new sushi place

Robin tells me of a new neighborhood sushi place.

I know all the local sushi restaurants, and in fact, live a block away from one of the city's best (and most expensive) — Sushi of Gari.  Most of the others are okay, not incredible, but definitely edible.

This weekend Robin and I are out, and she introduces me to her new find. It's a tiny little storefront on East 78th Street (between First and Second) called Sashimi Express. Take-out only. It's been open a week and the owner is a personable young Japanese man named Andy. "It's my real name, I changed it when I got my passport."

Andy is impressive, and seems like a smart business man. He personally goes down to the fish markets three times a week and handpicks the fish. "Most restaurants just order it, but I find there is a big difference in quality when you select the fish yourself." He then explains to me what he looks for. I have no way of knowing if what Andy is telling me is true, but my guess is that it is.

Sashimi Express does not take credit cards, does not make deliveries (fine for me as I live a block away), and no tables. And that's how Andy keeps the prices down.  Each piece of sushi or sashimi is $1. The platters look amazing and are incredibly affordable (I'm already thinking next book club).

Tonight Alexander and I try it out. We order the salmon box (4 pieces of sushi and two different kinds of salmon rolls for $9.50 plus $.50 for added avocado.

Forget the fact that the prices are low, the food is excellent and fresh. 

I contemplate posting this, for fear that little Sashimi Express could become the next Sushi of Gari. But Andy promises to keep his pricing as is. "I have a two year lease and the menus have already been printed."

a mess of a night

There's a scene toward the end of The Martian where Matt Damon's character says, "When things start heading south they just keep going. You solve one problem then another one pops up."

Weeks ago I confirm a screening with Fox for The Martian, followed by a Q&A with Sir Ridley Scott.  

We choose a moderator. A few days before the screening he has to cancel: kidney stones.

We find another moderator. I arrange with Fox for him to see the film today so he'll have time to prepare his questions.

Around noon I get a call from Tim in LA. Tim has a senior role at Fox and is my most favorite person that I've never met. We've been working together for maybe three years.

Tim tells me that the moderator arrives a little late at the pre-screening and is not allowed in. Okay bad, but not horrible. He'll see the film at the same time everyone else does. This should have been a warning of things to come.

I arrive at the theater early. Everyone who needs to be there is. BAFTA check-in volunteers. The photographer. The moderator. The studio rep. And 200 guests.

The studio rep is named Charlie. He's the nicest, most capable guy. We've also been working together for about three years. Tonight he has on new glasses (he usually wears none) and longer than usual hair;  I think he's someone named Andrei. I twice introduce him to others as Andrei. I even say, "I didn't know you worked at Fox," thinking he was Andrei.  And then later I ask, "So are you here instead of Charlie tonight?" He responds, "I am Charlie." He didn't want to embarrass me by correcting me in front of others.

The movie is starting at 6:30. At 6:28 the theater rep says, "There's a little problem with the film ingesting. It should be ready in five minutes." 

At 6:35 there's still no film available.  The theater tells us, "We're at 93%," (whatever that means). It should only be another five to seven minutes."

I make my little intro and tell the audience the movie should be starting within ten minutes.

7pm and still no film. I get the manager. He is in touch with the projection room. "Just a few more minutes." I make another announcement, repeating again what I've been told.

7:20. A handful of people start to leave. I apologize again as they are walking out. One guy smiles and says, "Hey, not your fault. Sh*t happens."

We convince the manager (who readily agrees) to give out free movie passes. 

I make another announcement. It's the nicest audience. Patient and understanding.

We pass out the tickets and while we're distributing them, the movie starts.

At the climax of the movie, Charlie finds me and asks me to come outside.  I'm assuming that Ridley Scott has arrived.

But outside are two more people from Fox and no one looking remotely like Ridley.  Unfortunately he couldn't wait the extra hour as he had prior commitments. Totally understandable.  

The credits roll and I have to stand before this great audience one last time and tell them now there's no Q&A.

The poor moderator. The poor photographer. The poor studio exec's. And the poor audience.

