binging with alexander

A few years ago Alexander introduced me to Jack Bauer.  That's when he also introduced me to binge watching.

So much better than waiting a week between episodes.  Today, many years later, Alexander can still tell anyone who asks what Jack was doing in Season Three, Episode 4, or any other season and episode of 24. My son's mind for remembering things he is interested in is uncanny.  (But if I ask him to pick up 0% Fage yogurt he comes back with 2%). 

I can't recall what each season of 24 was about, let alone the episodes comprising them. The premise was preposterous, and Jack's ability to escape and recover somewhat ridiculous.  But still,  it was great TV.

Homeland was our next experience at binge watching. I'd wait until Alexander was home on break and then in a week (or less) we'd watch all the episodes of the preceding season. And through it all, Alexander would regularly compare Carrie's exploits to those of Jack's, and Carrie almost always came up short. 

Now we've discovered Breaking Bad.  And both of us have become addicts. Not of the kind that Walter and Jesse service, but of the kind that finds this show the best combination of thug life and domesticity. Walter is a brilliantly written, complicated character, as are all the characters in the show. I think my favorite is Jesse. He seems like a nice kid who just keeps taking wrong turns. And somehow ends up making a monumental mess of everything he does.

The cinematography is gorgeous. The writing exemplary. And the combination of dark story lines combined with laugh-out loud humor is unlike Homeland and 24 — nothing funny ever happened in either of those shows. And while the many subplots of BB may be unbelievable, the character's reaction to them all feels real.

It's the only show I can watch without involving other items— no magazines, no Times, no phone, no computer, nothing. It's too engrossing as is, and the dialogue so nuanced. I don't want to miss a single word or action.

But what I like best about Breaking Bad is that it takes no effort  to convince Alexander to put down his computer or phone and hang out with me for a couple of hours every day. 

It's an easy sell. "Hey, want to watch Breaking Bad?" always elicits a yes (with no caveats, no "in a sec," no "maybe laters."

We are just half-way through Season Two. 

13 episodes down, 49 to go. Some things are best experienced after the rest of the world has already approved them. This is one of them.

hotel 79

That's what I should call my apartment.

Alexander acts like a guest expecting maid service.  And then this week, he invites (with my permission) others to join him.

Last week, Daniel comes. He's a good friend of Alexander's from Cornell. A really nice kid. When Alexander was in LA last year, Daniel's parents graciously entertained the boys with multiple dinners.  I offer to cook, but my offer is declined.  The first morning Daniel's here, I find him asleep with no linens on my white sofa.  The deflated aero bed is sitting on the floor nearby. 

Daniel stays from Wednesday to Friday. Tiffany arrives a couple of hours after Daniel leaves. Another college friend.  Tiffany also brings Mark, a friend of hers who graduated last year. I pretty much live in my bedroom as the guests have totally taken over the living room, dining area, as well as Alexander's room.

I love when Alexander has friends over. It's not that. It's the fact that my apartment is barely big enough for two people, three of four people shrink my living space even more.

I tell Tiffany that the cost of staying here is that I get to take some pictures of her. Alexander is of course thrilled with this announcement.

Girls make much better houseguests than boys do. Tiffany comes with a box of Godiva's as a gift, and while Alexander is in the shower, I find her in the kitchen putting some plates in the dishwasher. Before she leaves this afternoon, she's deflating the aero bed, and folding up her sheets. 

I like when Alexander's friends stay. Just one more bathroom and a bigger bedroom for Alexander is all I want. And him too, I'm sure.

hair alteration

September 2007. $350. Four hours. That was the first time I had a Brazilian blow-out. 

I went from frizzy dry hair to shiny straight hair. Upkeep was easy. I loved it, about two weeks after. The beginning is always hideous. Stick straight coyote ugly.

Today I am having keratin treatment. I get this annually with Julie at Sergio Limpopo.  I pay $99 and am in and out in one hour. It's one of the few things in life that has decreased in price over time.

