new york at its best

Jill emails me on Thursday, "want to do something together on sat night?" I say yes, and volunteer to go to her home in Brooklyn.

Jill lives all the way across the bridge in DUMBO, as in, Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. Jerry Seinfeld once joked that New Yorkers added the O at the end because they didn't want to live in a neighborhood called DUMB.

Jill has a spectacular apartment with 10-foot ceilings and a view of the Statue of Liberty.  While DUMBO was once a sleepy outer enclave, its morphed into one of the hippest neighborhoods (and consequently most expensive) in NYC.

We grab a bite at Luke's. Their lobster rolls are great by New York standards, but nothing compared to the ones I get on the Cape.  Jill and I order at Luke's outdoor window, and eat at a table nearby. After, we walk over to Brooklyn Bridge Park. The whole waterfront area has been developed. New buildings are being erected or renovated, a massive shopping center similar to Chelsea Market is under construction, and new trees have been planted everywhere. It's a stunning transformation. 

The moon is bright and the temperature perfect. I decide to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge on my way home. Jill (and Brownie, her dog) walk with me part way. I had contemplated bringing my camera and so wish I had. My iPhone doesn't begin to capture the majesty of this great city.

whoops! wrong person

A few years ago I got an innocuous email from a casual friend.  Somehow, another email had gotten attached.  The accidental email was a very personal email my friend had written to her then-husband's mistress. I had no idea my friend's marriage was anything less than perfect.

Another friend — at another time — was angry at her mother. Her mother sent her an email, which my friend forwarded on to her good friend with a note that said, "From my so-called mother." By accident, she cc'ed her mom on the email.

These things happen. And today it happens to me.

Alexander never found his iPhone, though he swears it's somewhere in his apartment. Of course he never got "find iPhone" so there's no way to know for sure if his phone is hiding between some cushions in the living room, or lost in a gorge somewhere on campus.

While reaching my son was difficult when he had a phone, now it is near impossible. I can't call, and I can't text. I can email and I can messenger him on Facebook. Alexander needs to be near his computer for me to reach him. And I'm sure now that school is over (he's staying on for a bit), my son is not hanging out in front of his computer.

So today I have to tell Alexander about some information I got regarding his upcoming grand jury duty. It's important and time sensitive. I email. I messenger. I wait.

I do all of the above again.  Still no response.

And then in my frustration, I forget that Alexander does not have his phone and I text him:

An hour goes by before I realize that my son cannot receive a text without a phone.

Then I get a text from Diane, Alexander's paternal grandmother. 

Diane is among the most well-mannered people I know. In the 23 years I've known her, I don't think I've ever heard her swear. Not even a damn. 

I sent the text to Alexander's grandmother instead of to him. I am so glad I didn't spell out effing! 

day after

I'm up at 4:45 to catch the 5:40 campus-to-campus bus home.

Across from the elevator I see two deflated Cornell-colored balloons — a reminder that the festivities for the class of 2015 are over.

Our driver gets us back to Manhattan in record time, under four hours.

My legs feel the daily 5-6 mile walks. I like that they ache.

Everything about the weekend was perfect. Alexander is lucky to have three loving grandparents all participating in this important milestone. If I had to change one thing, it would only be this: I needn't have packed three pair of stylish shoes.

One pair of running shoes would have been enough.

graduation weekend: day 3 of 3

It's another perfect weather day.

My mom and I get to Schoellkopf Field early. We've been told by the new friends we made yesterday at Collegetown Bagels (Lorna and Mike) to sit about four rows back, "closest to the goal post." They tell us all that all the students will pass in front of us, so it's the best seats for photos.

We go exactly to where Mike and Lorna have told us to go, and see them already there. They are both so nice, and so comfortable to be with, we feel as if we've known them for years. 

I have an hour or so before the ceremony begins, so I leave my mom with her new good friends, and walk over to the Arts and Science quad, hoping to see Alexander. As I'm walking over, I think, there will be about 1,000 students there, all dressed exactly alike.  What are the chances I'll find my son?  