I give my final little speech of the night, and rather than the expected anger, people applaud. I think because they too, recognize that sometimes sh*t happens, and well, sometimes there's just not a whole lot to do about it.

a new york moment

Place: New York City Crosstown bus

Time: Late afternoon

Condition: Standing room only

The bus stops at Central Park West and a few people get off.  Moments later the bus driver, through his mic, announces:

"Hey everyone. Listen up.  Did you all notice that was Chris Rock on our bus?"

Passenger A:  "Really, where?"

Bus Driver: "Right up front. He was wearing a cap. You honestly didn't see him?"

Passenger B: "I can't believe that Chris Rock would take a city bus."

Passenger C:  "Hey, next time a celebrity gets on your bus, can you make an announcement?"

Bus Driver:  "I can't be telling you all who's on my bus. Ya gotta pay attention." 

Everyone goes back to their phones. I'm fairly certain they won't be paying attention next time either.

starstruck

Ever since I was a little girl I've wanted to be a moviestar.

That didn't work out.

But now I've come closer than I ever have to working with Hollywood A-listers.

Recently I was going back and forth on emails with a studio exec and we were talking about Leo. Yes, that Leo.

I am working on a Q&A with Ridley Scott set for Monday.

And tonight I go to see a screening of Beasts of No Nation, and actually end up in a brief conversation with Ruth Wilson, star of The Affair, one of my favorite shows from last season.  And then later I shake hands with the charming Idris Elba. 

As a young girl, I would spend hours reading through Photoplay and Modern Screen, imagining the lives of the big stars. I guess there's still a lot of that twelve year old girl in me.

I know I won't ever be in front of the camera, but I still get a thrill meeting those who are.

case closed

It's a cloudless, beautiful early fall day, and Pope Francis is in town.

Traffic alerts have dominated the news for the past week. Some schools and businesses are closed. And today I am going downtown for my small claims case against Con Ed, to begin at 9:30.

My case in brief:

I've been complaining about my electric bill since 1992, when I moved into my current apartment.
My bill is higher than anyone around me, even people with larger apartments, washer and dryers, and more AC usage.
Experts from Con Ed have come to inspect at least twice.
They offer suggestions — new lights, seal the door of my refrigerator,
But no one ever mentions that a decades old refrigerator could be the problem.
I get a new refrigerator in February of this year.
My bill immediately drops $50/month. 
Shouldn't Con Ed have known, and mentioned that the problem could be the old, electricity-guzzling appliance? 

I take Con Ed to small claims court. I've overpaid $50/month for 20 plus years; so suing for $5,000 does not seem unreasonable.

I leave my house at 8, in anticipation of all the Pope traffic. I arrive at Court before 8:30, absolutely no traffic.

Con Ed's lawyer, Ronald Vales refuses to arbitrate, so we go before a judge. 

It's like being on Judge Judy, except Byrd (whom I always thought was Bert until I just checked it) is played by a very surly, loud, unprofessional guy, and Judge Judy is portrayed by Judge Deborah Rose Samuels.

There are people waiting for their own cases to be heard in the audience.  I am actually nervous.

After Mr. Vales and I take oaths. I am asked to state my case and present evidence. I have a comparison of my bill before the refrigerator and after.

Mr. Vales calls a witness, a supervisor of Con Ed field inspectors.  His report is filled with inaccuracies. I point them out, feeling a little bit like Perry Mason.

The judge listens patiently and then decides.

"Well I can understand your frustration," she says to me...

And then I know I've lost the case. 

Basically, Judge Samuels doesn't want to set a precedent. "If Con Ed comes to your home to help you determine your energy efficiency, and this is done as a courtesy, they cannot be held liable for overlooking something. If I were to rule in your favor, this could potentially end the courtesy calls Con Ed makes, and this would end up hurting consumers in the long run."

Her argument makes sense.

I leave the court house not surprised, and walk out into a picture perfect day.

lost. and...

I go to Starbucks this morning with two newspapers to read.

I so rarely go that I still don't have the names of the sizes down. I ask for "the largest" coffee with steamed skim milk and a chocolate croissant.