My hair is still recovering from my April chop job, where short layers were cut all around my head, the color was made darker, and my hair ended up dry and dead. My layers still need to grow another two inches, but the color and texture is so much better than it was. I had it blown out on Tuesday, and it still looks good. Especially the back. But I can't replicate this on my own.

Today I see Julie at Sergio Limpopo Salon in midtown. She is amazing! Talented, fast, and nice. I trust her totally. She knows what she's doing, and the straightening always lasts me at least six months, usually longer.

I can wash my hair in 24-hours, but I'll wait 72. I think the keratin works better that way. It's something to look forward to. It's been a long spring.

a very difficult business

My friend's son is looking for an apartment. He has three roommates, and as it turns out, each of them has asked a realtor to help them.

Okay, that makes it unfair to the realtors, especially since we all have access to the exact same information. But hey, it is what it is. I could have said no, but didn't.

I spend about 15 hours researching apartments with this criteria:  4 bedroom, 2-bath, downtown, no more than $8,000/month. The market changes daily. Apartments are listed that have already rented. If it's good it goes quickly. And inventory for this criteria is low.

On Saturday my friend and I go to see two apartments because the boys can't make it.  We fall in love with one. It's perfect. Duplex. Outdoor space. All rooms good sized. Ideal location. Totally renovated.

But the boys cannot see it until Wednesday. By then it's gone.

I spend the afternoon with my friend and 3 of the 4 boys. We see three apartments. One's a dump. The second is perfect, but rented that morning. The third is near perfect. Gut renovated. Great Chelsea location. French doors. Tall ceilings. Three huge bedrooms. But one teeny tiny one. The boys pass.

Today the boys go out with a second broker. I continue to research. One of the apartments they see is in the West Village. This was not one of the neighborhoods I was told to research. I should have. My friend saw it and thought it wasn't nearly as nice as the one I showed them. Three of the bedrooms have no windows.  Even still...

At 9:30 tonight, after my emailing the boys a second time regarding two more apartments that just came up, one responds:

Hi Lyn,

We really appreciate your help on Wednesday with the apartment search. Today we fortunately found a place on West 14th street that we're really excited about, and put down a deposit so we're going to move in that direction. Thanks for all your help and wishing you best of luck

Thanks,

E

Two afternoons running around the city. Hours of research and phone calls. Multiple texts. And over one hundred (literally) back and forth emails. 

The end result? Nada.

day in court

I moved into my current apartment when I was pregnant with Alexander. 

My first electric bill is twice as much as it was at my previous Manhattan apartment, which was hardly half the size. Thus begins a 20-year dialogue with ConEd. Over the years, numerous ConEd experts have come to my house double-checking my meter and making recommendations on how to decrease my electrical usage. Their suggestions?  Buy energy saving light bulbs; and have your refrigerator door resealed. I diligently follow the advice I am given. And none makes any difference at all. 

This past February my landlord replaces my very old refrigerator with a new one. And then, bang. My ConEd bill drops $50/month. 

In all my queries to ConEd, over 20 years, and with all the suggestions they did give after coming to my apartment, why did no one ever say, "You know, old refrigerators are huge guzzlers of energy. The newer models use far less." Shouldn't they have at least made the observation? I think so. They are the experts, not me.

So on April first I file a complaint against ConEd in small claims court. Today is my hearing. I arrive downtown early and prepared. It's a magnificent cloudless day in lower Manhattan.

I go through the metal detectors at the court house and am asked if I have a camera. I do. I am told it must be checked. But not my phone, "In case you need to make any emergency calls." I hate rules that make no sense.

The court opens at 9:30, but we are told that nothing will happen before ten. Okay, another rule that makes no sense. But hey, it's the government. I don't understand a lot of their rules.

All the cases are called. People are suing for dog bites and other sundry reasons. There are cases against Time Warner Cable, a focus group company, a dog babysitting service, an investigative service, and a plumbing company. Someone else is even suing ConEd.