But soon after I arrive I spot Daniel, Alexander's closest friend. Now I know I'll find my son. I take a few photos than hurry back to the stadium.

with close friends (since freshman year) John and Daniel

Graduations are boring. Lots of people, dull speeches, and familiar rituals. But today is my son's graduation. And while I have many feelings, boredom is not one of them.

My mom and I are hardly alone in the stadium. We have the best seats, right behind our new friends, Mike and Lorna.

5,500 students enter the stadium. PhD's. Graduate Students. Professional School graduates. And then the seven undergraduate colleges. Some students decorate their caps. Some have long selfie sticks. A bunch of guys do a coordinated dance. Others pause for a group shot. Some march by somberly. Others have huge grins. A group of girls all wear similar white dresses. One girl stumbles on her very high heels. But my favorite is a male undergrad who walks on holding his cap in front of him. Printed on the cap, in big white letters, are the simple words,"Thank you mom."

The very last college to march on the field is Arts and Sciences. 

And at the end of the very last college is Alexander and his close friends. Four years of hard work, new friendships, and memories I have no clue about, come down to this.

Immediately following the school commencement, every department has their own reception and ceremony.  There we meet up with Sal and Diane (nonno and lala to Alexander). They have driven up from NYC, just for the day, just to see their first grandchild graduate. 

Even at a school as big as Cornell, when it all gets broken down into college then department, it's like the neighborhoods of New York — warm, personal, and with its own character and charm.

The graduates are presented individually in a thankfully short ceremony.

with other History graduates

Alexander's grandparents are very proud.

Alexander leaves us for an hour to say good-bye to some friends. It's hard to graduate, but I hope these four years have prepared my son well for what comes next — whatever that may be.

When Alexander returns from his good-byes, we do some more walking around the bucolic campus. Alexander reminds us of Ithaca's harsh winters, and the barren trees that populate the campus for most of the year. But all we see today is the school's profound beauty. And its many joyous families.

graduation weekend: day 2 of 3

I wake up to my mother saying, "It's very very cold; they say it's even snowing in places." I think she's joking until I check my phone.

I have no clothes for a temperature below freezing.  

The Senior Convocation begins at noon, with the stadium doors opening at 10:30. My mom and I take an 8:15 hotel shuttle from Ithaca Commons up to campus.  We stop for breakfast at Collegetown Bagels, and then do some shopping at the bookstore. 

I call Alexander who is using my mom's phone. It's nice to be able to reach my son without having to message him on Facebook.

We discuss today's plans, and have a brief argument, summarized as — "Do I really have to sit with you today?" "Yes you do." We meet in the stadium around 11:45. My mom and I have already been there for an hour, and have secured fantastic seats (with backs) right on the field.  The stadium of 20,000 is near capacity.

By the time the ceremony starts, the weather has warmed up, and the sun is shining.

Captain Mark Kelly and his wife Gabby Giffords are the keynote speakers. Mark does most of the talking and totally wins the audience. He speaks of courage and determination, and urges students to follow their own passions. He tells the graduates not to listen to "the advice of others, many of whom are probably sitting next to you now." Even after commanding a successful shuttle mission, Mark's grandmother still used to ask, "Honey, are you sure you don't want to go to law school?" He talks of second chances, and his wife's spirit and persistence. 

My mom and I are on our own for the rest of the afternoon, as Alexander wants to spend time with his friends. I stand in line with other families and their graduates to meet the president. David Skorton is leaving the university to run the Smithsonian Institution. When it's my turn to meet Dr. Skorton, and have my picture taken with him, I explain, "I'm the mother of the graduate. Sorry he couldn't be here." I offer no excuse since I have none and I'm sure he doesn't care. 

My mom and I spent an hour or so playing gin in the lobby of The Statler, the campus hotel. It's here I discover that my photo card has somehow become corrupt and all the photos I've taken today are lost. I buy a new card, then finish and lose my gin game. 

My mom and I walk to dinner at Golo Osteria. It's a long walk down a steep hill, but my mom easily makes it. Assuming my Nike bracelet is accurate, we walk about six miles today.

The restaurant is housed in what looks like a depressing, unadorned apartment building.  

