a lazy, but clever, halloween costume

I am creative about a lot of things, but costuming isn't one of them. My mother is the same way.

Growing up, my sisters and I wore the same costume every year — some variation of what was then called a hobo. In today's world, that would be a homeless person, and no one wants to be that.

When Alexander was young, I tried. Among my favorites, was my son as a fire doggie when he was almost three. He was very into the fire scene at that age.

October 1995

I also loved the year my son became a cow. His dad's last name means cow in Italian so the costume had some significance.

October 1997

But Alexander was never that into Halloween, although he did like dressing up. He loved to play act in costume, as a police officer,  firefighter, or  doctor. Even getting all the candy wasn't a big lure, and at a young age, Alexander stopped wanting to go trick-or-treating.

Last night he decides to go to a party.

"What are you going to be?" I ask.  Clearly he has spent zero time thinking about a costume.

He tells me he did some internet research and he has some ideas.

It's already after 8, and he's meeting his friends in a half hour.  I wonder what kind of idea could he have that requires no prep.

He grabs an old white t-shirt from his drawer, and takes out a red sharpie. In five minutes he's constructed his costume.  "What do you think?" he asks.

I have no idea what he is.

"Im a ceiling fan!"

Okay, maybe it's not obvious, but it is clever.  And it'll be a great conversation starter.

And maybe the idea wasn't his own, but it was certainly better than any I've ever come up with.

one of those days

Last week one of my favorite J. Hilburn clients decides on a suit he wants. This week he is traveling, so we get together this afternoon. I want to get his order in before the month closes. It means I'll enter a new commission bracket at a higher payout for the month. Still not enough to live on, but better than zero.

I spend about an hour with him. He falls in love with a specific fabric. He chooses several custom style options. Even a tie that'll be perfect with the suit. It really will look great on him. I come home and begin to enter the order. The fabric is sold out, and is no longer available. Lost sale. Disappointed client. Not good.

Then Shari calls me on my cell.  She tells me that my landline is not working. I can call out, but when someone calls me, they get a message that says, "You have reached a non-working number."

I call Time Warner Cable (TWC). About 30 minutes of troubleshooting ends with no solution. We set an appointment for a tech guy to come to my apartment between two and four. I cancel my plans for the day. I get two automated calls around 1:50pm, each asking me to confirm my appointment. I say, "Confirmed," for each of the two calls.

It's after four and the technician has still not arrived. I call TWC. "I'm sorry ma'am,"  the customer service rep says. "The technician tried to call you and confirm the appointment but no one picked up." I say (not too calmly), "I'm looking at the call list on my cell phone and no one called." Then the story changes.  "The technician said he came to your home but no one was there."  "I never left my apartment," I say (even less calmly than before).  "And, I live in a building with a 24-hour doorman.  NO ONE FROM TIME WARNER CABLE CALLED ME AND NO ONE FROM TIME WARNER CABLE CAME HERE!"  I ask for a supervisor and get James. He offers me a $25 credit for my lost day, and says he can try to  schedule another appointment for today.

I morph into a crazed person, telling poor James how much I hate TWC and how it's so understandable that they're always ranked last in Customer Service surveys. Patient James just listens, and then tells me he'll call me back when he has a time for the technician's second visit. 

As promised, about fifteen minutes later James calls back. I'm calmer now.  "Did you call yesterday to get a new promotional rate?" James asks. "Yes," I answer, wondering what that has to do with anything.  "Well apparently when you spoke to Edwin (from El Salvador), he did made the changes to your bill, but he also changed your home phone number."  

What possible response can one have to that?  I'm speechless.

But by then James had remotely fixed the phone issue, gotten my number back, and  offered me a monthly rate of $20 less than the promotional rate Edwin from El Salvador had applied yesterday, good for 12 months. "I'm surprised you'll even speak to me after my rant earlier," I say.  James and I are now good friends. "Oh, I'm used it," he tells me. "You were calm compared to some people who call and insist on talking to the president."