The ConEd rep approaches me and asks to speak outside.  We leave the courtroom and he asks me what the case is about. I don't think he's even read the complaint. He tells me he is going to ask for a continuance so he can prepare.  Really? Four months hasn't been long enough?  

And so that's what happens today. Three hours of totally wasted time, only to find out I need to return in September.  So what now? Is ConEd going to do a complicated regression analysis on my bills? Interview expert witnesses?  Or just show up? I guess I'll just have to wait another three months to find out.

girls night out

Six of us meet for dinner at Korali, a month old Greek restaurant on the upper east side. It's Ronda's birthday.  At one time, we all had kids at Horace Mann. Now, none of us do. In fact, all of us attended college graduations this year. Weren't our kids just in middle-school?

I ask the waiter to take a photo, despite much protest from a couple of the people present.  Shari arrives a bit later and by then, those protesting another photo prevail.

Pam, me, Zelia, Ronda, Janice

The food is fresh and excellent. We order tons of appetizers (the grilled octopus and calamari are particularly outstanding), a couple of Greek salads, two fish dishes to split as the main course, a couple of bottles of wine, and three desserts (two of them comped).

Our table is upstairs and overlooks the restaurant. I think because the restaurant is new, the owner stops by our table (twice, actually) to ask how everything is.  Then he looks at me and says, "I know you. Didn't you used to come to Yefsi, the Greek restaurant I owned before this one?" I had. He then offers us after-dinner drinks, which we decline. My friends are sure he is interested in me and think I should stay and have a drink with him. He does have a charming European air about him. But in a million years, I can't picture myself saying bye to my friends, and telling this guy I'd like that drink. And besides, I think my friends are wrong.

We are walking out and there he is again, at the door. He says good-bye to everyone and thanks them for coming, then says to me, "You're an old friend, so let me give you a hug."

Maybe my friends are right.  I'm still not convinced. But I do know that it's been so long I might not even recognize the signs of someone flirting. 

trans-accent

I call Apple Care and reach Morrigan, a lovely woman with a beautiful accent. I think it's British, but I'm  not 100% sure.

"Where are you from?" I ask, as we are waiting for my computer to reboot. 

M: "People are always disappointed when I tell them."

Me: "I won't be."

M: "Okay then, Seattle."

Me: "No, I mean originally."

M: "Yes, I'm originally from Seattle. I just started talking like this about three months ago. My American accent didn't fit me."

I understand people being trapped in the wrong body. I can only imagine how difficult that must be. But this is the first I've heard of anyone being trapped in the wrong accent.  

Morrigan's real name is Jessica but she goes my her middle name; she tells me that  this preceded her accent change and is unrelated. She continues.

"Yes, I started taking voice lessons a few months ago from coaches who help actors develop foreign accents."

"Don't your friends think this is a little pretentious?" I ask.  (I try to picture my friends' reactions if all of a sudden I showed up for dinner with a French accent replacing my mutated Boston one.).

"I don't care what my friends think."

"What about your family?"

I  imagine going home for Thanksgiving with a British accent. My nephews would be unrelenting in their ridicule, and really, who could blame them?

"I don't speak to my family," Morrigan tells me.  

Though I'd like to continue this conversation, my computer is now back on, and we've switched to the far less interesting topic of adware.

Addendum:

So I'm telling this story to M, when she reminds me of something I'd forgotten. When we were both working at Gillette, there was a woman who worked with us named Carol Ann Moriarty (or something like that). One day, the name outside her office read Carol Ann Thompson.  M said to someone, "Hey, I didn't know Carol left." The response was, "Oh no, Carol didn't leave. She legally changed her last name so that her initials could be CAT."  Her  small cubicle was filled with cat posters and calendars. 

Hard to believe I forgot this story.

"this kind of thing upsets me"

Although Alexander would surely disagree, I am doing a fairly decent job of saying nothing when...