Once inside though, all is perfect.

graduation weekend: day 1 of 3

I get a last minute, perfect single seat on the 11:40 Cornell bus up to Ithaca.

As we get closer to the school, the scenery changes. Even through a bus window, it's clear we're not in Kansas anymore.

The bus arrives on the Cornell campus around 5:15, and Alexander meets me soon after. 

We walk over to his apartment. As we stroll through the picture-perfect campus, Alexander advises me on what I can and cannot say to his eight housemates. He prefers that I say nothing beyond hello. I am on my best behavior, not even asking them to pose for a photo.  Instead, I take one of my son's senior-year house.  It's definitely at its loveliest from the outside.

I meet my mom at the hotel and unpack. We were lucky to get a hotel in town, and the Hilton Garden Inn is welcoming, with the staff all decked-out in Cornell T-shirts. The school colors are everywhere. I packed well, only bringing the clothes I expect to wear — no more than one option for each day. My mom, because she drove up, has clothes for every possible weather contingency.

We walk to the restaurant (Fine Line Bistro) where we are having dinner, and find Alexander waiting for us. 

Dinner is great. And my mom shows absolutely no wear from her long drive, by herself, from the Cape. She is 85, but everything about her says years younger.

After dinner, Alexander and I sit in the lobby of the hotel and talk for a bit.  He says, "Academically, I may have done better at a smaller school, but I wouldn't have had the same kind of college experience as I've had here. I absolutely loved my four years at Cornell." And I can see in his eyes, and in his smile, that he is happy — proof that the decision he made  four years ago was the absolute right one.

happier hair

Lyo is a colorist. Or, more accurately, a magician.

Today I go to see her.  "What can you do?  My hair needs so much help."

"I wouldn't add many highlights. Your hair is too dried out and that will make it worse."

"But I like my hair light around my face; I think it brightens it up."

"Okay, how about this?  Let's add a few low lights near the crown, and then some highlights on the bottom."

If I didn't trust Lyo implicitly, I'd expect black stripes on top and white stripes on bottom. Sort of like a zebra.

Lyo goes to work and does her magic.  She knows her craft well, and is sweet, nice, and incredibly talented. Plus, she gives the best shampoo/head massage in Manhattan. I've gone to many colorists over a lifetime of hair coloring, and Lyo is the best.

I walk out feeling brighter all over.  Thank you, Lyo.

keep your eye on the ball

I still remember Alexander's excitement (and mine too) when he received this letter.

This weekend I plan to be at the Cornell graduation. While I don't think I've ever said the words, "Keep your eye on the ball," it has been implicit in the many conversations I've had with my son over the past four years.

Alexander doesn't move linearly.  He is creative and curious, and his mind often follows multiple paths simultaneously.  This is very good for some things;  but not good for everything.

When Alexander decides late in junior year to switch majors, I am not thrilled.  Not because I think history is a bad major. In fact, I think it's a great major.  But there are many requirements needed. I want Alexander to enjoy his last year of college, and not be burdened with a heavy workload of demanding courses. But Alexander is certain that this is the right decision for him.  More certain than I am.

Alexander finishes first semester easily enough. But second semester is going to be his hardest yet. He needs to take five tough courses, including four in history. There is no room for error. 

Almost every conversation this semester contains some variation of, "How are you doing in your classes?" I try to be subtle, when I want to be direct. I want to shout,  "Stay focused. Keep up with all your reading and writing (and there is tons of both for four History courses).  Turn everything in on time. Do all assignments." Blah blah blah.  I know Alexander doesn't need to hear this from me. It's my own insecurity that makes me want to say it aloud.

So now the semester is ending. Two finals and three big papers — the last one due at 9am this morning.  I speak to Alexander last night.  He is still working on his paper but is confident he'll finish on time. He's almost there. I begin to relax.

This morning I text Alexander (well, actually message him through FB as his phone is still missing). I get the response I'm hoping for. Paper submitted on time.

So it looks like graduation will happen after all. Oh but wait, there is still one more thing.

"I need to finish golf."

"You what?"

"Ya, Daniel and I are taking golf to fulfill our PE requirement and we have three more sessions to go."

"What if it rains?"

"Don't worry.  We'll get it done."

