shame on you, Williams-Sonoma!

My toaster oven is falling apart. Food doesn't cook evenly and it looks decrepit.

I have been researching its replacement, and finally find one I like, made by Breville.

I call Amazon last week and someone tells me, "Wait until Cyber Monday when everything will be 50% off." I know this can't be true, but wait anyway.

Cyber Monday comes and the price is the same.

I search the web and come across this big banner on Williams-Sonoma's site.

I find the item I want and lucky me, it's already on sale.

Sugg. Price:  $200
Our Price: $134.97

Williams-Sonoma is discounting the price by 33% before I even apply the extra 15% off.

Well, not really.

The suggested retail price has been inflated by 48%, and the product is selling everywhere, including Breville's own website, for $134.97

Still, I figure, 15% off.  

I select the item, already picturing how nice the toaster will look on my counter. I begin to check out, and enter the code SAVEMORE. 

Nothing happens. 

I must be doing something wrong. 

I call Williams-Sonoma and get Travis in Oklahoma City. "I'll look into this for you." 20 minutes on-hold later he returns.

"I'm sorry to have kept you on hold so long, but there are some exclusions. It says it right on the website." That's when he points out the teeny-tiny minuscule lettering on the bottom right of the home page that does say, "Some exclusions apply."  If you squint really hard you might be able to see it in the ad above. 

I also point out to Travis that the suggested price of $200 is wrong. 

"Every retailer is selling this item for $134.97, including Breville," I say.

"Well," Travis says. "The $200 is our suggested retail price."

It's impossible to argue with illogical people; I don't even try. 

Needless to say, I don't buy the toaster oven.

thanksgiving

My favorite holiday is usually spent on the Cape, with family. This year is a little different. I'm now in retail and the Friday after Thanksgiving is a must-work day.

7:10 am
Alexander kisses me good-bye, as he leaves to go up to Falmouth with his cousins, aunt and uncle.

9:15 am
I see Andy at Sashimi Express and pick up a big platter of sushi that I've pre-ordered. It'll make a nice pre-Thanksgiving appetizer.

2:15 pm
I imagine the scene as if I were there. Everyone's sitting in my mom's living room, with football muted in the background. Hors' d'oeuvres are passed and eaten. Lots of catch up conversation, with a touch of politics thrown in.

3:45 pm or so
All the females get up to start preparing the meal. Most of the work has already been done. We're talking final touches. Putting the food out. Slicing the turkey. Filling the glasses with ice. That kind of thing. The men will stay seated and will continue to watch football (the sound is probably on by now) until my mom announces, "Dinner's ready."

Jim will say grace, and the meal will be splendid. Turkey. Stuffing. Gravy. Cranberry sauce. Yams. Mashed potatoes. Peas, and probably things I'm forgetting. My nephew Adam will eat the most, and people will tease him. He won't care. My niece Sally will make kind remarks about global warming and wasteful consumption. People will tease her. She will care.

The conversation will be animated, with lots of people interrupting lots of other people. No one will be taking pictures this year. Jack, who's the real photographer in the family, prefers nature to people. And Ellie the cat is most likely locked away in my mom's room, where Valerie and her sons won't have to see her.

After dinner and before dessert, the men will go back to watching football and the women will stay behind to do the kitchen stuff. My family is liberal, except when it comes to meal-related tasks. The men almost always have nothing to do with them. And strangely, the women all accept this. My son loves this particular aspect of my family and happily immerses himself into the do-nothing-in-the-kitchen-'cuz-I'm-a man role.

5:45 pm
While my family on the Cape is eating their multi-berry pie from Crabapple's, I leave for Shari's where my Thanksgiving will begin.

It's pretty similar to my family's Thanksgiving. Same great food. Same familiar warmth. And same men hanging out watching football.

It's nice to have great friends; I have much to be grateful for.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

meeting leo

I dress as if it were a date.

Black fitted dress, high shoe boots, more makeup than normal.

I get to the theater early. It's a screening for The Revenant.

Everyone thing is going smoothly.

Moderator has arrived.

Photographer is present.

At least five studio people are at the theater.

Lots of security roaming around.