• I wake up in the morning and see the greasy remnants of the Cuisinart Griddler still open on the counter.

• Alexander walks through the door at 3 a.m. 

• There are half empty glasses in more than one spot in the living room.

• His laundry basket is overflowing.

• The clothes he promised to take to the tailor's last week are still lying around his room.

• Toothpaste is all over the bathroom sink.

But yesterday morning...

I am loading the dishwasher in the kitchen and Alexander is in the living room watching Seinfeld on his computer.  I yell out, "Hey, are there any dishes in there?" "No," he responds automatically, as if programmed.

I turn the dishwasher on and walk into the living room, where I see a recently used plate.

"Really? You couldn't bother looking up from your computer to answer me when I asked if there were any dirty dishes near you? This is exactly the kind of thing that upsets me."

Alexander doesn't apologize. He offers no excuse. Instead he says, "I don't understand why you get so angry.  Calm down." He utters these final words intentionally as he knows how much I detest them.

Then he goes back to Jerry and friends, totally unaffected.

This afternoon I find Alexander in the kitchen making his lunch.  "Hey, I was going to make tuna," I say. "Ya know, this is exactly the kind of thing that upsets me. I need to be fed every three hours. It's your job as my mother to keep track of when I eat. I should never have to cook for myself."

He does make me laugh. Still, I'm sure he'd love it if my schedule revolved 100% around his —on call when he wants, disappeared otherwise.

a new position

There has been a lot of news lately.

The horrific masacre in Charlotte South Carolina.

The controversial decision of NBC Universal to reassign Brian Williams to MSNBC at less than the reported $10 million/year he had been making.

The still-on-the-loose escaped convicts from upstate NY and Joyce, the prison worker who helped them.

So it would have been easy to miss this breaking news in Screen Daily:

http://m.screendaily.com/5089572.article

I was elected to serve on the Board of BAFTA (British Academy of Film and Television Arts) New York. 

Okay it doesn't pay much. Well, it doesn't pay anything. But it's an organization I am fully committed to, and one where I hope I can add some value. I am thrilled.

smart marketing

Within a one block radius of where I live, there are six nail salons. About a year ago I stopped going to Joa, the one closest to me. For some inexplicable reason, their manicures always chipped faster than the ones given a few doors down.

But Joa is now KS Nails. Today I see this sign: 

The new owner must be a marketer at heart. To generate trial, she is offering free samples to capture new users, as well as lapsed ones (like me).  And it's working. The salon is full, mid-afternoon on a Wednesday. 

Shooba gives me a great manicure (short nails with adore-a-ball) and a quick, but effective shoulder massage. If my manicure lasts five days, they've won me back.

The new owner might not know all the right marketing terms, but she understands perfectly  the concept of getting customers.

summer garden on 1,000 foot terrace

The sidewalk shed that was erected in February is still up, in all its ugliness. And worse, it's been four months and no work has begun.  Nada.

I need a change of perspective.

I buy some flowery plants and put them outside my bedroom window. I get the idea from my neighbor, Ronnie, as I would never have come up with this idea myself.  I go to the local florist, and buy three little pots of geraniums, as I'm told these flowers will keep re-blooming and should last through the fall.

I'm thinking, I'll put them outside my bedroom window, the weather will take care of feeding and looking after them.  That's how much I know about caring for plants.

A few days later I go back to the florist because my flowers don't look happy.

"How often are you watering them?"

"Huh?  I had no idea I had to water them."

The florist owner looks at me in disbelief. "Plants are living things. Of course you have to water them."

I go home and use a water spritzer. The plants don't respond well. I go back to the florist.

"You don't get the flowers wet. You water the soil."  He's probably thinking, you don't deserve to own flowers or plants of any kind.

I buy a plastic watering can with a long spout to make it easier.

"Did you replant them?

"Did I what?"

This is becoming quite an investment.

"You can't keep them in their little pots. They need more soil. More room to grow."

He suggests I buy a larger pot, some soil and replant them.

