creative pricing

If you live in Manhattan, you've probably shopped at Eli's. 

Inspired by the food halls of Europe, Eli's offers all kinds of specialty foods, as well as baked goods, prepared meals, packaged items, their own brands, and everything in between. Eli's products are generally excellent.

When I was on the Cape, I bought a cranberry loaf at Maison Villatte, a French Bakery on Main Street in Falmouth. It costs about $6, and is indescribably delicious.  I've been looking for the same here, and think maybe Eli's will carry it.

Eli's is near me, but I rarely shop there. I imagine their pricing strategy goes something like this.

Owner:  Everyone (addressing his store managers), listen up.  How much do you think we can get by charging for this bottle of ketchup?

Manager Al:  I dunno. They're selling it at D'Agostino for $3.99.

Owner:  Okay, so let's try $5.99 and see how it goes. I think a 50% mark-up is fine; most of our customers probably wouldn't step foot in a D'Agostino.

Next we have this small fruit salad. Fairway is selling something similar for $5.

Manager Bob: Ya, but everyone knows our fruits are fresher than Fairways. Let's try to double the price on this and ask $10.

Manager Chuck:  Gee, I don't know Bob. $10 seems a little high for that.  What about half way, say $7.50.

Owner:  I agree guys, $10 does sound high. But hey, let's try it, We can always lower the price later if it doesn’t sell.

Remember when we priced those small tangerines or tangelos or whatever the hell they were at  $15.99 a pound and people bought them?

Al, Bob and Chuck: (big smiles all around).

I go to Eli's today and ask if they sell cranberry loaves. They do. YES! I'm directed to the homemade bread section.

And guess what? I find them.. They don't look quite as good as the crusty baguette loaf at Maison Villatte, but Eli's would definitely be worth a try.

Until I see this:

$16.95 for a full loaf? I'll wait 'til I'm back on the Cape.

humbled

In 2002 I am talking to a casting director I know; her daughter and Alexander are 3rd grade classmates.  

"You should really join BAFTA (The British Academy of Film and Television Arts)," she says. "It's equivalent to the Academy Awards and Emmys combined."  I had never even thought about it.

"If you become a voting member, you get invited to all sorts of screenings, and at the end of the year, you get tons of DVD's s of movies the studios want you to watch before you vote." "Are all the movies British?" I ask.  "No, " Adrienne responds. "They just have to be shown in the UK. So basically, about every movie."

So I join, and am accepted as a full-voting member. I had been in television for many years, and even worked with BBC America when I was at Discovery.

Over the years, my interest and involvement with BAFTA NY has increased. I joined the Screening Committee in 2011 and started working directly with some major studios.

This summer I am elected to the Board.  And then...

I get a phone call from the new BAFTA NY CEO. She asks if I'll take over as Chair of the NY Screening Committee. It's a big job with lots of responsibility and no pay. I tell Julie I'll think about it.

And I do.

Last week I meet with Julie and Lisa (previous screening committee chair and now COO), two dynamic woman with whom I love working. BAFTA NY is an incredible organization and I am humbled to be asked to take on a leadership role. I know the people on the committee, and they are all hard-working and talented. And, I get to choose my Vice-Chair. 

After the meeting I call Melinda and ask her if she'll work with me, and miraculously she says yes. I am thrilled. A little of my fear in taking on this important role is dissipated.

So today the announcement goes out.

I am following in some very big footsteps; I hope I don't trip.

small injury, big pain

I'm watching The Today Show the other day and the hosts are making vegetable chips. They (the chips) look great.

Then I notice that Siri the cook (not to be confused with Siri the iPhone genie) uses something called a mandolin slicer. Her chips are all uniformly cut. I picture making all kinds of perfectly sliced vegetables, maybe even potatoes.

After a diligent internet search, I find the Rösle Adjustable Handheld Slicer. It's sleek, small, durable and easy to use, according to the Amazon reviews. I use my Amazon Reward Points and buy one.

The slicer arrives today. How can you not love Amazon Prime? I ordered it yesterday and it is delivered today, Sunday. I had bought fresh zucchini at the Farmer's Market, then picked up an uncooked stuffed branzino at Agata's.