And a full house.  All as it should be.

The plan is to watch the movie and greet the "talent" about ten minutes before the end.

So at the climax of this two hour and thirty minute movie, I leave my seat.

The studio rep finds me to tell me that the talent has not been cleared for photos — major disappointment. 

I meet Will Poulter; he's very sweet. I see no one else.  Then I realize they are all hanging in a stairwell waiting for the film to end and the Q&A to begin.

I'm intimitated, but work hard to pretend I'm not.

I walk down the stairwell, past the three tough-looking security men, and approach the director, Alejandro Iñárritu. I compliment him on the exquisite movie he's directed. We speak briefly.  Standing next to him is Leonardo DiCaprio, looking very much the movie star he is.  

I introduce myself, shake his hand, and say, "You clean up nicely." Throughout most of the film, he's half dead.

I add, "You share my son's birthday (November 11), so happy belated birthday." He laughs.

I tell him I was cold watching the movie, and he says, "You have no idea. Some days were 40 degrees below zero. We shot in Calgary."

We talk a few more minutes and then he's being lead away. It's a short encounter, but an encounter nonetheless — one I'll not soon forget, even without the selfie.

"how's alexander doing?"

It's late September.  

"What do you think this is?" Alexander asks. My son is referring to some odd-feeling thing in his mouth.

I have no idea what the thing is and suggest he see a dentist. He does. In fact, he sees both a dentist and an oral surgeon. The result, as expected, are two impacted wisdom teeth that have to be removed.

We choose Dr. Clifford Salm, the same person two of my good friends have used. We are warned by everyone about swelling, pain, bleeding and a myriad of other post-operative possibilities.

Alexander is not worried about the pain. Just dying. He searches the internet and unearths all the deaths that have ever resulted from general anesthesia. He fears a bad reaction, and is adamant. "I don't want to be put under."

I load up on the foods I think my son will be able to eat: soups, yogurts, and jello.The soups get returned. I had no idea my son hates them; all of them, apparently.

This morning I go with Alexander to Dr. Salm's office. I need to leave around 10; the surgery is scheduled for 9, and Shari will pick him up to take him home. I am working today.

The doctor is calming. My son is relaxed. I know he's in good hands. 

I sit in the waiting area, and about eight  pages into my book, the nurse comes out. "Alexander is ready." It's not even 10.  My son can't talk because his mouth is filled with gauze, but otherwise, he looks the same as he did when he arrived an hour earlier. 

Shari takes Alexander home, and I go to work. I imagine he sleeps throughout the day. I feel bad that I can't be home with him. I try calling but with a mouth filled with cotton pads it's difficult for Alexander to speak. So I text.

So in answer to the question, "How's Alexander doing." He doing just fine. Thank you Dr. Salm.

minetta tavern

Weeks ago M tells me she's coming to town for three days. 

I research activities for her visit. Going to Ellis Island is top on our list. But by the time she arrives, our plans have been reduced to one dinner.

Alexander and I see a late afternoon screening of Goodnight Mommy in midtown, a place I'd rather not be these days. While we both enjoy the movie, we need to confer with the people sitting around us to help figure out what the film was about. The general consensus is:  good but with plot holes; may be worth a second viewing. 

We take a subway (another place I'd rather not be) downtown, and get there before M, Sam and Josie arrive. We are having dinner at Minetta Tavern. The comfortable and everyman atmosphere is in direct contrast to the ease of getting a reservation. It takes M using her platinum Amex concierge service to secure a table for 8:30.

I get a couple of photos that M would rather take than be in.

We have cocktails and appetizers, and the famously wonderful Mintetta burger and fries.

And because there are two guys with huge appetites, we also order (and finish) two soufflés (one chocolate, one grand marnier).

We are home by eleven — probably five pounds heavier, but with no regrets.

reasons to love amazon

It's a rare occasion; I need to iron a dress.

I plug it in my years-old Black and Decker. It lights up, ready to go. And then, nothing. I try another outlet and still, the iron plate remains cold.

"Hey, Alexander, last time you used the iron did it work?"

"No, it wouldn't heat up."