I ask if he can do that. He says yes.  So I pay him to do just that.

Now I water my plants regularly. I like seeing them outside my bedroom window — nice color added to my lovely makeshift terrace (if you can get past the exposed nails).  

Maybe I'll put a beach chair out and read on my deck; it's supposed to be a nice day.

I wonder how much an outdoor grill would be?

It's all a matter of perspective.

a break-up

Dear Costco-

What happened? You no longer treat me the way you once did. 

I come to see you today and though I see shoppers everywhere, I see but one red-shirted person. Where did they all go? When you first moved here, they were everywhere. I loved that about you. So willing to make me happy. A worker making little hot dogs offers to help, though he clearly doesn't know what Neutrogena is, and directs me to the cleaning supply aisle.

And speaking of Neutrogena, why don't you carry it any more?  I was bummed when you stopped carrying the green and red versions, but now you carry none. I was forced to go to Target where they do still carry it, but that added twenty minutes to an already long shopping day.

You don't even have the bags of avocados that  you usually carry.  Apparently they'll be in tomorrow, but that doesn't help me today.

And why no air conditioning? It's a muggy 81 degrees and all your visitors look hot. I ask and am told,  "Oh, it's cool in the back. That's where the AC is." That's great, except I'm not just shopping in the back of the store.

There used to be no lines midday, midweek.  Remember in the beginning when you never kept me waiting?  I guess you don't care as much now as you did then.  

And why is the outside covering letting in all the rain?  I know it's not your fault that it just started raining as soon as I left you, but shouldn't the covering prevent rain from coming down on all of us waiting for a car?  I hope my paper towels and tissues don't become waterlogged.

I remember when I first started seeing you. It was exciting, and pretty much an exclusive relationship.   But now you no longer make me feel special. It feels like you just stopped trying.

I'm not breaking up with you totally, as you still have a lot of what I want. But I think we need to take a little break from each other. Maybe then you'll learn to appreciate me more.  

yours truly-

nycdiarist

a surprise in the mail

It's hard to write a good thank-you note. So many sound the same.

But today I receive one that is so personal and heartfelt, my eyes water as I read it.

Shayla is a young girl who lives in Florida and is a rising high-school senior. She is also hard-working (number 2 in a class of over 600), unassuming, delightful, conscientious, sweet, appreciative, and absolutely lovely. I can't find enough superlatives to describe this girl whom I've never met; she's a friend of the family and I am helping her with the daunting process of college applications, selection, and essays. She is unlike any 17-year-old I've ever known.

We've been working together since October. 

Recently Shayla emails me, 

I'd really like to send you a handwritten thank you letter. If you feel uncomfortable giving me your address I completely understand but I thought it would be more meaningful through traditional mail rather than email. 

That's how thoughtful she is.  I know so much about her life through the essays she's been writing, and she asks me if giving her my address would make me uncomfortable.

I write back, 

What possible reason would I have to not give you my address? Of course you can have it. 

And then by mistake I give her my old zip code (that changed in 2007) which resulted in her having to go to the post office twice.

Today I come home from not-seeing The King and I. (I arrive at the theater to find out that Kelli O'Hara, the star and recent Tony winner, is out sick and won't be performing. I switch my ticket for one in August).

Alexander has left the mail on the table, and I see a small package. I open it and there is a handwritten note (in exquisite penmanship) from Shayla, along with a gift of my most favorite (and utterly extravagant) moisturizer. I am certain this has never come up in conversation, but maybe Shayla intuited that I love La Mer. Even that would not surprise me about this girl. 

under siege

I love these sponges that start out small and then grow larger when water is added to them.

I feel that way about my son's use of space. His stuff just keeps expanding.

Alexander arrived home Monday and his room is still a mess. He tells me, "I've decided to make my room a walk-in closet, and I'll live in the living room." It's where I find him sleeping this morning.