I hear one of the baristas call my name and I pick up my two items. I sit down and a few minutes later hear my name called again. I look up as I am sitting nearby.  "Did you forget anything?" the barista asks. "No, I have everything," I reply.  And that's the end of our exchange.

I come home, and spend the rest of the day on the phone and computer.

Around 4:30 Alexander and I decide on sushi for dinner. I am not sure that sushi is the most appropriate last meal before fasting, but we are both in the mood for it. 

I go to get my wallet and it's not where it should be. I look around, and with a feeling of dread I begin to realize that my wallet is missing. Credit cards. Money. Driver's License. Insurance Card. BAFTA ID. Loyalty cards. 16 Handles and Dunkin Donuts Gift Cards. Pictures. And of course the wallet itself. 

I call Starbucks.  

"Hi. I think I may have lost my wallet today."

"Okay, we did find one. Can you describe it."

"Sure, it's pewter colored and it's rectangular shaped." (There's a long pause as if she's waiting for more of a description. Didn't I give her enough information? How many wallets do they find in a day?).

"Yes, we have it. It's in the vault. You can come get it tomorrow."

"Oh great, thank you. No, I'll be over in a few minutes to pick it up."

"Well, it's in the safe, and we can't open it until 8 in the morning."

I ask for the manager, who turns out to be the barista who helped me earlier in the day.

It turns out that she put my wallet in the "inner safe" around 4, and it's on a timer so no one can open it before 8 in the morning.  Then she adds, "I saw you and asked if you had everything you needed and you said you did."

"But I thought you were referring to the items I had just bought. I didn't know I had lost my wallet so I wouldn't have known you were referring to it.  Why didn't you just say, 'Did you lose your wallet?"

"I didn't want to shout out that I had found a wallet because then anyone could have claimed it."

"But you could have asked for their name as verification. Plus, you had my photo ID in the wallet."

"Oh, I guess I could have done that."

"Or at the very least why didn't you call me; my phone number is on my business card in my wallet?"  

Totally ignoring my irrelevant question, she adds,

"Just  come by tomorrow morning and it'll be here."

I am sincerely grateful. 

I just hope when I go back to Starbucks tomorrow it isn't someone else's pewter-colored wallet. No one ever did ask me for my name.

tolerance

So we have this new doorman. A very nice young guy I'll call Evan. He is really making an effort. 

In the beginning, everyone seemed impressed with Evan's friendliness — he's always asking, "How was your day?" and caring how you answered. But most people treat the question as a rhetorical one and typically respond, "Fine."

I come home, looking forward to a quiet night in. Evan is on duty and greets me with, "How was your day?"  "Fine," I respond and make the mistake of asking how his day was.

"Not so good," he tells me.  "Fed Ex and UPS both arrived at the same time today so it was chaos.  And then...well c'mere; let me show you."  He walks me over to the cabinet where all the dry cleaning is held. "While I was sorting through all the deliveries, two cleaners came at once. Look at all of this," he says, pointing to a closet filled with hanging clothes in plastic bags.

Evan's friendliness is now something I try to avoid.  When he's on duty, I rush past him with only a perfunctory hello. 

Yom Kippur begins tomorrow at sundown. I know I should be more tolerant of people. 

Like the food server at Agata tonight. She's working behind the prepared food counter where everything is sold by the pound. I ask for two-thirds of a pound of the grilled corn salad. She looks at me perplexed and says, "I'm not good with numbers. Is that the same as three-quarters?"

I'm not sure how well I'll do at being tolerant with people I find annoying, but I will try.

Addendum, September 22, Tuesday:

Alexander returns from being out all day. "Hey, I just heard that Ethan was fired." I sure hope it was more than friendliness that did him in.

amanda's baby shower

Amanda and Jason will soon be parents to a new baby girl, and today is Amanda's baby shower.

The venue is Haven's Kitchen, a converted carriage house near Union Square. The party is on the third floor (no elevator), and two of the great grandmothers (this little baby will have five) make it to the third floor, no problem.

Phyllis and Rita

About 40 people in all. Multiple generations. And all beautiful. The weather, at 70 and sunny, is perfect. No fall sweaters or muted wintry colors. Everything is bright and happy and most are wearing sleeveless dresses, perfect for the day. 