So he takes the obvious action; he puts it away for someone else to deal with —that someone else being me.

I do a thorough search and analysis and settle on the very-well reviewed  Rowena DW8080.

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00305H9U6?psc=1&redirect=true&ref_=oh_aui_detailpage_o00_s00

I have Amazon Prime and expect the package in two days. Today I realize it's been about four days since placing the order, and Amazon is never late.  

I track the package and see:

Front porch?  Hmmm. Maybe someone airdropped it onto my makeshift terrace? 

And 10022 zip code?  That was changed to 10075 over eight years ago.  

I talk to the doorman who was on duty at noon on Sunday.   He checks the book. "Nope. No deliveries from the postal service that day at all.  Just one for 14A, and that was from FedEx." 

I call the 800 number for USPS and after twenty minutes of going in circles, being put on hold, and then being disconnected, I call Amazon. Lovely Ashly helps me.

In under five minutes, with my asking for nothing, Ashley:

• apologizes
• adds one month to my Prime account
• re-orders the item for me
• tells me I should receive it today, or tomorrow at the latest.

How can you not love a company like that?

Addendum:

Last week I buy a Sisley lipstick described as sheer fusia. It arrives and is not sheer anything. I go through the third-party seller process and they refuse to take it back because 

 "We do not accept used and opened return products. I may offer you a 10% partial refund."

I call Amazon and they tell me to keep the lipstick, and they'll give me a credit of the value of the lipstick, good toward any product sold by Amazon.

Friday the 13th

Alexander needs to have two wisdom teeth pulled. 

He looks at his schedule. He asks about mine. He doesn't want his teeth pulled near an exam. And he certainly doesn't want his eating compromised with Thanksgiving coming up.  So after coordinating with the dentist's schedule and his own, he settles on a date.  

"I'm having my wisdom teeth out on the 13th." 

"Okay, that's good. Friday's a convenient date;  you'll have the weekend to recover."

"Wait! That's Friday the 13th.  I can't do it on that date."

And so Alexander switches the date to the 20th. He doesn't want to take the chance of something going wrong on a date that's associated with bad luck.

But going to a concert, eating at a restaurant, or watching a sports event would not be something considered high risk.  

You have no scheduled surgery. You're just meeting friends. Your thoughts may be on the people you'll be with, the new ones you'll meet, what to order, or what to wear. 

It's a Friday night. Time to relax. Enjoy the work week ending. Not much to worry about.

And then your night turns into something horrific. Random shots. Calculated executions. Bombs detonated. People screaming. Blood everywhere. Wounded innocents. Dead bodies. 

Today it's Paris. Tomorrow it could be here.There really is no protection against evil — regardless of the date.

It's all so immensely sad.

birthday boy

I kiss my sleeping son goodbye at 7:40, and wish him a happy birthday which he likely doesn't hear.

I go to Saks to continue training. It's a long day, ending with almost four hours in front of a computer terminal watching modules of how to handle a return, how to process a cash transaction, how to split a transaction between two forms of payment, how to issue a price adjustment, how to... about 50 more different scenarios. Watching is tedious; my eyes burn and my head aches. I leave at 5:30 with about two hours left of videos to watch and quizzes to take.

I am anxious to get home. The very crowded subway stops at the next station. We all hear the same message announced over the loud speaker. "This train will not be making any more stops due to a medical emergency at 86th Street." Everyone piles out; no one is smiling. I walk the 25 blocks home.  

Alexander has a final tomorrow, so his birthday has hardly been special. I ask him what he wants for dinner. "I have to study, so let's just order sushi."

I call Sashimi Express.  "Hi Andy. It's Lyn." He knows us by now.  "Listen, it's Alexander's 23rd birthday today. Can you make us up a combination plate for two of sushi, sashimi and some rolls for $30?"  He says of course, and does. I love Andy.

Alexander is happy.  

I'm happy because Alexander is.

And Andy doesn't disappoint.

Happy birthday baby.  I am one lucky mom.

juxtaposition

I attend a BAFTA NY Board meeting this morning.