I have been asking Alexander to write out thank you notes for his graduation gifts. Graduation was three weeks ago, and, in my opinion, the notes should have been done by now — especially considering all the down time Alexander has while sitting around in a jury room from ten  to five every day. 

Tonight Alexander promises to start them. I'm in my room, and come out an hour or so later. One note has been written. Granted, it's a very nice note, but he has many others still to write.  I see some of his cards strewn across our dining table. I see other cards in a messy pile on our console.  A third group of cards sits on a coffee table.  And worse, Alexander is in none of these three places. He's on the sofa with his computer "talking to friends." 

I'm frustrated. Annoyed. And impatient. My voice conveys all three. Alexander's response? "Being home is like landing in Normandy; I feel like I'm under constant bombardment."

Well, I'm happy at least he's making use of his History education.

great service, bad system

NYC is a big city and while it often works, it sometimes doesn't.

I apply for a program called SCRIE in early April. If approved, my rent will be frozen. 

A few weeks later, I receive another note from SCRIE — this time requesting two more documents. I send the requested items via certified mail with a required-signature needed. I receive back a stamped document saying everything was received on April 29, and signed for by someone named Kane something.

The other day I receive a Second Notice asking for the same documents I sent, and that were confirmed as received.

I can't call. I can't email. 311 cannot really help. I go downtown to the SCRIE offices this morning.

I arrive a little before ten and the waiting area is already filled. I take a number, literally. 95. The red number counter (exactly like the one at Fairway's deli) is lit at 76.  I'm going to be here a while.

I settle in. Between Words With Friends and the book I'm starting (Luckiest Girl Alive), I have enough to keep me occupied. But there are too many distractions to stay focused. There's...

• The hard-to-ignore woman who is loudly arguing with a state employee about why she shouldn't have to pay a ticket because the address on her summons is for an address she no longer lives at.

• The high-volume television playing the same NY One news over and over. Today is going to be 90 degrees and sticky. Oh, and those two escaped convicts from upstate New York are still roaming around and are considered to be very dangerous.

• The guy who thinks whistling is okay (it's something that makes my skin crawl).

• The people who don't mute their phones so every single letter they type is heard as an annoying click.

• The extremely loud woman who is here for "Jimmy's mother" and has pulled a chair up to a table, feet up on another chair, and is on the phone talking about Jamie's four-times-a-day showering habit, hoping to go trout fishing this weekend, her 45% investment in something (I think dog racing), and other uninteresting topics.

I am on good behavior and say nothing. Alexander would be proud.

Finally, after 45 minutes I am called. Carmelita is knowledgeable and helpful. She can't explain why I was sent a second notice on June 10 requesting the documents they received on April 29.  I'm hoping I won't be getting a third notice, but Carmelita can offer no promises.

home at last

I get a call yesterday morning.

"Hi mom. Listen. The Cornell bus gets in around five. Please be home because I have no money to pay for the cab."

"What about your bank card?"

"The one I have isn't working. I ordered a new one that I had mailed to the house."

"Okay, then use your (really my) American Express card."

"Remember, that expired and the new one was also sent to the house. I don't have one I can use."

"Okay; I'll be home."

Around 4:30 he arrives. I last saw him just a couple of week ago; still it feels great. 

I am going to try really hard to not nag and not complain about the things that would  normally annoy me.

We eat a quick dinner and Alexander invites some friends over. I say nothing when I'm awoken at 12:30 with some loud, animated discussion about football draft picks. Actually, I like the sound of Alexander's friends in our house.

I wake up this morning to loud, thumping music. This sound I don't like. It's early, and Alexander needs to leave soon for jury duty.  I just yell out, "Good morning," and say nothing  about the music.

A few minutes later Alexander asks, "Where's your Metrocard? I'll get one later." I simply tell him it's in my wallet.

"I still have no money.  Can you give me money for a bagel?" I do.

He leaves.  I look at his room, remembering with affection how it looked before he arrived home.

And how it looks this morning.