I think he is just being nice.

my friend carol

I move to New York in 1984. I have no friends and no apartment. But I do have a job (Brand Manager of Caress Soap at Unilever) and I am finally living in the city I want to be in.

I soon find an apartment, and my first friend. His name is Allen. Allen was the prior Brand Manager on Caress Soap and has moved on to another company. He calls and offers to meet me to help me better understand the brand. How nice, I think. My colleagues know better. "That's so like Allen to call the single female who takes over his old job." Whatever his motivation, Allen and I soon become good friends.

I move here in January. In February Allen invites me to a house he's rented in Killington with some friends. There I meet Carol and Abby. Abby is already married to David (still is), and Carol is single. She quickly becomes my first female friend.

Carol, David, and Abby

That summer, and for the three that follow, Carol and I, and about 50 others, take a share in the house Allen rents on Dune Road in Westhampton.

with Carol...she, the glamorous one on the left;
me, the unglamorous one with the silly terry headband on the right

with Carol and others at the beach house

I am at Carol's  wedding when she marries the wonderful Michael in 1989. She helps me celebrate my surprise 40th birthday.

Terri, Alice, Carol and Jill

And she makes me a shower when I'm pregnant; by then she already has had her first son and has moved out of the city.

Even though Carol lives in Westchester, and even though years can go by when we don't see each other,  and even though months can pass without a word, still, I consider Carol a close friend. She is one of those people who's impossible not to like. She has a great laugh,a positive attitude, a warm and giving personality, and is smart, interesting, and a lot of fun. 

It's been a year and a half since we last got together. No reason. Just busy lives, I guess. But today we meet for lunch and theater.

I had already gotten a ticket for The Humans, and last minute, Carol is able to get one too. 

It's raining, so buses act as if they only travel in good weather. Everything is backed up, and I arrive late. Carol is already there, and looks great. In fact, she looks so good and un-aged that I'm sure she's had some surgical help. But I'm wrong. She's just one of those people who doesn't age. (And stupidly, I become so engrossed in our conversation I never take a picture).

We meet at Nino's 46, a small Italian restaurant that recently opened in midtown. We talk and eat and the time goes too fast. 

I had bought my ticket for The Humans on TDF and Carol was able to buy a last minute ticket for her and a friend through the theater. I feared I'd be seated somewhere in the mezzanine. I am surprised instead to find myself seated in the orchestra — great seat, 11 rows back. In fact, my seat is so good that I shoot a picture, forgetting that photos aren't allowed (this is before the show starts). Soon I'm verbally attacked by an usher who stands over me, insisting that I erase the photos I've taken. He misses this one:

See? it's a great seat. I can see the stage perfectly.

The play is exactly the kind of theater I love best: a comedy-drama about complicated lives; well-acted; well-directed; and one act. Before leaving, we bump into Allen's wife. New York can be a very small town.

Over lunch Carol tells me that she and Michael have gotten an apartment here. I am thrilled. Soon when we see each other, it'll no longer be a special occasion. It'll just be life-as-usual. I'm really looking forward to that.

misophonia, oh that must be what I have

The petite woman who lives above me has no rugs in her living room. When she walks around it sounds like elephants charging. This doesn't seem to bother Alexander. I can't stand it.

People talking on their phones in buses is a real irritant. The short, "I'm running late,"  calls are fine.  It's the loud or incessant talkers that bother me most.

And what about people who don't know how to chew gum?  The ones that chew with their mouths open or crack their gum as they chew. Horrible.

The muddy mumbled  noise that seeps out of headphones when people are listening to music makes my skin crawl.

I find all these ambient noises so annoying, you'd think I'd prefer to live on a farm in the middle of Kansas.

But today I learn that it's not bad manners or clueless people that are annoying, it's that I am suffering from a neurological disorder. 

http://on.wsj.com/1OPVJuk

Yes, I'm sure that's it. It's not that people are being rude, it's that I have a disease.

becoming junk

Around six, I call Apple. I'm having an email problem. 

When someone sends me an email I get it; when I bcc myself on an email I don't.