By 8:30,  I'm in a room with film and television professionals, discussing meaty issues pertaining to a world-renowned entertainment organization.  I contribute to the discussion, and listen with interest as others pose probing questions, offer solutions, and present creative options and ideas on a myriad of subjects. It's a dynamic group, and a lot gets discussed and decided in ninety minutes. 

Following the meeting, I head back to Saks. There, I learn how to sign in and out, using an online clock. I am taught how to carefully enter my starting time (10:30 today) — the time we are all dismissed for lunch (noon) and the time we are told to return (1pm) — and the time we are told we can leave (5:32). I sit in front of a decades' old computer terminal and watch modules. It is a long, laborious and exhausting day. I'm not even paid for a lunch break. 

Before taxes, I earn $66 today. Well, actually $60.50 if I subtract the subway fare there and back.  $11/hour annualized is, without exaggeration, substantially below the NY poverty level. 

I come home exhausted. Zelia and I had planned to see a screening of Love and Mercy, but neither of us feel like it.

I begin the day as a Board Member of a prestigious organization and end it clocking out of an hourly job.

Some days it's hard to stay optimistic. Today is one of them.

catching fall

Still searching for that perfect autumn shot of Central Park.

The New York Fall Foliage Report site finally says that New York City has reached its peak.

The air is a crisp 56 degrees and it's sunny.

I get up, grab my camera, and go to Central Park.

The trees may not be dressed in their brightest reds or most startling oranges, but still, they are beautiful.

There are many photos I like; these among them.

And this, my favorite.

an unexpected gift

I'm at the subway station, on my way to meet Jill for a screening of The Danish Girl, and a Q&A after with Eddie Redmayne and Tom Hooper, the director. I realize I've forgotten my metrocard.

I take out $3 and offer it to some guy at the turnstile. He says, "No problem," and swipes me through. I hand him the money, or at least try to. He refuses. I love these kind of little surprises. It makes me love New Yorkers all over again.

The screening is good; the Q&A better; and the catch-up after (more than our usual five minutes), the best.

I come home and take a week's worth of mail from my mail box. I open, what looks like a handwritten envelope with no return address.

I can't think of anyone who'd be thanking me for something.  I open it up.

And really, there are no strings attached.  "Your 12-month subscription is completely complimentary...It will automatically be activated... After the 12-month trial subscription ends, both channels will be automatically removed from your account, no need to cancel."

I've been wanting to watch The Affair and Homeland, but didn't want to pay the additional $15.99/month to do it.  

I've shocked at Time Warner's unsolicited generosity. I write about the bad, so I am compelled to also write about the good. Hmmm. I'm almost starting to — dare I say — like my cable company.

love the company

I leave my apartment at 5:30, wanting to get to the theater early. The screening for Trumbo starts at 7.

Heavy traffic, rush hour, the usual.

Make it to 34th and 8th by 6:30.

Two different sets of tables manned by no one I recognize.

"Where's the BAFTA screening?" I ask a ticket collector.

She looks at me blankly and I get this feeling of dread.  It's finally happened. I knew it would one day. I'm at the wrong theater.

Race out, and grab the downtown C train to 8th. 

Run almost 12 blocks to 19th and Broadway, barely making the screening. I arrive hot (it is, after all, 70 degrees, perfect for April, not November), sweaty, and frizzed. 

The movie is great. Totally engaging with excellent performances all around.  Before the film ends, I'm asked to come out and greet our Q&A panelists: The Director Jay Roach, Diane Lane, Michael Stuhlbarg, Helen Mirren, and my hero (having just watched all 62 riveting episodes of Breaking Bad this summer), Bryan Cranston.

I walk up to Bryan and introduce myself. He is more handsome in person than on screen. He is boyish, warm, and entirely approachable. Plus, I'm a big sucker for dimples.  We talk for about five minutes. And though I'm sure he's never heard this before, I congratulate him on his astonishing performance as Walter White. He graciously accepts my compliment (and probably rolls his eyes after I leave). 

I am included in a group photo.







After the movie, and after the Q&A, Jill and I hang around and end up talking to a BAFTA colleague and his wife, and two of the producers from Trumbo.