Both my sisters are of course here. It's still hard to believe that Valerie will be a grandmother. How is that possible?

with Jean and Valerie

The radiant mother-to-be is dressed in a tight-fitting jersey dress with killer high-heels. She belongs on the cover of a magazine, along with her husband, my handsome nephew. 

This baby is inheriting some great genes and a couple of amazing parents. She is going to be one very lucky little girl.

Jason and Amanda

family dinner at Pietro's

We are leaving at 6:20 for Pietro's. Our reservation is for 7pm, and it should take no more than twenty minutes to get there.

My mom, I know, would prefer leaving at five to account for any major traffic jams or accidents along Second Avenue. I would leave at 6:30. We agree to 6:20, "But we won't have time for any pictures before," my mom warns. My son, because he doesn't like taking pictures, of course agrees. I have to beg him for one before leaving. 

We were going to take a cab, "But if we do that," Alexander says, "We'll arrive way too early." A lot of planning has gone into the when and how of getting to Pietro's. As it turns out, we have time for a photo in front of the restaurant before everyone else arrives. 

There are ten of us in all. The food is excellent, the portions huge and the laughs many. 

The quilt Jean makes for my mom's birthday is magnificent: hydrangeas on one side and green leaves on the other.

But my mom's favorite gift is always a simple one— being all together. If Jim, Jack and Michael could have come, it would have been perfect. Still, it was pretty close.

the new 86

Alexander and I spend the morning cleaning ...not that my mom would ever say anything. She's not the type to criticize someone else's housekeeping. But I want the apartment to look good. 

Around one, my mom arrives. She's 86 (in a week) but defies expectations for someone that age. Today, for example, she gets up at dawn to drive 70 miles to drop her car off in Providence, then takes a four hour bus ride to Port Authority, then a crosstown cab to my house. All this, while carrying luggage and a big tote. She arrives, has a grilled cheese sandwich that Alexander expertly makes (it's one of his specialties), then leaves to run some errands, "I need to walk a little." 

I remember my two great grandmothers at around the same age; we called them both bubbe. They looked to be about 110, spoke no English ("they were from the old country," though probably had lived in the states for over 50 years), and did nothing but sit in a chair and smile all day. 

Alexander, my mom and I go to dinner at Atlantic Grill. It's a beautiful summer's night and we opt to sit outside.

But the view is not great (Third Avenue) and the ambient noise (cars honking) not conducive to a relaxing conversation. So we get a table inside instead.

The food is predictably excellent. Along with everything else.

transit etiquette

In recognition of all the bad behavior on the subway, The MTA launched a clever campaign advising its riders of proper etiquette. Here are some examples:

Tonight I am going to a BAFTA October- fest event. The last two nights I've been to screenings (Sicario and Black Mass) and tonight I would really love to stay home. The thought of getting dressed, putting on more than lip gloss, going down to the meatpacking district where the event is, and having a beer or two is not that appealing for someone who doesn't drink much, and who never drinks beer.  But the Board members have been encouraged to attend and so I go.

I leave at rush hour. I'm taking the crosstown bus to the subway. 

The bus is filled, but I'm lucky enough to get a seat. Aside from the loud phone-talker behind me, everyone is pretty much well-behaved. 

I'm looking down at my phone, not paying much attention to those crowded around me. I look up to see where we are, and this is in my face:

I can understand why there are no cute little subway posters about this.  I mean, what would they say?  Don't let your junk and big belly sit eye level with fellow passengers?

I'm assuming that someone prancing around in mid-September dressed like this expects to be photographed. 

I get to the BAFTA event where everyone is appropriately dressed. It turns out to be a very fun night.

public musing

Gorgeous, sunny weather everyday.  It's been warm, but without the uncomfortable humidity of summer.

I've been spending too much time indoors, wading through hundreds of emails daily.  They are mostly divided into five categories:

• Real Estate
• BAFTA
• J. Hilburn
• Retailers
• Friends (by far the smallest grouping)

Since Labor Day, my nights have been filled with BAFTA screenings and events (no complaints). I'm also helping two seniors with college apps and selection. I'm very busy making no money.