After twenty frustrating minutes with an unhelpful person who seems to know less about computers than I do, I ask for a senior specialist and get the very competent and patient Matt.

He takes over my computer (I love that) and soon discovers that any email I send myself is mysteriously routed go into my junk folder. And worse, these emails  ignore my request to not be considered junk.

Finally, 123 minutes and 14 seconds later, through a series of steps that are way beyond my level of understanding, Matt is able to declassify me as junk.

But like a bad dream, I now wonder what it all means.

mingling with a couple of A-listers

There are many things I love about Jill. Among them are her ability to make me laugh, her confidence in talking to strangers, and a willingness to  be bold.

I am invited to a screening of the new film, The Big Short. In addition to having a Q&A, I am also invited to the reception after to join the "filmmakers and members of the cast." I ask Jill to come with me and she accepts.

The movie, based on the book by Michael Lewis, is great. It takes a complicated topic (the financial collapse of 2008) and makes it both understandable and entertaining. it's a fast-paced movie with great performances all around.  After the Q&A, Jill and I head over to The Ribbon, a new restaurant and bar on the Upper West Side where the reception is being held.

We arrive after the movie, and see it is packed. Everyone at the screening (about 200 people) has also come. Apparently, most of the movie's actors aren't there, but Steve Carell is. We decide to make it a goal to get a photo with him.

Waiters come around with hors d'oeuvres and drinks of any kind. We start with a mini-tuna tartare and a vodka drink called The Big Short that is so good you can't taste the alcohol.  We make our way to the back room, and find a table with shrimp, clams on the half shell, and an abundance of other foods. We also spot Steve Carell, so we take a seat near him. He is engaged in conversation with two people.

We decide that since no one else is taking any pictures, we'll use Jill's iPhone vs. my little camera to be less obvious.  But we still need a strategy to meet him.  What can we say except, "You were great in this movie." It all sounds so pedestrian and lame — because it is.

Steve is soon standing near us, maybe a foot away, and everyone wants to talk to him. Then Paul Rudd out of no where appears. He's not even in the movie. But two people are  now talking with both actors, totally oblivious to all the others who would like to do the same. 

Finally there's an opening and we walk up to Steve. Jill begins. " I'm not sure I understand the technical part of trading any better after seeing the movie than I did after reading the book, but that's no statement in your terrific acting, only of my ignorance."

Okay, I know Mr. Carell is an excellent actor. But I don't think he's acting in his genuine likability and interest in hanging around talking to Jill and me. He is very very nice. Doesn't rush us. Reacts with what appears to be sincere interest in our questions. Seems honestly touched by our accolades.  Really, he is such a pleasant, easy-to-talk to, unassuming guy. At least that's how he seems in our 10-minute conversation.  And when I ask "Would you mind talking a picture with us? And feel free to say no," he responds immediately with yes.

We probably could have talked to him even longer, but there's a line of people also waiting, so we step a few feet to our right and begin a conversation with Paul Rudd,. My open to him is, "I've been a fan ever since I saw you in Neil LaBute's play Bash a million years ago."   Like Steve Carell, Paul Rudd is gracious, funny, talkative, and nice. I ask him if he lives here or in LA. He says here, and I ask where (rather stupidly), and he says, "123 East 56th St. Apt. .." and laughingly gives me his real address (not revealed here).  He, too, agrees to a photo with Jill and me.

Whenever I hear talent from a film speak in a Q&A, I am almost always impressed with their intelligence.  But when I meet  someone I know only from film or television, and they seem normal and nice and friendly and likable, well, it's just a great surprise. And I don't think it can all be faked, or they're even better actors than I think!

an unusual request

My phone rings this morning.

"Hi Lyn, it's Nancy."  (Nancy, not her real name, is my lovely next door neighbor.)  Can I ask you a favor?  And you can say no if you like, and I won't be upset."

"Sure. What is it?"

"Well I have these bags of cut up bread.."  (I'm already wondering, what will the end ask be?  Maybe she needs extra freezer space?).

