagreement.  

Our connection is that we all have children, and at least one of them is a boy who is a senior in college.  In most cases, our friendships began through the boys but has now transcended them.  I don't see these five women often enough.  After one of these dinners (which happens a few times a year, around someone's birthday),  I always come home thinking, too bad we don't have simpler, less busy lives, so we could see each other more. 

But I'm happy we see other this much. It really is a great group. Even if they won't let me take a group photo.

friend turned boyfriend turned friend again

By the fall after college graduation, I was living in Allston, a neighborhood of Boston.  

Cheryl and I rented a two-bedroom apartment in a nondescript two-story brick building. We split the $240 monthly rent. Randi, a Chicago transplant, lived across the hall from us.  And through Randi, I met Don, also from Chicago.

At first, Don and I were just friends. But by the spring, our relationship had evolved to something more intense. I was 23 and he was 24. He was more than a bit crazy. I loved his humor, his indifference to convention, and his creativity. I was totally smitten.

I remember spending nights writing with him. I also remember a song Don wrote for me while on a business trip to Vermont. It was all very romantic.

A few months into our relationship, Don and I, along with three of my good friends, all moved into a duplex apartment together in Cambridge. It was a tumultuous year, filled with laughs and passion, as well as lots of arguing. For my birthday that year, Don bought me Jessie, an Irish Setter puppy. She never got completely trained, and made meals out of our furniture.

Don's company transferred him back to Chicago by the fall of 1976, and even though we'd pretty much broken up by then, I moved to Chicago too. Things didn't work out. I married someone else. Don moved to LA and became a writer for a top sitcom. I divorced and moved back to Boston. And poor Jessie was given to a good family in a Chicago suburb.

I visited Don in LA, but it wasn't a great trip. In fact, as this picture seems to show, I was happier to see him than he was to see me. It was a strange time.

Don married and divorced more than once. He became a successful TV writer/producer. And just recently moved to Arizona. 

But we stayed in touch all these years. Don even came to Alexander's Bar Mitzvah, still handsome, even with a shaved head.

Don and I talk regularly but not often.  We've even joked about growing old together; neither of us is currently attached. It could be a nice life — half the year in Scottsdale and the other half in New York City. Maybe even get a dog and learn how to train it. 


Whatever the future brings, I am lucky to share any part of it with my longtime friend.  Happy 65th dear Don.

it's my birthday, again!

How did I get so old?  I don't feel it, so I guess that's good.

I start the day on my scale. 130.6  Three pounds less and I'd be happy. I'm the same weight I was a year ago.  I 'suppose that's good, but even then I wanted to lose three pounds.  Obviously I'm just saying the words and doing nothing about it.

I love all the Facebook messages. Some from people I barely know (such as an actor I saw in a play, liked  his performance, then friended him). A distant relative I haven't spoken to in ages. Someone from India who keeps trying to friend me. High school friends, some of whom I knew well, and some I barely knew at all. College friends. Chicago friends. Ex-work colleagues. Current friends. Current colleagues. Original weight-watcher buddies. Past boyfriends. And everyone in-between. It's nice to be remembered.

I go to get my hair colored with Lyo. She is normally not in on Mondays but came in because it's my birthday.  And then, when I arrive, she hands me a gift.  A hair fragrance mist from Fekkai (that adds shine and frizz control).  In all my years of going to hair stylists, no one has ever given me a gift. I am truly touched by her thoughtfulness.

My son calls twice and both times talks to me as if he wants to. I ask him for three gifts:  that he graduate on time; that he tries really hard to get a job before he comes home; and that he answers my phone calls without my having to text him first. He assures me of the first; says he'll try really hard to accomplish the second; and is the least certain of the third. I'd be happy with two out of three.

I meet Valerie, Abbey and Adam for dinner at Wolfgang's.  I think Adam is right when he says they have the best steaks in the city.  And perhaps the best tuna tartars as well. And the strongest Cosmopolitans. And the loudest people.  But even the last doesn't detract from a warm and wonderful birthday celebration.

change

Trying to earn a living is more work than earning one. 

Whether it's following up with potential clients — trying to find new real estate buyers or sellers – scouting the internet for possible stylists to join my team —processing and organizing paperwork — reviewing new videos and online training courses —  or attending eight hours (over two days) of on-site meetings — there is always something to do.

Then there's the $300 annual  fee to maintain my real estate license as well as the cost of marketing materials, product samples, and real estate insurance.

I am very busy. And still, last month I earned a third of what I used to earn in a day.

I wish I had an better plan, but so far I've been unable to come up with one. My future scares me.

I feel like this:

But want to be this:

Okay, sorry, that's it. No more whining. Yesterday's rain has stopped and sun is promised for today.

the fragility of friendship

A good friend of mine moves into a new apartment building. H knows of it because two close friends of hers live there.  A few years after moving in, one of H's friends cuts her off completely. There is no major drama that precedes it.  No falling out. No slights. No angry phone call. Nada. H is more bewildered than hurt. It's also awkward because now H and her once-friend live in the same building.