I love the work I'm doing for BAFTA. It reminds me of the days when I had a real job with real responsibility, working in an industry (television) that excited me. I chaired my first screening committee meeting last week. I adore the group — 12 people (not including another 20 or so check-in volunteers), most of whom have many years of film experience, and all are extremely capable, smart, and likable. 

Soon I'll need to decide if I want to spend $350 to renew my real estate license, while also taking 21 hours in courses to keep my status current. I don't think I do.

And then there's J. Hilburn. A great company with fantastic product. But since the commission structure was adjusted in May, I can't make any money at it unless I focus on recruiting more stylists, and I don't think that's what I want to do.

Alexander is busy learning a real estate modeling program called Argus, and he's signed up for a real estate course in the fall at NYU. He is networking and doing all the right things in the hope of landing a job in finance or real estate investment.

But still, we remain an unemployed household. 

It's the Jewish New Year, a time for new beginnings. I'm optimistic that paying jobs will be in our future. I just hope it happens sooner rather than later.

l'shanah tovah

It's the first night of Rosh Hashanah. 

Alexander and I take the train up to Rye to go to Jill's, Abbey's sister's house. The train is crowded, and the woman sitting in front of us makes one phone call after another. Saturday (by Ian McEwan) is not an easy read, and this woman's mindless chatter is a big distraction. I  say nothing as I don't want to incur my son's wrath. Instead, I move my seat, and Alexander and I sit separately on the ride up to Westchester. 

By the time we arrive, everyone else is already there.  An appealing spread of chopped liver, crackers, sliced vegetables, dips, mini-hot dogs, and drinks await us. I eat more than I should.

Dinner is matzo ball soup, followed by a spinach soufflé, asparagus, candied yams, steak, and chicken. Dessert includes an array of so many things that the apple pie never even gets cut. I have two slices (albeit small ones) of my favorite 7-layer cake from Wall's.

I take some pictures but have to promise everyone that I won't post them. So here are two of the guests; only one of whom approved this photo.

I get home, and my stomach rebels against all the rich food.

I call my sister this morning and tell her. I'm almost certain it's not a stomach virus, but I can't be 100% sure. No one wants to take any chances.

So tonight, instead of celebrating a wonderful second night with family, Alexander and I have our own small dinner. It's not nearly as nice as the one we are missing. And not nearly as fun. But we don't have to worry about what to wear. I can show up in comfortable shoes.  And it's a a quick, crowd less, phone-less commute home.

a new fruit

Most Saturday mornings I walk three blocks and find myself at the 82nd Street Farmer's Market.

Vendors from NJ and upstate NY bring their fresh produce, baked goods, meats, fish and poultry to this little urban corner and set up shop. It is always busy, and the lines are always long.

I now pretty much buy from the same two farms. It's summer, and for the past few weeks I've bought corn on the cob, heirloom tomatoes, and fruit. Today, I alter my purchase ever so slightly and get a box of baby heirlooms and very small purple grapes that I've not seen before. "These are only out for a week," the farmer tells me.

I come home and  put these in two bowls on the counter, near each other. Someone — who will remain nameless (as he doesn't want his name appearing in my blog anymore) — sees them.

He is still half asleep, but regardless; he only half pays attention when I speak, even when he's wide awake. "Hey, I just bought these little grapes," I say.

With sleepy eyes, he looks at the two bowls and says (seriously), "They're nice. I've never seen yellow and orange grapes before. They look good."

kafkaesque

I am back at the government offices for SCRIE, the NYC department that can freeze your rent after age 62 if you can prove your income is low enough. 

I apply in April, and assume an easy approval, as I meet all the criteria. 

Yesterday, after five months, I get a letter saying my application is denied. Why?  Because "we did not receive the requested information or documents from you after three pending notices were mailed." The letter then describes the appeal process.

Huh? I sent them everything. 

So I return to their offices today (for the third time; something I shouldn't have had to do even once), and learn this: 

• The last document I send is on July 31. 
• SCRIE receives it around August 3, but has a backlog of mail.
• It takes SCRIE from August 3 to September 5 to enter my new document into their system.
• My application is denied on September 2.