"I'm going away, and ever since they added our terrace (meaning the large, ugly sidewalk shelter that is eye level with our apartments) I feed these adorable little sparrows every morning, and I was wondering if you could  feed them for me.? I'll only be gone a couple of days."

"our terrace", erected on February 23 and still here

"Sure.  Can you leave me their food?"

"Of course, I'll drop it outside your door."

A little bit later, I open my door. Nancy has thoughtfully separated the food into two separate bags — one for each day.

I bring the food inside and then immediately start thinking about the request. Nancy is such a good person. She loves all animals; she is even helping to rescue dogs from Afghanistan. I am not so nice. I think of all the other not-so-lovely animals that may be attracted to Nancy's generosity. Pigeons. Mice. And worse.

I call Nancy back.

"I know I said yes, but..."

I feel like Elaine Benes.

busy weekend, unexpected encounters

My social life pretty much follows the 80/20 rule. 

About 80% of my socializing occurs in 2 1/2 months — between October and mid-December.  So going out four or five nights a week during this time of year is not unusual.

This weekend I see two off-Broadway plays.

On Friday, I go with a group of five people to see a one-man show called The Absolute Brightness of Leonard Pelkey (We all think it's excellent). Today I am going to see another play, The Black Book. 

I take the crosstown bus to the C train. I walk down the subway stairs only to find it's not running this weekend. My alternative now is the bus. I start talking to an older woman at the bus stop and say, "I wish the bus driver on the crosstown bus had mentioned that the C train isn't running. "My dear," she begins, "We no longer live in an age of consideration." I ask where she is going and she says, "To see a wonderful play for the second time, The Absolute Brightness of Leonard Pelkey." I tell her I just saw it two nights ago. "I loved it," she says. "It's a feel-good hate crime play"— this articulate woman can capture the essence of something in very few words.

I get off the bus and am standing on the corner of 8th and 54th. I look up to see where I am, and when I look down, standing not a foot away staring at me is my very good friend Carol — who lives far far away in Westchester — and that's why we haven't seen each other in almost a year and a half. But coincidently this week we had make plans to get together tomorrow. We hug, talk for two minutes, laugh, say in all sincerity I love you to each other,  and then leave, walking in opposite directions.

I meet Susan and Jill at the theater. The play is being performed in one of these skinny old buildings on a nondescript westside block. The Black Book is meticulously written and exceptionally acted. It's a dizzying puzzle that almost begs to be seen again. Ultimately, all the pieces do come together, but much is still left open to be discussed.  It's the type of play you don't want to see alone. 

But then we get lucky. Rather than discuss it amongst ourselves, we see a cast member who is more than happy to help us better understand many of the play's nuances. We next end up talking to the writer and director, Phil Blechman, and the Production Manager Katherine McCombs. Off-Broadway is a much more intimate experience than Broadway, from the size of the theater to the approachability of the talent.

It's definitely a play worth seeing.

the art of emailing

I correspond a lot by email.

People under 30 don't use it. 

And many over 30 don't read it. Oh, I mean they'll read part of an email, but not all of it.

I'll send an email to someone with a couple of questions. Inevitably, I'll get back the answer to only one of the questions. So now I'll write in the subject line, Two questions.  And sometimes even still... 

Earlier this week I was trying to coordinate a meeting with someone.

On Monday I write:

I am available to meet in-person on Wednesday or Friday. But if it’s via phone, I am pretty flexible; just let me know what works for you.

I get back:

Great. See you in my office tomorrow morning (Tuesday) at 10.

And then there are those who write and the words don't correspond in any meaningful way to the intent.

I write to Jill, who is seeing the musical Hamilton:

How was Hilton?

She responds:

Hilton stunk but Hamilton was phenomenal.

Some emails are just so much funnier read than told.

I send out an email to 19 people asking who wants to see a screening.  Amy and Janie (not real names, not that it would matter, but just in case)  answer immediately.  Amy's email arrives first, so she gets to go. Janie is disappointed and writes:

Man I did it the second I got it :(((((

I write:

Am not joking...amy's came at 2:04 and then yours came... only seconds separated you two.