My new slicer comes with no instructions, and I ask Alexander if he can figure out where the blades are. He turns the little side wheels and the razor blades lift.  The reviewers on Amazon boast of the blades sharpness.

I begin slicing and immediately love this little gadget. Uniform pieces of zucchini begin to accumulate; I stop paying attention, and the next thing I know,  I'm bleeding. A lot. About a quarter of my right thumb nail has been sliced off. It looks a lot better than it feels.

It really really hurts. 

Alexander helps me get bandaged and neosporinized.

The zucchini is great. But hardly worth the pain it took to make it!

choosing right

Zelia is not a girly-girl. She once confessed that she felt bad for her daughter.  "I don't care about fashion and make-up.  Poor Victoria."

So I shouldn't have been surprised when after making plans with Zelia to see Trainwreck tonight, she calls.  "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was a romantic comedy. I really hate those kind of movies." Instead she suggests a documentary called The Wolfpack, about six NYC brothers who were pretty much raised inside their small NYC apartment, and rarely allowed out. It's playing at one theater on the lower east side.

I want to see the movie too, but not enough to spend $19 and about four hours of time (when you factor in transportation). 

Because The Wolfpack is a small indie film, I wonder if it's on PPV. While I'm on the phone with Zelia, I do a quick search, and there it is for $6.99. Perfect.

Around 8:30, I go to Zelia's, a few blocks away.  

I'll just say this. PPV was by far the smarter choice. Flexible start time. No need for the subway. Allows for personal commentary. Much cheaper. And so much closer.

I'm home by 10:30. 

wake up call

I'm up late again watching Breaking Bad with Alexander. 

The show is addictive.  Honestly, I have never watched anything on TV as good as this. Smart writing, gorgeous cinematography, beautifully developed characters, and small story elements that are never expected. It's a show that is totally unpredictable. Not like, "OMG, I would never have suspected him." No, the plot twists are far more subtle and interesting. And seemingly inconsequential introductions can develop episodes later into pivotal show-altering situations. We are beginning Season Three, and of 22 episodes so far, we have not watched one weak one.  Not one that Alexander would characterize as filler, as he often did with episodes of Homeland or 24.  Every single episode of Breaking Bad advances the plot and characters in important ways; there is no waste.

I try to sleep but can't. Thoughts of Skyler, Walt and Jesse keep me awake. Finally, I drift off, only to awaken again at 1:30. I think I'll have steak for dinner so I take one out of the freezer to defrost. Now I'm wide awake. It's after 3 before I fall asleep again.

10:20 this morning. 

Alexander marches into my bedroom clanking together two big aluminum pots, shouting, "Get up. Get up. Get up"  I smile. He's mimicking me when I had to get him up for school. Now he's more responsible. 

He pulls my covers off me, still shouting, "Get up. Get up. Get up."  I did that too.

And then when all else failed, the dripping water.

Alexander remembers that too, and returns threatening me with water.  "If you don't get up now, I am going to pour this on your head."  I would just let a few drops dribble onto his forehead, and that was always as a last resort. He would probably have dumped the whole bottle on me had I not gotten up. He doesn't do much in moderation. Plus, it would have delighted him to do it.

"What have you done so far today?  It's almost noon and you've done nothing."

"The day is already half gone," he continues to shout.

"Make you bed."

"And you left your water bottles all over the living room."  

I listen to my words come out of my son's mouth. Please tell me I don't sound like that!

via

It's a million degrees out and humid. I'd much prefer 10 below, snow, and blowing winds.

I have a BAFTA meeting in midtown. The meeting is at a beautifully appointed brownstone that looks like a private home. I walk in and see this.

I am being asked to consider taking on more responsibilities, and I think this sign is to woo me. Okay, ask me to do anything and I will.  That sign — such a sweet touch I think.  Soon I learn that anyone arriving for a meeting is greeted this way. This does not diminish my appreciation.

The meeting ends and now I must re-enter the inferno outside. My weather app tells me there's an air quality advisory for NYC, though I don't really need an app to know that. Walking even a block is miserable.  So I decide to try Via for the first time.