I wasn't thinking, "Keep your eye on the ball," literally, but perhaps I should have been.

close call

I take the Select Bus down to the East Village to see a matinee. This requires inserting my Metrocard into a kiosk, then getting a paper receipt.  

You don't need to show the receipt to anyone.  Unless of course, the transit police happen to  enter your bus and ask for one. If you can't produce a paper receipt, you will be fined $100. But that never happens.

I never ever cheat. I always buy a ticket. And, I have never seen a transit police person on a bus doing a random check.

I'm seeing a one-woman play called Forever. The reviews are great. "A study in family pathology." "A raw and haunting work." "Remarkable artistry." "Rich imagery."  I go, and am completely bored through most of it.   

It's a hot, muggy afternoon. Mid 80's. Too uncomfortable to walk home. I go the Select Bus kiosk. I put my Metrocard in, and the kiosk tells me my card "is invalid." I try another kiosk and get the same unfriendly message.  I just used this card two hours ago and it worked fine then. 

I board the bus and tell the bus driver. He suggests I try the kiosk at the next stop. I do, and get the same read out, "Invalid." I decide to take my chances. 

At the 59th Street and First Avenue stop I see them.  A sea of transit police. They position themselves in pairs, at each of the three doors. I have no confidence that my reasonable explanation will be accepted.So I try something else.

I casually walk off the bus, even though this isn't my stop; I'm hoping the police will only check people still on the bus. But I'm wrong.  I am already past the two officers. They are busy checking others who are leaving the bus. Then I hear one of them calling out. "Excuse me, ma'am, may I see your bus receipt?" I turn and say, "Oh, I'm sorry, are you talking to me?"  The officer responds, "I was. Did you already show the other officer your receipt?"  Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you for such a nice out. "Yes," I quickly respond, and keep walking. 

Tomorrow I'll have to deal with why my Metrocard suddenly stopped working, but for now, I'm happy my ride home didn't cost $100.

a short happy cable story

Thursday morning. I have many many uninteresting things to do. I make a list. It's a long one.  But it's only 9am, plenty of time.

I notice the red light blinking on my phone to indicate I have a call on my Time Warner voice mail. Except I have no call. I've already erased the one call there.

I call Time Warner and speak to a very nice Cheryl in the Domincan Republic.

Our lovely hour together involves lots of inconvenient troubleshooting things; nothing works.

She hands me over to the equally nice Joe, somewhere in the states. Another hour and still no solution. He suggests a few more things and says he'll call back.

He does. Good news. The problem's with the Time Warner server.  Oh brother, has this been a waste of time.  Why didn't anyone know this two hours ago?  "Apparently you were one of the first to call," Joe tells me.

Friday morning. Problem still not solved.  I call and it's my lucky day. I get Debbie. Tech level three. She's amazing.

I'm on the phone for less than five minutes when Debbie tells me exactly what to do. She is knowledgeable, considerate, and efficient. One of the things may take time to explain. Debbie asks if she can call me back. I'm hesitant. She tells me she is known in the office as The Queen of Follow-up. That gives me all the assurance I need.

Debbie calls back when she says she will.  My phone is now working and Debbie tells me about her favorite TWC apps. I download these, and hang up happy.

I have to admit, Time Warner is employing some pretty great people!

lisa and mike are in town

Some people are born with style. Lisa is one of them.

Lisa is Eric's sister. She lives in LA and is married to Mike, a very laid back, cool guy.  Today I am meeting them for lunch.

Lisa, as always, has the perfect haircut and great highlights. She is wearing comfortable plane attire (she and Mike have a 4:30 flight), that only Lisa can pull off as trendy without trying. We meet at Chelsea market and walk over to Catch. The Zagat's description I later find of this restaurant says this:  Beautiful people and random Kardashians populate this trendy Meatpacking scene.  Apparently (and thankfully), 12:30 on a Wednesday isn't quite the star-studded scene it might be for dinner. 

It's a gorgeous spring day and we eat outside on the restaurant's rooftop terrace.

The lunch special is a soft-shell crab and avocado sandwich with fries.  Any thought of eating healthy evaporates.