Amy responds:

Fuck Janie (only 72% kidding)

And then today, I get this from a friend in California, with the subject line: Big Fight at Weight Watchers:

One woman insisted that 32 Tablespoons of Teddie Peanut Butter is five points.  Think about that. It's in the weight watchers handbook. Obviously a typo. 

Another woman asked the group what she should do w the egg yolks if we are supposed to just eat egg whites. 

I can't deal w this group. 

I'm sure there are circumstances where it'd just be easier to pick up the phone. But then a simple one-word answer could evolve into a 10-minute conversation. And really, who has time for that? 

welcome to the world

A new little girl is born today.  

She is, of course, the most beautiful child. She will have a name soon, but for now, it doesn't matter. She enters the world with all she needs: two incredible parents (my nephew Jason and his wife Amanda), four grandparents,  four (I think) great-grandparents, and many aunts and uncles and great aunts and great uncles. 

She has an incredible life in store for her. 

Valerie and Abbey are now grandparents and my mom is a great grandmother.

We are all over the moon happy.

Addendum added October 17:

Meet Chloe Anabel.

misleading a toddler

I'm meeting Susan to see a screening of Room, a beautiful new movie.

Getting there requires going through Times Square, my least favorite part of Manhattan. Years ago, my then 5-year old nephew visited. We were going to Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. As we exited the subway on 42nd Street, Jack looked around and declared, "This is what people think of when they think of New York." 

I'm competing with a zillion people for space. Walking on the street is a lot easier than trying to negotiate the sidewalk. I wish I had more than an iPhone with me.  But even bad photos can easily capture the everyday chaos of Times Square.

Lights everywhere. Cars honking. Neon lights sparkling. Taxis speeding. People pushing. Noise and people and movement everywhere.

I'm waiting for the light to change and I see a little boy, about two, in a stroller.  I hear the boy's mother ask, "How would you like to live here?" Without hesitation the toddler answers, "I wouldn't." Well of course he wouldn't.

I want to say to the little boy, "Hey, I don't blame you. I wouldn't want to live here either. But your mom's question was unfair. THIS isn't the real New York. Where I live it's quiet. Trees line the street. There are neighborhoods. I recognize people wherever I go. The sidewalks don't look anything like the ones here. We have lights, but not big bright colored ones. People walk at normal speeds. No one pushes each other. Oh, and by the way, it's the greatest city in the world. You can grow up here and it never gets old.

The light changes and I cross it. Poor kid, it'll take him a while but I'm sure at some point he'll discover for himself just how magical New York City really is.

truth

I see a screening tonight of  TRUTH, an entirely absorbing new movie about the 2004 60 Minutes debacle involving a story on Bush's military service. The end result is Dan Rather resigning his post as anchor of CBS News and Mary Mapes (his producer) being fired, along with several others.

What I find most intriguing about the film is the fallout that results from a mistake (albeit a big one) — and the proverbial shoving under the bus to save one's own career that follows. 

Politics can so easily obscure facts. That's not to say Mary wasn't at fault. It's just that the consequences of her errors seem to outweigh the severity of her offense. At least in my opinion.

Many years ago I worked at a major television company. I reported to a guy who, although nice, knew nothing about marketing. He was a sales guy to the core. And his boss was a buffoon. He had only one strength —  he was smart enough to surround himself with very talented people. I'll call the boss Paul.  

One day, a month or two after I started, my immediate boss was out of town and I had lunch with Paul. I suggested I report directly to him. I presented strong business reasons for why I believed in this change of structure. Paul was cordial; said he'd think about it; then told my boss (which was fine with me). I'm pretty sure that's when Paul decided to fire me for my disloyalty. It took him almost two years to get the job done.  

I loved what I did. I loved the network I worked for. And I loved the people in my division. But Paul made my life miserable. He dismantled my staff. Undermined my work. Made ridiculous, unproductive demands. And was always quick to criticize while never giving praise.

