not defined by a job

You're in a bar. At a party. On a plane. You strike up a conversation. You ask, or are asked, "So what do you do for a living?" It's probably the most common question asked after, "What's your name?"

You get or give an answer. And boom. Immediate assumptions are made. About education. Drive. Interests. Income. Status in life. 

I sign up for Lyft, a car service. I am given five free rides, up to $10 each, but it's only good for a week. Mine expire in a couple of days. 

Tonight I am going to see Prodigal Son with Jill at Manhattan Theater Club. It's raining. I only have two more days to use my Lyft credits. I decide to try it.

Jonathan picks me up at my front door, four minutes from my call.  After a few short minutes we strike up a conversation.

"How do you like driving for Lyft?" I ask.

"It's fine. Not something I'd want to do for long."

"What would you rather be doing?" I ask. 

I'm expecting Jonathan will now tell me his dreams for becoming a screenwriter or actor.

"Something in education. I'm a substitute teacher."

Not quite the response I expected. Then he goes on.

"I used to be a teacher but I'd rather work in education outside the classroom, helping other teachers or administrators."

The conversation continues.  Turns out, Jonathan, my Lyft driver, graduated from Wharton undergrad. Worked on Wall Street at Morgan Stanley. Didn't like it. Got a Masters degree from Columbia in Education. Is now living at home. Has enormous love and respect for his parents. His dad is white, from Germany, and a psychiatrist. His mom is black, from Jamaica, and a social worker.  

I ask him, "So what did you do on Wall Street?"

"I  worked on the investment side of real estate," he tells me.

This is exactly what Alexander wants to do.

Before exiting the car, Jonathan gives me his contact information and suggests that Alexander call him.  "I still know a lot of people in the business," he tells me.

The ride costs me $1.44 (including my $10 credit).

I leave the cab thinking I'm not unlike Jonathan.  I'm sure people make assumptions about me as I run around to find a size small red ALC top. 

I sometimes want to say, this isn't who I am. 

I used to be...

I can be...

I am...

mini make over

February 7, 2007. Nine years ago. 

That was the last time I had my apartment painted.

New York law allows me to ask my landlord to repaint my apartment every three years, but two things have stopped me.

1. The monumental mess and hard work of taking everything both off, and away from, all the walls.
2. The thought of painting over my baseboards.

This building was erected in 1959. Being conservative, I assume it's been painted every six years. That's almost ten layers of paint on the baseboards.  And they look it.

Small things like this bother my eyes. It's something my son doesn't understand.

For many years now, I have tried (unsuccessfully) to get  this building to replace my baseboards.

First, I flat out asked:
The baseboards look really horrible, as they have probably been painted over and over since the building was erected in 1959.  I am hoping that they can be replaced.   They cheapen the whole look of the apartment and make it look old and messy.

The response was not unexpected: 
Unfortunately, we will not replace the baseboards.

When that didn't work, I suggested supplying the materials if they'd cover the labor. Still no.

I gave up for a year or two, and tried again a couple of months ago.

This time, finally, I get the okay, as long as I use the building's contractor (whom I like and think is fine).

The workmen come this morning. Despite still being in a no-energy-lounge mode from this cold thing, I am able to sleep through all the banging as the men scrape off the old baseboards and replace them with new ones.  

The end result makes me happy. (I wish I could replace the floors but that'll never happen).

Before &
After

Before &
After

a new book club concept

I get a message from my friend M.  Anything I could possibly add would be superfluous.

it's official: I'm old

I think of all my birthdays, the one coming up is the hardest.

If I had a commercial airline license, I could no longer fly a plane. 

But I still have until age 70 to serve as a judge.  Unless it's for the Supreme Court, and there I can stay for as long as I want providing I remain well behaved and don't get impeached.

Of course none of the above are concerns, as I have never had, nor ever will have, the skills to pilot a plane full of people or become an impartial decision-maker on important issues of law. 

I just don't like the idea that my next birthday kind of ends my romp through middle age.

But there is some upside.

First, I get to cancel my exorbitantly expensive health insurance and go on Medicare (with a supplemental plan). My monthly bill, beginning March 1 (my birthday isn't until the 16th) will now be more than half of what it was.