Because it takes SCRIE a month to log my information into its system, I am denied. They have my document in their office for four weeks but never quite get around to reading it. And because of this, I am sent a letter of denial. Oh, but if I want, I can go through a cumbersome and lengthy appeal process!

This is when I have my near nervous breakdown.I feel like I'm in a Kafka novel.

But the woman helping me, a lovely Ms. Hayes, acknowledges the absurdity of the situation. She makes some calls, and manages to get my case status changed from "denied" to "under review."  

But the reason its under review is no longer for not having the documents requested. No! Now they have a brand new reason. Ms. Hayes is told that SCRIE never received yet another document that was never asked for. Ever! She sees the horror in my eyes, and tells me I can email it to her and she'll walk it through the system.

I walk outside, look up and see the majestic Freedom Tower. 

Today is nine-eleven. The weather is sunny and beautiful, just like it was 14 years ago. 

It kind of puts things in perspective. My problem is hardly a problem at all.

you may think you're clean...

Exactly two years ago I had my first body scrub using a Groupon. I thought it was so amazing that I bought three more for $50 each, including tax.  I can't believe it took me so long to return.

It is even better than I remember it, and definitely worth a trip to Tribeca.  

Today I am assigned Tina —a  tiny Korean woman with, as it turns out, a lot of strength.

Tribeca Spa of Tranquility is clean and efficient. I check in, and am directed to a small room. There I undress, put my things in a locker, and walk out in a pair of disposable panties (quite unattractive) under a wrap-around towel.

The first stop is a steam room.  After a few very hot minutes, I am freed by Tina. We enter another room, similar to a massage room — long table, low lights, soft music — except the cover on the table is plastic, and there is a shower, hose, and big bucket of water nearby.

I lie down on the table and Tina covers my eyes with a warm facecloth. It adds some mystery to the experience as I can no longer see anything.

Next I feel big buckets of warm water being dumped all over my body. It feels great. Tina then rubs some kind of liquid soap everywhere, and begins her hard work.

Tina is basically a scrubwoman, though instead of scrubbing floors, she's scrubbing skin.  She uses some kind of mitt that feels like a loofah, and scrubs every inch of my body many times over. In between, she dumps the warm pails of water over me. 

It is not exactly a relaxing experience, but it is a satisfying one.  Dead skin falls away. Places I can't get to are scrubbed smooth. The tops of my feet are erased of all patchy skin.  My back is scrubbed and scrubbed. I even smell cucumber slices all over my face, "to make it smoother and whiter," Tina says.

In the end, I'm standing naked as Tina showers me off, and sends me to the sauna to dry. 
I am  squeaky clean. Literally. I rub my skin and hear it squeak.

I walk out into the gritty streets of lower Manhattan, knowing my impossibly clean body won't last. I need to take the subway home.

back to my roots

I grew up with almost-black hair (and more than a few ridiculous hair cuts).

age 6 or so

around age 28

age 41

But once the gray hairs started sprouting, I began coloring my hair.  I stayed a deep brown, but the upkeep was annoying.

A few years ago I started going lighter, thinking the gray hairs, when they grew in, would be less noticeable. They were. But I never felt like me when my hair was a lighter brown.

So today I see Lyo, my truly masterful colorist, and tell her to make my hair darker. 

She does, and also adds a few low lights.  I walk out feeling a little bit more like the me that was.

the end — how I wish it weren't

No, not summer.  I'm never sad to see summer end, especially knowing that autumn follows.

I make a steak dinner, fig, goat cheese and tomato salad, and sliced roasted potatoes. 

It's a special night, though one that we've been kind of dreading. Alexander and I have reached the 62nd episode of Breaking Bad, our last one. 

Many others have written about this show far more eloquently and intelligently than I can. And admittedly I am  late to the party; the series ended in September 2013. But honestly, I've never seen anything on television that comes close to being as good as this. 

The brilliant writing remarkably got stronger with each season. Alexander and I were captivated from the start. Like the famous line in Jerry Maguire, "You had me at hello." Well, Mr. White had us from scene one of the pilot, before the credits even rolled.  