Lisa and Mike are a great couple. They are comfortable with each other, and so obviously in love. They really are the kind of couple that complement each other perfectly. 

Unfortunately, our lunch goes by too quickly. 

boom! life can change in an instant.

It begins like any other day.  Until it's not.

I read about the earthquakes in Nepal. 

The tornadoes in Arkansas and Texas. 

Two nighttime attacks in Central Park.

These events feel far away. Even the muggings in Central Park. Everyone knows the park  isn't safe at night.

But then sometimes tragedy visits too close.

Two days ago a Bolt Bus, on its way from NYC to Boston — a bus I take regularly —explodes on the Mass Pike. Everyone is evacuated first and no one is injured. But still, it's a dreadful reminder that the unexpected does happen.

Late tonight I hear the news that an Amtrak train derails — a train traveling  from Philadelphia to NYC. Many are injured and some die.

Living in New York, I worry less about car accidents than I'm sure others do. Alexander got his license in June of 2011 and to my knowledge, hasn't driven since. But I do worry when he's in cars with others. I'm a little nervous when he flies. But I never worry when he's on a train or a bus.

I know. The odds of something happening are low. But it's hard not to think about the randomness of life. How easy it is for an ordinary day to turn into one of heartbreaking sadness.

I am a half-full kind of person. And like most, I don't dwell on the what-ifs. The daily annoyances of life and the things that make me angry or upset still happen. I sometimes awake in the middle of the night with my fears and anxieties magnified. They are still real, and still looming.

But in the big scheme of life, it's usually not so bad. Or it's fixable. Or there's a plan to make it better. Finding that plan can be difficult, but it's out there somewhere.

Tomorrow I will focus on all there is to smile about, and feel lucky if nothing gets in the way. 

sad hair

I'm sure it's a great cut.  Just not on me.

It's been three weeks since my hair makeover. In the hands of a professional, my hair looks okay. But when it's just me doing the styling...the results are not good. Not even close.

I figure, four to six months and it'll be back to where I want it. Long layers, shoulder length. Chin length around my face. A few light highlights in front.

Right now, I have a row of short, choppy layers forming a bowl around my head. The layers vary in length from about 4.5 to 5 inches. They stick out, and not in a nice, hip way, but more in a crazed-person looking way.  The hair at the crown of my head is too short to even curl around the brush I use for blow drying. I am not exaggerating. And I thought my new no-fuss-do would be one of those wash-and-go styles. It's not even a wash- and-spend-hours-trying-to-make-it-look-good-style.

Then there is the color. My hair looks dead — the texture destroyed.  Even with a three-times a week heavy-duty hair mask, my hair is lifeless. And, my highlights are gone.

I go to lovely Lyo, my miracle worker colorist. She advises me to do nothing for as long as I can, because my hair already looks over-processed and she doesn't want to dry it out any more.

I figure hair grows about half an inch a month. So by the fall, my hair should be more acceptable, to me anyway. This is not the wash and go hairstyle I'd hoped for. If I did that, I would look plugged into an electric circuit, as my short frizzy layers would be horizontal to my head. Either that, or it would look like some kind of mis-woven bird's nest sitting atop my head.

I'm sure this is a very fine haircut. And I'm sure on the right person it'd be great. But on me, it's not.

I know. It's just hair.  But man, I can't even pull it back into a low pony. If I do, I still have that short bowl cap that's not long enough to pull into the pony.  Almost like I'm wearing two entirely different hair cuts that don't mesh. I like the overall length, but the layers are too short for me. Choppy is fine, chopped off isn't.

I know, this post begs for a picture. But I'm deferring, at least for a while.

Four months and counting. 

celebrating moms

"Casual dress."

That's what my sister tells me when she invites me to Mother's Day at her club.

I hate casual dress as (a), I'm not exactly sure what it means when it clearly doesn't mean jeans and a white tee, and (b), it's the biggest hole in my closet.

Alexander messages me via Facebook. His phone went missing a few days ago and, "I don't have time to look for it until I finish  two finals on Tuesday, but I'm sure it's somewhere in my apartment." 