I feel like I've been to a small party where everyone is interesting, fun, and comfortable to talk to.  It's a great night. I don't even feel like a total outsider.  

looking for the reds

Literally, I feel like I'm chasing fall.

I am trying to complete my photo series of Central Park; I am only missing one season.

For the last few weeks, I've been regularly checking  a site called Fall Foliage in New York. And every few days I am disappointed.  New York City has still not peaked. 

Even worse, today is 70 degrees.  No coats, shorts, and restaurants swarming with people eating outdoors. The same kind of weather is promised for the rest of the week. This does not bode well for the bright oranges and reds I am seeking. But then if I wait too long, and the leaves fall, I'm left with no pictures at all for autumn.

So this morning I decide to see what I can get.  These are nice, I think.

walkway

belvedere castle

branch eye view

But then, I really want autumn to be the one photo with the city peeking in.

city shot

this blog and my son

How else to put it?  My son always gives me sh*t about this blog. He's not alone.

When I was on the Cape this summer, I was told innumerable times, "Don't put that in your blog." Some of what I was banned from telling was interesting, but most was pretty banal.

Some friends have said, "Don't ever write about me." They don't want their names appearing on my blog for any reason — even if it's just to say we had dinner together.

As for pictures?  A few friends require veto-power if they're in a photo I want to post. Even a group shot.

I avoid writing things that invade anyone's privacy, or could be hurtful or embarrassing. 

But mostly the things I can't write about (or don't write about) would be the best posts to read.

Alexander, one of my subjects, no longer wants a featured role. In fact, he's in disbelief that anyone even reads this blog, though he takes much pleasure in exaggerating its appeal.

He'll come home and say, "Hey, did I tell you?  Someone stopped me on the street and said, 'Aren't you Alexander? I recognize you from your mom's blog.'

Or, "I bet there are people who sit around as a family and read your posts, sort of like communal television watching." He goes further. "The husband probably comes home excitedly from work each day and asks, "Honey, is today's post up yet?"

But if I want to post anything about him?  OMG. So much defending (or is it begging?) is involved.

The post can't be anything remotely negative (and the bar for what Alexander considers negative is set very low). It also can't reveal anything private, even if it's about a new part time job...sorry, I'm not sure I can write about it.  I need to show Alexander the post I'm considering and then I need to defend it. This usually ends in some kind of argument and my having to re-write or delete the post entirely, usually the latter.

It's really a shame. This blog could be so much better, if only I could write about the stuff I know I shouldn't.

human gridlock

Alexander and I leave the house at 10:30 this morning.

If you live east of First, and want to do anything on Marathon Sunday, you need to leave early, or you won't be able to cross First Avenue.  No kidding. One year I was invited to a Marathon Party and never made it because I couldn't cross the street.

My first stop is to visit little Chloe.  She looks like a sleeping angel.  

Next I move on to Bloomingdales where I am successful in exchanging an empty 50 ml bottle of Sisley's award-winning fragrance, Soir de Lune, for a full one. M had bought it for me as a gift several years ago. I went to use it recently and the total bottle had evaporated, despite having been housed in a dark linen closet. I have no receipt and no proof of purchase, but the Cosmetics Director who helps me is very nice, and I walk out with a new bottle.

I then do something I've never done before. Eat a chicken gyro from one of those food trucks on Broadway. I'm glad I'm not counting points right now, as I'm sure these sandwiches must be filled with thousands. It is delicious.

And finally, I see a play at Lincoln Center called Kill Floor. All five actors are superb, but the story is pretty grim. I leave the theater around 3:45 to get home, and quickly discover I can't.

I feel like I'm in that movie, After Hours. A guy gets stuck in Soho with not enough money to take the subway home. The movie is about his adventures while he's figuring out a way to get back to his uptown apartment. I have no adventures.

The crosstown bus I want isn't in service. The streets are blocked off so walking through the park isn't an option. And there is so much gridlock that taking a cab would take an hour —if I could even find one.

Someone finally tells me that the crosstown 86th Street bus is working, so I take the subway from 66th to 86th, then a bus, then a 12-block walk home. A normal 30 minute trip takes about 90 today.

Lesson learned. 

Next year I will be staying home on Marathon Sunday.