And, today, well today has been a very exciting day.

I take a $2.75 subway ride to the tip of Manhattan to the home of the Metrocard, and there, I get this:

I then take the same subway ride home, this time (and forever more) for $1.35.

I love the card, but would prefer a re-design. The one big change I'd make is, I think, pretty obvious.

an eye tip

Here's my little make-up recommendation because I haven't written one in a while...

Right before Alexander's Bar Mitzvah in 2005, I went to Angela for a facial. Angela worked at a plastic surgeon's office and gave the most incredible facials; she has since left. But she also sold an all-natural make-up by a company called Color Science. Eleven years later and I still love their undereye products.

So here's my recommendation.

Buy the Eye Camouflage ($29) to cover darkness.

And the Eye Brightener ($29) to reduce puffiness.

Dot both under the eyes and then, with the ring finger, blend together.  The result is instantly noticeable.

But don't buy the lipstick...it's like applying shoe polish to your mouth.

Now if someone knows of a great wrinkle eliminator (short of surgery), please let me know!

a company that's easy to hate

So, after a month of phone calls with Apple, and the involvement of their engineers, all my computer problems have been solved except for the problem with Excel — all my dates display weirdly.

Apple tries. They really do. But finally I get the unfortunate, disappointing, and feared result I'd been dreading:  "I am really sorry. But we don't have the expertise to fix this. You will have to call Microsoft." I wait a day before calling; I need to mentally prepare.

Armed with a cup of hot coffee, and no commitment restraints, I call Microsoft this morning.

Call #1 to Microsoft: 

Step One: Five prompts to get to a real person.

Step Two: Get to the first level who transfers me (after a lengthy interrogation) to the second level. (total time: about 8 minutes)

• Second level tells me that he only handles issues with PC's not Mac's (the first person transferred me to the wrong place).
• Second level attempts to transfer me to the technician who handles Mac's. "Here's my number in case we are disconnected," I say.
• "Don't worry, you won't be disconnected," I'm told.
• We are then disconnected.

Call #2 to Microsoft

Same two steps as above, but this time I make it to the Mac department.

• I get Simon who begins with, "Here are your payment options."
• I try unsuccessfully to interrupt.
• Simon continues to talk over me (something I intensely dislike).
• I ask for Simon's manager.
• "He will tell you the same thing; if you want this fixed you will need to pay."
• I ask anyway.
• Simon tells me he'll connect me to his manager.
• I'm on hold for 41 minutes (really) and finally hang up.

I take a break and try to calm myself down. Right now I wish I lived in Colorado.

Call #3 to Microsoft

Same two steps as above, but this time I get Kendra in Indiana.

• Kendra tells me if I want help I will need to pay for it.
• After she has my credit card information, she can schedule an appointment.
• That's the only way someone can take over my computer and help me.
• I am so exasperated I am willing to pay.
• "How much?" I ask.

The response is not what I expect. For the same price, I can lease a 2015 Porsche for a month.

I hang up and want to cry.

Call #4 (to Apple this time)

The response is the same, "This is a Microsoft problem."

I take another break and read today's paper.

Call #5 to Microsoft

Same two steps as above, but this time I get Mitch in the Philippines,  a saint.

• Mitch takes over my computer.
• He downloads a trial version of the new Office Suite while I play Words With Friends and text Alexander. I am not paying attention and hope Mitch is only doing what he's supposed to be doing.
• The download works and my Excel problem disappears.
• But I don't want to pay $100/year for the subscription service.
• Mitch instead offers me a student subscription because Alexander still has a college email address.
• Cost: $80 for four years.

Done. Problem solved. 

But I still hate Microsoft.

finally, we meet

Tim and I have worked together for just over three years.  He manages international publicity for a major Hollywood studio. 

I love working with Tim, and think we work well together. He is always responsive, respectful, knowledgeable, and unflappable. He handles any crisis with a calming, how can we fix it attitude.

As with most business relationships, ours began as a simple exchange of information, mostly through emails. Overtime, it evolved into actual phone conversations. And eventually we were able to omit last names when calling each other. Together, Tim and I have brought to BAFTA members 35 films, many with Q&A's. It is a productive and enjoyable partnership.