I had set up an account a while ago and had deposited $50 into it.  I open the app,  type in my location, and am told that a car will pick me up in 3 minutes, a half block from where I am. A black van comes and two very nice passengers are already in it; Via is a shared ride service.  Five minutes later I am dropped off in front of my apartment. No money is passed. I do nothing but say thank you and get out.

So let's see. $2.75 to go underground where the temperature must be close to 100, compete for a seat, find lots of other sweaty people, then walk nine blocks home.  Or, pay $5.44, get a ride in a clean, air-conditioned van, be delivered directly to my front door, and avoid the outside almost entirely.

I think I just became a Via convert.

francie

It probably wasn't a smart idea.

My boyfriend Don wanted to live with me. I didn't want to leave my friends. So instead, we all lived together. 

It was the fall of 1974. I'd been out of school a year and was living in Allston. I became good friends with the two girls living across the hall from me: Randey and Francie; they were from Chicago.  It was through them I met Don.

I had planned on living with Francie and my childhood friend Vivien. 

So we simply added Don and found a great apartment near Harvard Square in Cambridge. It was a duplex apartment that looked like a cheap motel. We thought it was great. Four Harvard law-school students lived next door, and an old hunchback roamed the parking lot every night. 

Hamp, Vivien's boyfriend, brought in a big piece of wood to build a book case. The wood stayed near the entry way until we moved out. Don bought me an Irish Setter named Jessie. She was the cutest puppy, but I did a poor job of training her. Our apartment always smelled of urine.

We had a couple of  odd roommates who joined us along the way. Donnie K moved in for a while. I have no idea why he's dressed like this, but it was not his usual attire.

And Karen. She never ate, or rather, she never paid for food.  She would join us for dinner though, and happily eat our scraps.

Francie seemed to always be sitting under one of those gigantic hair dryers.

Either that, or socializing with giant rollers in her hair. Here she is eating artichokes with Robbie, one of the next-door Harvard Law students.

On rare occasions, Francie could be seen without her rollers or a hair dryer. (How sad digital cameras didn't exist back then).

I visited Chicago with Don for the first time in February 1975, and by the fall had moved there, along with Francie and Don.

Francie and I remained good friends until I moved back to Boston in 1981.

summer 1976

And then we lost touch. 

Throughout the years, I thought about Francie, and finally contacted her in December 2011. She was still living in the Chicago area. Had a dog, a boyfriend, and a great job. She told me she had been diagnosed with cancer in 2007, and it had spread. But she said for now she was healthy. She sounded optimistic, strong, and just like the Francie I remember. 

Francie was going to come stay with me in New York over the weekend of February 3. But then she moved, so we rescheduled for April. But then that didn't happen either. We emailed a few times, but never spoke again.

Last week I see this Facebook post:

I am a close friend and want to keep you current on Francie's health. Sadly she is in the final stage of her cancer journey. 

Friends write and post pictures. We call each other. It'd been years and years since anyone I know has seen or spoken to Francie.  But great memories don't require much of an impetus to resurface.

I speak to Don this morning and he tells me some surprisingly good news. A cousin of Francie emailed him and told him that the friend's post may have exaggerated Francie's health. He said Francie was up and walking just the other day, and things are not as dire as the post suggests.

I hope Francie is doing well. I hope she rallies. And I hope she gets to see how much she is loved. 

And maybe — hopefully — that NYC visit can happen after all.

if you know anyone...

Alexander has a phone call at eleven. It's an informational interview with a senior MD in Blackstone's Real Estate Group. 

I am impressed with how prepared Alexander is. We do a mock interview in advance of his call and his answers are good. He's clearly done his homework. I look at my son, in his nylon athletic shorts and college T-shirt. I say nothing but as if he is reading my mind, he says, "Don't worry. I'd wear something nicer if we were meeting in person."

A little while later I have a new J. Hilburn client come to my house. He happens to be the CFO of a private equity real estate investment firm. Tom arrives and is incredibly personable, and more than willing to have Alexander send him his resume so he can pass it around.

Alexander's class will end on August 4, and he is anxious to find a job (and I am anxious for him to find one). He wants to work on the investment side of real estate and would be grateful to meet with anyone who could give him some career advice.