During that same time, my immediate boss moved to another area, and I reported to someone I'll call Greg. I liked Greg. He was young, smart, fun and decisive. 

Greg and I had a good relationship from the start. His wife and I had even shared the same obstetrician.  But when it came to firing me, Greg, without apparent discomfort, played Paul's henchman. I remember the day vividly.

Greg scheduled a meeting with me the night before. I was supposed to fly to Washington, but Greg made some excuse as to why I was needed in NY. I went to the meeting and saw someone there from HR. I knew immediately what would happen next. But I naively thought that Greg would say something like, "I am so sorry. This wasn't my idea."  But he didn't. I left as much disappointed and hurt by Greg's betrayal, as I was at losing my job.

A year or two later, Paul's ineffectiveness was discovered and he was let go; today if I Google him I can't even find him. Greg left for a much bigger job. Today he has a major position at a more powerful network. Greg has always been a master at corporate politics — something I've never been very good at.

So watching this movie resonates with me. I am not comparing my history with the accomplished Dan Rather or Mary Mapes. But I've experienced derailment, and once it starts, it's really hard to stop it. And the truth — whatever it is — too often gets buried.

networking

Alexander is looking for a job.

He is very specific — either a job as an analyst in investment banking, or a job on the investing side of real estate.

I am proud of the steps he's taken to make himself more marketable. He spends $1,000 to buy a financial modeling program called Argus. He teaches himself the program, then takes the two-hour test and passes. He is now Argus-certified.

Alexander also enrolls in two non-credit courses at NYU in real estate finance — one on Thursday evening and the other on Saturday morning.

He joins the Cornell Club and signs up and attends a networking breakfast. There Alexander meets someone who is in the business, and he is meeting with her next week.

I tell Alexander that networking can happen anywhere, and he shouldn't rely on the obvious places.

I am on a crowded bus heading down Fifth. A woman, clearly dressed for work, is standing next to me. We start talking. Our conversation begins with the complaint of why all buses seem to come at once and ends with my telling her about my unemployed son, a recent college grad. She is a financial planner at a big bank and she asks what my son is looking for. I tell her and add, "Even though he went to a great school, he wasn't at the top of his class. And finding a job in his field is tough."

"What school did he go to?" asks a man sitting in front of where we are standing. I tell him. He hands me his card, says, "Have him give me a call," and exits the bus. I immediately Google the man and find he is a big player in real estate. 

In late August, Alexander and I are waiting in line at the French Bakery in Falmouth.  The line is long and slow moving.  Alexander and I end up in conversation with the very colorful guy behind us. By the time we order our two cranberry loaves, Ethan tells us about his childhood friend who happens to run a real estate investment company in NYC. It takes a couple of months, but Alexander is now in touch with someone from that firm.

Meeting the right person can come from the most unexpected places.

I should follow my own advice.

a shiva call

"I don't think you need to ring the doorbell. We can just walk in." Gail knows more about paying a shiva call to an orthodox family than I do. 

Cynthia's mother has died. I had never met here. She was over 90 and her mind had been failing for a while, though until recently, her body had been strong. Three of us drive to Sam's, Cynthia's brother's house in New Jersey for the shiva.

The family is sitting on stools lower than normal, to be nearer the earth. It looks like they are at a PTA meeting, forced to sit in chairs that are meant for 6-year olds. I am embarrassed by my juvenile thoughts.

All the mirrors are covered to help mourners focus on their loss rather than themselves; vanity and personal appearance have no place in the grieving process.  Even wearing cosmetics is discouraged. Out of habit, I  take out my lipstick to mindlessly apply it. Fortunately I catch  myself when I see the Press N'Seal covered mirrors. 

The ancient practice of tearing clothing is a tangible expression of grief and anger over the loss of a loved one. When my dad died, my family was given a black ribbon the rabbi ceremoniously cut. Here, in a more orthodox home, the clothing is actually cut. I feel almost disrespectful noticing Cynthia's simple, well-cut dress that actually looks bohemian chic with the tear around the neckline. I know I should not be thinking this.