But still, we've never met.  That is, until tonight.

We are screening a soon-to-be released movie, and Tim is in town doing publicity for the film. I arrive at the theater early, and am talking to our theater liaison. Tim is nearby and recognizes me from my voice. I see him and it's as if we've already met.

After the screening (which everyone seems to love), we have dinner at Atlantic Grill. Tim bumps into his company's new Co-Chair who is with a gifted and well-known producer. I am introduced and feel honored just to be in the company of the three of them. 

The dinner, as expected, is easy, delicious, and fun. Tim is a charming conversationist and it's close to eleven before we say good-night. 

Sometimes I feel like I'm living a double-life.

Tonight I intro a film to 200 or so entertainment professionals.
Then I have dinner with a studio exec.
Early tomorrow I attend a BAFTA board meeting.
And Friday I sell sweaters.

Hmmm. Which one of the above doesn't quite fit?

sunday, my favorite night of the week

It hasn't always been this way.

When I worked Monday through Friday, Sunday night was clearly not my favorite night of the week. But that — along with a lot of other things — has changed.

I get home from work excited, knowing that I have four long days of not standing on my feet all day, smiling, and endlessly asking people if I can help them. But honestly, I do like what I do (when it's busy; it's brutal otherwise).

Today turns into a surprisingly good day for January. Great customers, including one who's a documentary film maker and BAFTA member. She is looking only for some tops. But I ask her if she wants to take a look at a Rag & Bone blazer I had spotted earlier and loved. "Sure, why not," she responds. She ends up purchasing it, along with some other things she has found, and another item I  found for her (a gorgeous long black sweater I had also seen and wanted for myself... this is truly a dangerous job; I am trying to develop good restraining skills, but still have a long way to go). My barometer for things that make me happy has been revamped, and this kind of thing makes me happy —recommending an unasked for item and having the customer love it then buy it.

My day is only slightly marred when one co-worker not-so jokingly says to me, "You approach everyone," and another telling me, "You need to take your hour lunch break more often." She is giving me fair advice. But.....we don't get paid for lunch;  I'm not selling when I'm eating;  and I can't find enough to do for an hour unless it's shop and I really don't want to be doing that.

I get home around 6:45 and Alexander and a friend are watching the Super Bowl. I join them (briefly) for some sushi, then climb into bed, exhausted, but thrilled to have four days ahead of me of not working. 

I don't even make it to the fourth quarter!

living clean

Just about everyone I know — regardless of house or apartment square footage — has someone to help occasionally with the cleaning.

I have only had two regular housekeepers in the past 20 years, Maria and Christina; I liked them both.

But for the past few years I've relied on no one but myself.  I am very very neat, and my house, at a glance, looks clean. But it's not.  

When I was living alone, my home did stay cleaner longer. But now I'm sharing my apartment with a 23-year old male who doesn't have the same aesthetics as I do. He is blind to dust balls accumulating in corners. Fails to see a sink that needs cleaning. Doesn't understand my frustration when feathers from the sofa drift to the rug. Thinks it's fine to leave dishes in the sink. And sees no need to make a bed that will be unmade a few hours later.

When my mom visited me a few weeks ago, she suggested I get someone in to clean. My mom — who is reticent to say anything about my housekeeping —was right. I was looking for an excuse to go back to having someone come in regularly to make my apartment not just presentable, but sparkling clean.

Reyna is the woman who cleans for my next door neighbor. She comes to him every week. I ask her if she can come to me every three weeks, except for the first visit. On the first visit, I figure five hours will be more than enough time to clean my small apartment. 

Reyna comes today. She knows how to clean in ways I never learned. In fact, I'm I don't  have the skills to clean like she does. 

Reyna moves the furniture around. She gets into the corners. She washes in places I wouldn't have thought of. By the time she leaves (six and a quarter hours later, not five) my apartment looks like a veil has been lifted from it. 

If I could, I'd say to Alexander, "Hey, let's not use the bathroom or kitchen anymore." At least then the apartment could stay looking good a little bit longer.