Alexander's interest in real estate began when he was in middle school. He became obsessed with the cost per square foot of NY buildings. My nephew, who currently works for Eastdil, used to quiz Alexander. Adam would name a building in NY, any building, and Alexander could tell him the selling price per square foot. It was an odd hobby for a 12-year old.

So I'm shamelessly asking for help. If you know anyone on the investment side of real estate who would be willing to meet with my son for an informational interview, please let me know. My direct email address is lynj@me.com.

I rarely use my blog to ask for help, but I figured, why not?  It's for my favorite person, after all. 

Thank you.

lucky me

I am meeting Julie before a screening of Woody Allen's Irrational Man. 

We decide to meet somewhere near Lincoln Center. I get there early, and there, at 66th and Columbus, are all these tables set up in a triangular island between Columbus and Broadway. The island is surrounded on all sides by city traffic. Along with the tables are different vendors selling breads, pastries, fresh fruit, vegetables, and homemade jams.  It's a small farmer's market in the middle of thriving Manhattan. I call Julie and that's where we meet for a quick BYO dinner.

We go to our screening. Something I do regularly. But still, this frequent activity is somewhat unique to this city, along with LA and London.

After the movie, Julie goes to her car, as she is driving back to Connecticut. I walk along Central Park. The sun has set but the dark blue sky is perfectly offset by the deep greens of the city trees. Across the street the American Museum of Natural History appears to be open, as I see people leaving it.

I am not unique. 1.6 million people live in Manhattan. It is the most densely populated county in the United States. Many would hate living here. I'm not one of them.

Stumbling on a Farmer's Market. Going to a private screening. Having a 1.3 mile urban park that will never be converted to homes or offices. Exeriencing some of the country's best museums. Being able to walk everywhere. Feeling safe. Loving the diversity. 

I never take it for granted. 

I envy my friend's son who just found an incredible two-bedroom apartment in a great area of downtown Chicago for $2600/ month.  I wish sometimes I could just get in a car, parked outside my home, and go for a ride. Or own a big dog that had a backyard to play in. Or dip my toes in the Atlantic Ocean, a short walk from my home.

But the envy never lasts long.

I feel lucky to live in Manhattan, and can't imagine calling any other place home.

home sweet home

The plane ride is 39 minutes. It takes me 8 hours door to door.

My mom, who leaves early for everything, insists on leaving at 10:15 for a 1:09 flight.  We do need to make a 45 minute detour, and Hyannis is 45 minutes away. Plus, you never know. There's always the possibility of that dreaded "bumpah-ta-bumpah" traffic.

I arrive at Hyannis airport a little before noon, to find out that my plane has been delayed — thunderstorms in New York. We eventually depart around three. It's an uneventful quick flight, but then we sit at the gate. There is something going on, but no one knows what. Lots of people talking and guessing. Then there's an announcement. "Sorry folks for the delay. There was a security issue but everything's been sorted out." Then some guy dressed in casual Cape attire exits the plane. Who is he? Why is he leaving? Are there police waiting for him? Is he a disguised air marshall?  We are never told. A few minutes after he gets off the plane, we are allowed to leave. I ask a Jet Blue representative and am simply told, "There was an issue."

I walk about a mile (JFK is one large airport) and then get on the wrong air train. All this while carrying 22 pounds worth of stuff in a tote bag. I mistakingly think that the air bus is like the shuttle between Grand Central and Times Square where all trains lead to the same place. They don't. I go 30 minutes in the wrong direction, and then must return and go another thirty minutes in the right direction.

I finally arrive home around 6:30.

It feels good to see Alexander. To order in sushi and watch Breaking Bad with him. To see a clean apartment. To stay up late with company. And to sleep in my own bed.

But it won't be birds waking me in the morning. Just the sound of hammering as the work continues outside my window. 

buyer beware: AT&T's deceptive advertising

How do I make something interesting and still communicate what I consider to be important news?

Not sure I can, so I'll err on the side of communicating what I just learned. 

I'm guessing that most people think that the benefit of buying into a 2-year contract with AT&T is a discount on the phone.  So if you are like me, and think that, you would be wrong.