But the most important aspect of shiva, and the reason why it exists at all, is to create an environment of comfort. Being surrounded by others, and sharing pictures and memories of the deceased, really does help. 

Shiva also involves an overabundance of food. The house is filled with big plates of fruit. Lox. Fish. Bagels. Cream cheese. Salads. Vegetables. And even a big sushi platter. All this food and not a single person is eating. I haven't had anything but coffee; it's noon, and I am starving.

I ask Cynthia about the food. As in, why isn't anyone eating any. It's her understanding that the food is only for the grieving family.

But then I see a man — a non-family member — helping himself to a bagel with lox and cream cheese. I politely point him out. This prompts Cynthia to check with her sister-in-law. The verdict comes back; we are all encouraged to eat.

It is good spending time with Cynthia. We talk about her mom, which leads to a conversation about our own relationships with our parents, and children. Family is always complicated.

Sitting shiva is a beautiful tradition; I know it helped me two years ago, and I'm sure it is helping Cynthia now.

about some knives

Having good knives is important — not that I do much cooking, but I do cut up a lot of things.

For years I've relied on my 5 inch serrated Zwilling J.A Henckels knives. I own three. Not enough. Why I have three is a mystery. But I also have three wooden salad bowls. 

Recently I notice that the handles on the knives are chipped.

I  check the Henckels site and their guarantee reads:

You will be pleased to know that all merchandise distributed by Zwilling J.A. Henckels is fully guaranteed against defects in materials and/or craftsmanship.

The Zwilling J.A. Henckels warranty does not cover wear from normal use or any damage resulting from use other than the intended purpose.

Wood products (including wood handle knives) are not covered by the warranty as wood is a natural element and thus cannot be guaranteed.

Since it's the handle that's damaged I assume I'm not covered, but I write anyway.  I take a picture, explain the problem, and email the company. They suggest I send them the knives. I do, and get this email a few days later.

Dear Valued Zwilling J.A. Henckels Customer, 

We received your package and carefully reviewed the merchandise you returned. 

Please allow for about 2 to 4 weeks for delivery of the merchandise replacement or repair. 

We thank you for purchasing Zwilling J.A. Henckels products and are pleased to be of service. 

It often pays to ask.  

In the meantime, I need cutting knives. So I purchase a couple of Wusthof 5 inch serrated sausage knives on sale, even though sausage is something I don't eat.

Maybe it's because I never sharpen my knives.  But this knife is amazing. I can even cut through potatoes, no problem. And it just glides through tomatoes.

Soon I'll have five knives. Another odd number. But worth it.

Addendum:

I'm talking to my friend M who goes on and on about her favorite-must-have knife: the spatula spreader by Cutco. This is a knife I can rationalize getting, as I love making sandwiches. Maybe that'll be my next knife purchase.

Zelia's birthday celebration

Tonight seven of us are getting together to celebrate Zelia's birthday. We all have sons who graduated Horace Mann in 2011. (Ronda's twin boys would have but she moved to Connecticut).

Ah, the planning.

First there's finding a time that everyone is free. Actually, that was pretty easy.

Zelia has expressed interest in "getting out of the neighborhood." Most of us live on the Upper East Side, so our dinners are almost always somewhere in the 70's, 80's, or 90's. But like Zelia, I agree  it'll be fun to go somewhere else.

Zelia picks a place called Essex on the lower east side. I make the reservation, secure it with a credit card, and send out the confirming email.

Then I hear rumblings.  "It's inconvenient. It's far. it's two subways." Zelia and I reconvene. Understandably, Zelia wants people to come together and be happy about it. She gives everyone an out, by offering up a restaurant that's closer. Surprisingly,  everyone is now settled in to the first choice.

So at 7:30 tonight we all meet at Essex.  By subway or Uber, it takes about 20 minutes; surprisingly fast. 

We get a group picture, minus Pam who hasn't yet arrived. Zelia agrees without any fuss; I think she feels bad about suggesting a place all the way downtown. She needn't.