S, another friend of mine, has a long and close 20-year relationship with a woman and her husband. In fact, the friend later moves into the same building as S in one of the hip outer boroughs.  A few years ago at dinner, S's friend begins a conversation that ends with her telling S all the many things she dislikes about her. This follows a pleasant night out together. While they still live in the same building, they haven't spoken since.

Many years ago I worked with someone named Susan. We were close friends. She came to my 40th surprise birthday party, and then refused all my phone calls after. I still have no idea what went wrong to end our six-year friendship. 

Recently, two friends of mine had birthdays. I call both (and leave messages) and write on their FB pages. On one, I even post a picture from college.  Others comment on the picture, and my childhood friend comments on the comments, but to me writes nothing.  Neither friend has called me back (despite my request that they do), and I haven't spoken to either in over a year.  I have no idea why.

I suppose I could ask my two friends why, but I don't have room in my head or heart right now to take on any personal confrontations.

It is both strange and sad when people you want in your life tiptoe out of it. 

Addendum (written March 17)

On my birthday, my childhood friend neither called nor sent a photo or personal sentiment. Her message, posted on Facebook, simply said, "Have a super happy birthday!" Like something you'd say to someone you barely know.

warning: not suitable for some audiences

Today I go to new gynecologist.  I have had the same one for over 15 years.  But insurance dictates I get a new one.

I choose Dr. Raquel Dardik based on her impressive educational credentials (MD from U Penn and residency at Johns Hopkins); her high patient ratings 4.9 of 5 on ZocDoc; her affiliation with NYU Langone Medical Center; and the fact that she takes my insurance.  That her office is only a short walk from my apartment is just an added plus.

I come a few minutes early to fill out some forms.  I have a 1 o'clock appointment and it's now 1. I take out today's paper, assuming I'll have time to finish it.  At my previous ob/gyn, I could have read most of  War and Peace while waiting, and I am not a fast reader.

I am midway through page 1 and I hear my name called.  Unbelievable.

The nurse leads me to a room, where she asks me to undress, and performs some routine tests.  All is good.  She tells me the doctor will be with me soon.

And soon the doctor is with me.  This, too, is something new to me.

Dr. Dardik comes in and I like her immediately.  Not that that's an important criteria in choosing a doctor.  She is charming, likable, and easy to talk to. The easy to talk to part is important, especially if you're talking to someone about such an intimate topic as gynecology.  By the time I leave,  she gives me a short list of her favorite recent books and her personal email. If she weren't my doctor, I'd want Dr. Dardik to be my friend.

This, compared to my friend's experience at her new gynecologist.  This doctor (a woman yet) tells my friend that her vagina is atrophying.  I'm not even sure what this means exactly but whatever it means, there surely must be a better way to say it.

when effort ≠ result

When I first moved to Boston in 1981, I left behind Lee. I think he was happy to see me go, as he was not ready for a committed relationship.  

A few weeks after arriving in Boston, I agonized over the exact wording of a short letter I'd send Lee, asking him to come visit.

M and I had just become friends, and she thought the letter I crafted was just short of brilliant.  I don't remember the details, but it begins by briefly describing famous historic lovers, and somehow leads to the line (that M still remembers), "And so with some trepidation I begin this letter."

The letter does everything I want it to.  It doesn't make me look needy. It shows my cleverness. I'm witty and flirtatious. The blithe tone masks the colossal effort that went into writing of it.   

I send the letter and wait.  Finally I get a response.  I don't remember the exact wording of the letter but I do have memorized the exact wording of the response. 

"Sorry. No can do."

Lee and I are still in touch; he's married now and lives in Denver.

This weekend my neighbor Ronnie and I organize a meeting to discuss the wall that now surrounds the two of us, and two other apartments on the second floor. The snow has melted and now reveals exposed nails, broken branches, and pigeon poop.  It's been two weeks since this monstrosity was erected, and of course no work has even started.

 from living room window

 from living room side window

 from bedroom window

This is my view for the next year or more. I draft a well-researched note to the building management. I list the hardships (loss of privacy, workmen at eye level, a claustrophobic feeling, no street view, loss of light, etc). I quote NYC Building Code 3307.64.6. I speak to Nick Veksler who is on the Scaffolding Safety Team at NYC Department of Buildings.  I even cite acceptable and city-approved alternatives. I am thorough. 

My three neighboring apartments are all in agreement.  They make some minor changes to the draft. The email is from the four of us. Ronnie sends it yesterday. We are optimistic.  A lot of effort has been made as we want the tone to be right, the facts accurate, and the cited alternatives within code.

This morning we all get the same response Lee sent me in 1981.  It may be a sentence or two longer and more polite, but it reflects the same level of concern and thought Lee showed me so many years ago. From the management of our building:

"While I do understand your concerns, our architects and engineers have advised us that the current bridge cannot be modified due to the work that will be performed.

We apologize for this inconvenience."

Another no can do letter even though they most certainly can!