Still, it's nice to have my son home.

not quite done

It's a Wednesday night. In two days I'm leaving to go up for graduation. My mom is already on her way.

Alexander calls.  He begins, "Mom, listen, and please don't be mad."

That's basically the same as saying, "I know this will make you very very angry. But please, try not to be."

He continues. "It turns out that I still need one more history class to fulfill my major requirements." Alexander switched his major to History in his senior year. "But don't worry. There are a couple of qualifying summer courses being given up here that start June 22. My degree will still be for the class of 2015."

I take a deep breath and keep telling myself, "There are worse things."  I repeat these words over and over in an effort to remain calm.

Taking a 3 or 4 credit course is expensive.  Alexander's apartment lease ends June 1, so he'll need to find a new place to live. Oh, and another thing — he's required to serve on Grand Jury Duty, beginning June 9 through June 23. The Cornell class begins June 22 and he can't miss even one day.

Alexander's been deferred from jury duty so many times that if he doesn't serve I think he can be arrested. I enlist the help of Sarah D at my state senator's office, and she helps Alexander get another delay if it turns out one is needed. I love when local politics work.

But then Alexander calls to tell me that the two qualifying Cornell history courses are not attracting any students. One of the courses has one registered student and the other has zero.  He now needs to find a qualifying history course (that's a history course pre-1800's) at another school that ends by August 14. Not so easy. 

We both search around. I focus on NYC schools. Columbia and NYU don't have courses that meet the criteria.  But Fordham does. A course on Crime and Punishment in Europe from 1500 to 1800. Perfect. it begins June 30 and ends August 4. Now he can even go to jury duty as originally planned.

Alexander is still in Ithaca. He's living with friends who are still there. He'll be home tomorrow, though I still don't know when.

But he has a plan. He sounds happy. And two days ago he finally received his phone; the lost one was never found.

In the end, it all works out. I take another deep breath.

sunday morning in the park

I get up early to take some pictures of Central Park. I want to get there before the sketch artists and hot dog vendors arrive.

While in the park, I see a man walking his dog wearing a T-shirt that makes me laugh.

I take his picture.  The man continues to walk on, and passes a couple with their trainer. 

The man who is exercising yells to the man in the T-shirt, "Hey, be careful what you wear. I'm Monica Lewinsky's lawyer." He says this with a smile, though he looks the lawyerly type.  I ask him if he really is Monica Lewinsky's lawyer.  He says he is (though not during the Clinton scandal) and his wife agrees. Neither look like they're making this up. I ask his name. "Allen Grubman," he tells me. I google him later and learn he's a powerful music lawyer (having represented Springsteen, U2, Madonna and Elton John, to name just a few).

I walk home thinking that with a camera, open eyes, and New York in the background, anything can happen.

Then I take a few photos of this magnificent park in spring.

And my favorite...

surprise encounter

Growing up, my mother used to say, "Whenever you leave the house you should always look nice." Today I wish I had listened.

There's a street fair on First Avenue. No cars, throngs of people, and vendors selling everything from reading glasses to phone accessories to flowers.  I run over to Agata to pick up dinner. No makeup. Stay-at-home clothes. Hair a mess.

I'm almost at my apartment when a pretty woman approaches me.  "I just knew that one day I would bump into you.  I just knew it." She has a commanding presence and speaks with absolute confidence.  I have no idea who she is but she seems certain of who I am.  My mind quickly goes to past schools, past jobs, and parents of Alexander's friends. I come up with nothing.

Then she says, "You used to babysit for me and my sister in Brockton." She identifies herself as Kim R, now Kim A. It's probably been about 50 years since I last saw her. Then, she was an adorable 6-year old, so it'd be easy to not recognize the stunning woman she's become.

The first thing Kim says is, "You did something as our babysitter that I'll never forget. You used to sit us down and stand in front of us. Then you'd tell us stories, but you'd act out all the roles, and pretend to speak in all these different foreign languages." I have no recollection of this. Kim then tells me she now speaks several languages, and I of course speak only English. She is clearly the one with the aptitude.