Alexander lost his iPhone and replaced it with an iPhone 6 in early June. He paid $300 for the phone, which would have been $750 otherwise.

Today I get my first bill with the new phone.  And guess what? My service fees increased $25/month plus associated taxes. That's not even including the ridiculous one-time charge of $40 that AT&T adds for the phone "upgrade." 

So basically, Alexander's new phone costs $1,000.  The $300 he paid plus the increased service charge of about $30/mo. for 24 months, or roughly $700. If he had bought the phone outright for $750, the service charge would not have increased.

So I call AT&T. And here's the deal.

There is none.

I can pay $300 for the phone and then an increase in the service charges, OR I can pay for the phone via an installment plan (no interest) and no increase in service costs. The installment plan also allows you to get a new contract in under two years. 

After hours on the phone with surprisingly helpful people from both At&T and Apple, Alexander is returning his phone, buying a new one, and  AT&T says they will retroactively credit our account for the installment plan option.

So buyers are not getting a discount on a new phone just because they are getting a new contract. In fact, they end up paying more. 

This might not be a clever little post; nonetheless, I think it's a story worth telling.

dinner at the chart room

My dad was pretty easy about restaurants. Most places were just fine with him.  Except The Chart Room.

My mom likes, as she will say, "a happening place." She generally prefers noise and activity. My dad, however, did not. The Chart Room is loud. And if you don't get a table on the outdoor covered porch, forget hearing any conversation. My dad was not an unreasonable man.

Jean comes down for the day, and after a beach-perfect day (this one a ten), we get ready for dinner. My mom has secured a coveted reservation on the porch, and has confirmed that baked stuff lobster is on tonight's menu (I think it always is).

We arrive around 6:30 and the sun has not yet begun to set. But still, it's a a beautiful setting. I doubt I've ever been to The Chart Room where you are seated right away, so we wait outside and enjoy the view. it's part of the restaurant's charm.

Dinner is perfect. Lobster is one of my favorite foods, despite the difficulty in eating it. But The Chart Room serves its lobster without claws. They've already been cracked and re-stuffed into the body of the lobster. It's easy to eat, filling, and always cooked perfectly. Never overdone.

Before leaving, we take a picture as the sun sets over Red Brook Harbor. The sky is so beautiful it almost doesn't look real.

a few favorites

Maxwell's for clothes.

Dean's for subs.

Maison Villatte for breads and anything sweet.

Paying $125 to have my teeth cleaned vs. $250 in New York.

The West Falmouth Market for its hometown feel.

Dana's for coffee and cinnamon swirls.

Cataumet Fish where fresh lobster meat is $40/lb.vs. $80 at home, and the bigger lobsters are only $12.99/lb. 

Crabapples for pies, chowdah, and fried clams.

Lazy Sundae's for homemade ice cream.

Driving.

Never wearing makeup. Ever.

Playing gin with my mom.

Winning gin against my mom which is rare, but here I am, up 4 games to 3.

Waking to birds singing.

Wearing shorts,T's, and bathing suits, 95% of the time. 

Reading on the beach with the water splashing at my feet and the wind masking the heat.

Low tide.

And Bleu's. That's where my mom and I go tonight for dinner. 

We go here once a season and I always order the same thing —  duck breast in a raspberry honey glaze, risotto with goat cheese and asparagus. It's worth a trip to the Cape just for this meal.

solid 8

"You need to take water. You'll get hydrated on a day like this. And your ankles will swell up."

"Bring the umbrella. You can't be under the sun too much or your skin will turn leathery."

"Your hair looks so much nicer down."

"That coverup is too nice to wear on the beach."

"Be sure to bring something to cover your chest."

"Did you bring a hat?"

My mom has a lot of concerns for me at the beach. I know her intentions are good, and I'm sure I'm the same with Alexander. All mothers are alike. But still. I want to just pack up and go, question-free.

Wild Harbor Beach is a gorgeous place, especially when blue skies dominate.

My mom and I arrive early, before the crowds. It's a 3-minute golf-cart ride from my mom's house.

We talk to people and each other. Read our books. Eat a delicious packed lunch. And I even take a float out onto the clear waters. 