We hang out at the bar for a few minutes talking. A woman there thinks Janice is Sheryl Sandberg of Facebook fame. She does kind of look like her. When I ask the woman to take our photo, shockingly no one objects to being in it.

Janice, Zelia, Brooke, Shari, me and Ronda

The place is great. We order wine, two dozen $1 oysters, mac and cheese, and the biggest hit of the night: angus short rib sliders. We all choose one of two main courses: the burger or the lobster special. Both are great.

The conversation is animated and all over the place: kids, politics, men, and more.

The place is loud, the waiter is great, the food is excellent, and everyone agrees that for the next birthday celebration, "Let's pick a place below 23rd." 

It takes a fast 15 minutes to get home by cab.

a boorish corner

I meet Jill to see Fool For Love, a new Broadway play in midtown.

We have a plan. Email on the day. And meet in our seats five minutes before the curtain rises. Even though I just saw Jill on Friday, we both have much to catch up on.

We leave the theater and walk toward the C train, stopping on the SE corner of 44th and 8th to talk.

Our conversation is soon interrupted by a woman rolling a big suitcase behind her.  "CAN'T YOU FIND A BETTER PLACE TO TALK?" she loudly barks at us.  We aren't exactly blocking the intersection, but still, we move a few feet.

Next a man comes strolling by.  He mumbles something rude about New Yorkers, or maybe it's about us. The specifics of what he is saying are unclear, but the gist is unkind.

We continue our conversation and then hear a woman screaming at her husband or boyfriend. She's standing on the corner, while he is midway through the crosswalk. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? COME BACK HERE? WE'RE NOT EVEN GOING THAT WAY." I feel embarrassed for him. He meekly returns to the sidewalk and the two seem to confer on where they are and where they should be. Really, he should just divorce or break-up with her.

It's a very aggressive corner. So when one of those rickshaw-like taxis slows in front of us and the driver asks if we want a ride, we instinctively shout NO; we've become like everyone around us. Our civility is gone.

I'm sure it's the corner; generally New Yorkers are very nice.

bad apple?

I desperately need a new computer. I purchased my 15 inch MacBook Pro in June of 2009. It is showing its age. I figure in man years my computer is over 90. It is agonizingly slow and can only open one application at a time. Sometimes it gets stuck and doesn't move at all. 

I have a 5S iPhone, and that too is old. My phone can't keep up with the new operating system and my battery is half gone in a couple of hours.

So I've been spending time in Apple stores, trying to figure out what to get.  I'm still deciding.

I am, and have been for years, a big big Apple fan. So like many, I've been curious to see the new movies about Apple's founder.

Friday night I see a screening of Steve Jobs, followed by by a Q&A with Danny Boyle, Aaron Sorkin, and all the film's stars, with the exception of Michael Fassbender. In short, they are all articulate. Sorkin is tan. Winslet is gorgeous. And everyone has many many handlers.

Today, Shari comes over and we watch the documentary,  Steve Jobs: The Man in the Machine.  

What's clear from both movies is that Mr. Jobs was brilliant and not very nice.  I know this is not new news. But somehow seeing it on screen makes it more real. At one point in the movie Steve Jobs, Steve Wozniak is asking Jobs to thank the team who created Apple II, an unsexy product that Jobs was not involved with, but that nonetheless provided 85% of Apple's profits. Jobs refuses and Wozniak says, "It's not binary — you can be decent and gifted at the same time." Apparently he wasn't.

Jobs would cut down anyone whose ideas were in conflict with his own.
He was not generous.
He cut Apple's philanthropic programs.
He exploited workers in China.
He was egotistical to an extreme.
He was maniacally protective of his prototypes.
He was likely involved in backdating stock transactions.
He showed no empathy.
And for many years, he denied paternity of his daughter Lisa, despite confirming DNA.

Steve Jobs was a complex man. He was a true visionary. His intense passion for his products was never questioned. His compassion for others was. But in the end, the world's a better place because of him.