She asks if I have some time; I do. She walks me home to refrigerate the fish I just bought. We go for a short walk, ending back at her house. On the way, we ask a stranger to take a photo.

Kim lives exactly one block from where I do, and has for over 20 years. I wonder how many times I've seen her and didn't know I knew her?

I meet her daughter, and we share stories of growing up in Brockton.  Our parents were good friends too. It's a nice reunion, and the beginning of a new friendship.

the ideal client

I'm in the elevator of my building.  I see a well-dressed guy.  I figure, why not?

"I represent a clothes manufacturer and we make beautiful custom clothes for men— all the fabrics are from the top mills in Italy; would you be interested?" I live on the second floor so from the lobby to floor two isn't much time. The man says yes, gets off at my floor so I can elaborate just a little, and we set up a time to meet.

About a week later Terry comes over. He tells me in advance, "I am a real fast shopper." In record time, I measure him and true to his word,  Terry chooses a shirt fabric and style quickly. We talk a bit, and he's gone, under 30 minutes. I get to know him a little and immediately like him.

This week I get this email from Terry:

Hi Lyn,

I just wanted to tell you that I got the shirt yesterday.

I love the shirt and I love the fit. I want to order more.

Thanks,

Terry

P.S. I hope your son’s graduation weekend went great. Congrats again.

At 8:30 this morning we meet again. Terry arrives with a cup of coffee for me from Agata. I should be the one offering him coffee. Within seven minutes of Terry knocking at my door (I know because I check), and including a few minutes of social banter, Terry chooses three fabrics for three new shirts.  And to make it easy, "Let's just go with the exact same style as the last one." For the next ten minutes I get to know him a little better.  

If every client were like Terry, everyone would want my job.

honoring abbey

I arrive at The Pierre Hotel around 11:30. UJA is honoring my brother-in-law Abbey, as well as two other fashion industry executives.

A couple of weeks ago Abbey called and asked if I'd like to attend.  He didn't make much of it, and I assumed it would be a small event.

I arrive and the reception area is swarming with beautifully dressed women in killer heels. Young gorgeous 20-somethings with clipboards, all looking very efficient, are everywhere. A long line of people are doing check-in, and picture ID's are required. I am sure I've arrived at the wrong event. The one I'm attending surely must be elsewhere in the hotel. I ask, and am told, "No, you are where you should be."

I bump into Amanda in the ladies room, and through the hordes of people, we easily find Abbey, Val, and everyone else we are looking for. The place is packed, and everyone seems to have a connection to everyone else.  

There are professional photographers here, but I sneak in and take a very quick and out-of-focus photo of Abbey and his family with my little 5S.

After cocktails, we all enter the main dining room. All 550 of us. It's a big group. Dinner is already on the table. Breaded chicken, salad, rice, and mini lemon meringue pie. The MC is Harry Smith. He is highly entertaining, beginning with, "Hi. I'm Harry Smith, and I'm not Jewish." He tells a couple of amusing stories of how he's almost Jewish: he lives on the Upper West Side; his kids went to Ethical Culture; he's been to many Bar Mitvah's — so many, in fact, that two different temples mistook him for Jewish and asked him to join; and he once dated a Jewish girl from Denver who introduced him to her grandmother as Harry Schwartz (to avoid lots of questions and potential grandmother angst).

Adam introduces his dad, in a beautiful and heartfelt tribute.  When he says, "It's truly an honor to be the son of Valerie and Abbey," (or words to that effect), I see more than one set of teary eyes.

Abbey's speech is well-written and well-delivered, as are the speeches of Sammy Aaron (Vice-Chair and CEO of Calvin Klein Division G-lll Apparel Group) and Efraim Grinberg (Chariman and CEO of Movado Group).

I'm sure all the speakers have sat through enough of these luncheons honoring others to know what to do— keep the speeches short. 

By 1:30 the event is over.