I meet up with everyone at Seawane Country Club. The grounds, the interior, and the food are all exquisite. The appetizers before dinner are easily a full course meal. It's hard to eat in moderation when there are rows and rows of sushi, sashimi, and all kinds of fish and avocado stuffed rolls. And this is before the multiple stations of pastas, chicken, turkey, lamb chops, veal, meat and potatoes, as well as a very long table of pies, brownies, cookies, fruits, cakes, and small pastries. I eat enough for the week.

Abbey helps organize the group so we can get a photo.  I grab more than a few, but these two are my favorites.

back row: Jill, Adam, Jason
front row: Jimmy, Jared, Jessica, Rita, me, Valerie, Abbey

Rita with her grandkids: Adam, Jason, Jared and Jessica (Michael is in LA)

Happy Mother's Day to everyone lucky enough to be one. 

October 18, 1992, with mom and Alexander at minus 24 days

Being a mother is by far my happiest role.

with Alexander, summer 1995

neighborhood scavenger hunt

I get an email from Andrea.

Anybody up for this?  Might be goofy, might be fun, who knows?  I am registered.  It is supposed to be for all ages.  Their intro says: 

Using interactive technology, this scavenger hunt will send participants on a mission to discover the remnants of Yorkville’s cultural and social history. Groups will engage with the built environment learning about how late 19th and early 20th century immigrants lived along the way. After two hours of play on the streets, teams will report back to a secret final location for prizes and a celebratory reception!

It's a free event. It's outside. I sign up.

Andrea and I arrive around one at the meeting place on 91st and Second. Already, about 100 people are waiting around.  Because there are only two of us, we get matched up with three others: Emily, Kendra, and Evan. 

The rules are explained. 

All the clues are given via an app. It is all very well organized. 

First, we need to name our group. We decide on The Yorkies. Next, we need to choose a level of play. We of course pick the most advanced; we have Andrea on our team. She just happens to know a ton of stuff on the history of this Upper Eastside neighborhood.

Our first stop is on 84th Street. A Hungarian Bakery. Along the way, we answer trivia questions, and take photos of various architectural details we are asked to identify and submit. The bakery looks too good to just photograph, so we buy some fattening stuff to eat along the way. An hour passes and we bump into one of the team leaders.  "How are you all doing?" she asks. "Great," we collectively answer.  "You know, one team has already finished."  "You're kidding?  How many stops are there?" "Eleven," she replies.  We just finished our first. And, the game ends in an hour.

I need to leave early, but not before I got  to meet Jacob Ruppert Jr., who became General Manager of Ruppert Brewery (makers of Knickerbocker Beer) and owner of the Yankees when they acquired Babe Ruth.  And not before our group composed and wrote (in white chalk) a love poem to the neighborhood on an 88th Street sidewalk. 

I doubt The Yorkies won the competition, but I'm guessing we had the most fun.

a must-have app

Okay, maybe this is one of those apps everyone in the world knows about except me.

But just in case there are others who don't know, here's a must-have app. It's a brilliant way to be able to send cash to friends, or that child who just lost his debit card and absolutely needs money now.

The other night I see a play with Susan.  I'd bought the tickets and she wanted to pay me back. It wasn't much money, but she insisted. Well anyway, she forgot and I forgot.

The next day I get an email. It's from Susan. Actually, it's from Square Cash via Susan. I open it. Click on a link. Put in my debit card info. And boom. The money is deposited. No fees on either side.  That simple.

I send money to Alexander as a test. For my account to be debited my son has to actually open my email.  I'm confident my test will cost me nothing.

the perfect white tee

If I were a man, I think my closet would look something like this.

Beautiful, all-year dark wool suits (130's or 140's), in various shades of charcoal and navy.

A ton of solid white shirts, and a sprinkling of a few others (mostly blues, maybe a few lavender).

Lots of great ties.

All white shirts are not the same. Since selling J. Hilburn, I have come to appreciate the differences in fabrics and style. How a shirt fits, how a shirt falls, and how a shirt feels are all important.  When I see a man wearing a bright white, well-fitted shirt, against a dark suit and a great tie, I notice.