Had there been more of a breeze and fewer people, today would have been a 10. But still, a solid 8 is still pretty nice!

linda fairmont: a short-lived identity change

I'm sitting on the couch having coffee. My mom hands me a box and says, "Here, look through this.  See if there's anything in it you want to keep, otherwise I'm throwing it out."

I open the box and the awkward teen-age me greets me.

I first find a bunch of small photos from 9th grade. On the back, most have written something that begins to a great kid and ends with  love ya. 

I find a picture of my mad crush through all of junior high. He writes, "To Linda, A real sweet kid. Good luck in the future. Love, Chickie." I wonder how long I thought about his closing words?

This boy is more creative than most and writes, "In case of emergency call me at JU 66722." 

And this kid is trying to be funny, but isn't. He writes, "To Linda. A good try in running for office. You lost. Haha. Bill." I don't remember running and I have no idea who Bill is.

Next I come across old newspaper clippings from my short-lived modeling career.  I was selected at age 15 to be part of the Marsha Jordan Fashion Board, sponsored by Jordan Marsh.

The article announces the introduction of Teenage Charm courses for girls aged 11-17. The five-hour session "tackles such subjects as good grooming, posture, calorie and nutrition counts, make-down (the best way for youngsters to apply make-up), how to walk, sit and stand like the models do, and how to care for your hair and complexion and generally make yourself more attractive in manner and appearance."  What young girl wouldn't want to learn these important skills? Especially when it's only $2!

A yellowed page from The Boston Globe dated Friday, April 21, 1967, includes me modeling a white gown that I later wore to my junior prom.

But my favorite find is this, from a place called Personality Plus, Inc.  Like the movie studios from the 50's, I guess this agency thought it was important to change my name. 

I consciously became Lyn from Linda as soon as I went to college. But I have zero recollection of ever being called Linda Fairmont. I'm sure if the agency had named me Gisele instead my modeling career would have turned out differently.

getting from here to there

My mother lives in North Falmouth, Massachusetts. From New York City, the Cape is an impossibly difficult place to get to, despite its summertime popularity.

When I had a car, I drove.  That was the easiest. Especially if I could plan my trips to avoid Connecticut traffic.

Then it was the train. I love trains. But the train only goes as far as Providence. My mom used to pick me up, but that's 60 miles from North Falmouth, and my mom no longer likes making that drive. So now the train is out.

I never took the Peter Pan bus, as I cannot read on a bus. It takes forever. And, I am not comfortable with the unpredictable passenger-types that frequent this bus line.

But then the Bolt Bus entered the picture, and for $15 to $25, I learned how to read on the bus. And, the clientele were all clean and normal-looking.

But flying is the best. Only 30 minutes in the air.  And a few weeks ago I find and book a $98 round trip fare on Jet Blue. The only challenge is getting to JFK airport.

A taxi is too expensive and defeats the whole purpose of the $98 round-trip fare. So I opt instead for the bus to subway to air train; total cost, $7.75.

I pack last night, thinking I'll pack light. But somehow my thinking doesn't translate to my acting. My carry-on weighs 10 pounds and my rolling suitcase another 27. Thankfully there are elevators at the subway station, though I still need to ask a guy to help me down two flights of stairs to enter the subway. I hope my son would do the same if he were asked.

Because I have no idea how long the trip to the airport will take, I leave my house at 8:30 for an 11:22 flight.  Again, this sort of defeats the purpose of a 30-minute flight.  But at least I'm not getting car sick, restless, or uncomfortable.

I get to the airport by 10:30, then the flight is delayed until 12:45. Fortunately, I end up in conversation with an adorable, interesting guy who recently moved to NY from LA and is a writer for the Larry Wilmore show. I give him my card with my blog address on it, so I debate including the work adorable, but since he was, I think, why not.

I land in Hyannis around 1:30. By the time I get my luggage, meet my mom, and drive back to Falmouth, it's  2:30.  That's six hours door to door. 

I could be in Los Angeles in six hours. Or London. Or Iceland.  But then, I wouldn't seeing my gorgeous 85-year old mom and her devoted cat Ellie.