The cinematography is magnificent. All the characters — even the minor ones — are beautifully drawn and multi-layered. Our allegiances shifted as we watched the characters grow and change.The moral issues they confront and how decisions are made make this show — this entire series — entirely engaging. Nothing is predicable. The characters — all spectacularly acted — evolve over five seasons. 

Each of the 62 episodes begins with a cold open of about 3 to 7 minutes. That open can pertain to things in the past, the current, or even the future, and the future of not necessarily the episode you are watching, but the future of something that will happen many episodes later. There is no waste. Everything eventually ties together. It may take several episodes, or even an entire season, but there are no loose ends.  Even the credits and titled episodes are cleverly executed.

I resisted watching this show for a long time, as I had no interest in the topic — a chemistry teacher who is diagnosed with cancer and becomes a meth cooker to leave money for his family when he dies. Yes, the show is about drugs and crime and violence and morality. But at its heart, the show is about family. And that's what makes it so compellingly watchable.

The last episode ends, and Alexander admits, "Okay, it's as good as 24. Maybe better." We  go back to watch the beginning of The Pilot, the very first episode of Season One. Just to see, one more time, how far Walter has fallen.

always, same end result

I'm talking to Zelia and she says, "I'm going to Costco today, wanna come?" I rarely resist a trip to Costco.

I put together a short list:

Most of the things on it are for Alexander, who seems to eat constantly and remains thin nonetheless.

I hate big-chain grocery stores, and rarely go in them (Whole Foods being the exception).  But there's something about Costco that appeals to me. I don't know if it's the wide open aisles, the large range of offerings, or the fact that TV's, winter coats, and  furniture are sold along side tunafish. 

Zelia and I never go to Costco on a weekend. But it's a holiday, and we figure the city's pretty much empty.  We figure wrong. We get to Costco and find most of New York City, despite perfect beach weather. The wide aisles seem narrow with so many wielding those mammoth  carts.

My short list of ten items quickly grows. The rack of lamb I got last time was great. I pick up two packages. The blueberries and pluots look delicious. I remember that we're out of crackers and low on the frozen shrimp scampi. Now that I've been shopping at Costco for a few years, I know what to buy, and it always gets eaten.

The check out line is surprisingly fast. We are in and out in under an hour. But why is it— every single time — 

I can never ever escape Costco for under $200? Even with a short list of under ten items.

back to reality

My mom is in my room at 8, reminding me of our departure time this morning. The airport (more like a big landing strip, according to Alexander) is an hour away in moderate traffic. My mom likes to get to where she's going with plenty of time to spare.

We negotiate the leaving time, factoring in a stop to pick up cinnamon rolls at Dana's and two cranberry loaves at the Maison Villatte in downtown Falmouth. "No later than 9:45, and I want everything in the car by then." We have about three minutes to spare, and my mom and Alexander reluctantly pose for one last photo. The latter because she's already getting nervous about the time; the former because he's sick of posing for me.

It's been a great week, but I'm sure my mom is anxious to have her house and schedule back. We get to the airport at 11:20. Plenty of time for our 1:09 flight.

The flight is quick. The subway ride from the airport is hot and crowded.

We get home, unpack, pick up sushi, and watch  Breaking Bad.

I bring home a temporary souvenir from my days away from the city. Three gigantic bites on my right forearm. One on my left thigh. And two mean ones on my right inner thigh. I guess that's the price for for good country living.  

good-bye to summer

Yes, I know, summer officially ends on Labor Day, next Monday. But for me, today is the last day of summer. Alexander and I leave the Cape tomorrow.

It's been a week of perfect weather, and today is no exception, though a little too hot.

It's low tide. There's a light breeze. And the temperature is high. Perfect conditions for floating. And the calm waters make it possible to read at the same time.

We spend a couple of hours lazily floating in the warm Cape Cod waters. It's nice to spend uninterrupted time with my son. 

Around four, we decide to leave. 

I could say that Alexander is sad to see summer end, but his scowl reflects an impatience for my picture-taking.

We drive back to my mom's. Unload the golf cart. Put away the chairs. Throw away the trash. Hang up the towels. And say good-bye to summer.