I feel the same about white T-shirts. I think I'm an expert on the subject, as a large part of my wardrobe consists of them.

I prefer bright whites. All cotton (not even modal which is not all natural). Lightweight but not see through. Fitted but not tight.  

In general, my favorite brand of tees is Rag & Bone.  But there are a few others.

Today I go to Soho to check out Proper Cloth, a small retailer who is known for their custom men's shirts. It is an impressive place, known only through word of mouth. There is no street signage. And even when I find the right address, I'm not sure I'm in the right place. The construction on the first floor suggests a vacant building.

After spending about an hour in this well-appointed Soho loft space, I stroll around the neighborhood. Soon I find myself  in Pas de Calais, one of my favorite small shops on Broome Street.

I browse around and buy nothing, feeling I've accomplished something by spending no money.  As I'm walking out, the chic saleswoman near the door (not the one who helped me) casually says, "You might want to check out our sample sale downstairs."  I'm on Pas de Calais' mailing list. I get their sale announcements. I get their new spring wardrobe announcements. How did I not get notified for this sample sale?  I ask, and am told, "Oh, the store doesn't handle the sample sales. That's run by the wholesale group." Okay, I think. That makes no sense. 

Downstairs is quiet with just two customers. The one male salesperson is unbothered by the  female customers as they discreetly change from one shirt to another.  Soon I become one of them.

I try on a short, paper-thin leather jacket for $264 from over $1,000. It's the only one left. And it fits. But do I really need it? I decide no. None of the shoes are sufficiently comfortable. Most of the clothes are too big and drapey. And the lime green multi-layered kerchief skirt for $20 is great if you're under 30.  But then I discover a messy looking table with packages of tees and a big sign above it:

$20 each or 2 for $30 

I end up with the last two white long sleeve T-shirts (in my size) marked down from $120.  Soft, silky cotton. Bright white (no yellow tones). Light but not sheer. Great detail. Hugs closely but doesn't cling. And almost free.  Perfect.

shayla

I've never met Shayla. She lives in Florida, and is the great-granddaughter of Elaine, my mother's lifetime best friend.

Shayla's young mom is white and Jewish; her dad is black. Shayla grew up mostly with her great-grandmother and mom. Her dad was in the picture when Shayla was young, but less so as she grew older.

Years ago I must have mentioned to my mom, who passed it on to Elaine, that if Shayla needs help with college applications she should call me. Shayla is now 17, and a high school junior.  Last October, Shayla calls. Her grace, drive, and attitude win me over within the first few minutes of our conversation; I offer to help.

Shayla's first essay skims over her hardships. In the important ways, Shayla is blessed. She has a loving family. She grew up in a beautiful home. She has many friends. She is number three in her class, and President of the National Honor Society. But when Shayla was 14, Elaine died. Soon after, Shayla and her mom are forced to move to a much smaller home where Shayla must start a new high school. Then, Shayla's mom gives birth to a baby girl. Like everything else in her life, Shayla fully commits to her new responsibilities as a big sister. This involves babysitting most days after school while her mom works. I'm sure this would not be the first choice activity for a teen-aged girl with lots of friends.

Shayla is the ideal student. Over the next few months, we work together remotely. Appreciative of my suggestions, Shayla thinks about them, then incorporates the ones she agrees with, and explains why she's not incorporating others. She is always prepared and keenly aware of deadlines. This is a girl who gets things done, and gets them done on time. Her work ethic is refreshing.

It upsets me that guidance counselors don't advise students the way they should, particularly in less affluent neighborhoods.  It really is up to the student to do the research and know what is due when, and what resources are available. That's a lot to ask of a teen.

I tell Shayla about a program called QuestBridge. It's for high-achieving, low-income students.  I encourage Shayla to apply for QuestBridge's College Prep Scholarship; she does.

Last night, around 10, I see a caller ID pop up on my TV (love that feature) with an area code I don't recognize. I'm tempted to ignore it, thinking it's another roto call about some new electricity plan that will save me lots of money. But something compels me to answer, and it's Shayla. She won a QB scholarship. She's excited and grateful. I am thrilled for her. This is just one more accomplishment for a really deserving girl; I know there'll be more to come.