whatever it takes

Two days after the record storm and the city is back to normal.

26.8 inches fall. Only .10 less than the biggest snowstorm ever recorded in NYC. But the plows have been out, the sidewalks shoveled, the cars unburied, and mass transit is back on schedule.

I am psychologically ready to deal with my computer issues again.  Here's the short version: my big, beautiful 21.5-inch retina-display desktop (bought in late December) has insurmountable problems. Corrupt files from the data migration are likely the issue.  But after hours on the phone with Apple last week, I decide to order another computer (same model) and start over.

The new computer arrives.  I get anxious even looking at it. The unopened box sits in my living room causing me stress. I even ask (rather beg) Apple to have one of their geniuses come to my house. Of course they say no. The idea of dealing with two big computers overwhelms me. I just can't do it.

I call Apple and decide to go back to the 15-inch retina-display laptop — so much more manageable when there's a problem.  Apple sends me a return label for FedEx. I call FedEx around two.  I am promised a pick up within a few hours. Apple will have the computer back in a day. Then I'll purchase the new one. Manually transfer the data. Then return the iMac I bought in December. I am dreading this whole process. Especially how I'm going to get my big computer back to Apple with no box.

By 8 p.m. FedEx has not arrived.  I call.  I'm told, "We have you scheduled. We'll be there sometime tonight."

I wake up today and the computer is still in my lobby. I call FedEx around ten. They search around and discover why the box is still in my possession.

"Oh, I'm sorry, that pick-up was cancelled."

FedEx doesn't  call to tell me. They don't reschedule. They do nothing. Just tell me I need to call back around noon. "We can't schedule any pick-ups right now."

When I ask the reason for the cancellation, some very nice girl in some very warm climate  with a lovely southern accent tells me it's due to weather.  

Hmmm. I think they need a new ad agency!

whiteout

I bundle up.

Long shearling coat. Scarf. Gloves. Hat (after photo).






The streets are empty. Visibility poor.





I leave my house at 8:30, to be at work by 9:30.

I wait 30 minutes for a bus that never comes. I'm too cold to wait longer.

I come home feeling bad. I live in Manhattan. I should be able to get in.

So I warm up and try again.

I navigate my way to Lexington, three and a half long blocks away.  

The sidewalks are a mess. Walking is difficult.

I wait an hour this time. I'm determined to get in.

And just when I'm about to give up, a lonely bus comes crawling down Lexington.

I arrive at Saks at 10:30.

A few people have actually come out to shop.  Mostly people visiting New York.

There are only three of us in Vince, down from the usual 11.  It's actually sort of nice.

I make a few sales. Then the announcement comes.

The store is closing at one.

I venture outside. 

The storm has gotten worse.

Busses have stopped running by order of the mayor.

The subway nearest my house is shut down.

I see a cab. One cab in a  sea of blowing winds and total whiteout.

A man gets in. I knock on the window and ask if we can split the cab. He agrees.

I am home by 1:45.

Still, I love the snow. Beautiful until tomorrow.

just another day in retail

I wake up to falling snow.

Seven inches have already accumulated in Central Park and the storm has just begun.

Governor Cuomo declares a  state of emergency for New York City.

Wind gusts of 26 miles an hour are recorded.

Biting cold.

Heavy, blinding snow.

Unshoveled sidewalks.

Meteorologists predict one to two feet or more.

Getting worse by the hour.

Libraries, schools and many other closings are announced.

Thousands of flights grounded.

The heart of the storm is yet to come.

Snow is expected all day and into the night.

Everyone is urged to stay off the roads. 

The newscasters acknowledge that, "For people who have to be at work — doctors and nurses..."

I don't hear any mention of people selling clothes among that group of people whose services are critical.

Still, I'm only mildly surprised when I get this email.



I guess people need to shop.

phyllis visits new york

I love when my mom comes to town.

She arrives on Sunday. Takes a five-hour bus from Falmouth. Drops her bags at my apartment. Then takes two local buses to Saks where I'm working. After that my mom goes to meet her new great granddaughter. And then has dinner out with Alexander and me. Hard to believe she is really 86.

On Monday my mom stops by Bloomingdales, then visits the baby again, comes back here to watch a movie,  and then we all have dinner at T-Bar with Valerie, Abbey and Jason. 

My mom awakes on Tuesday and asks, "What should we do today?" I half-heartedly suggest museums, and am grateful when she rejects the idea. We both feel like hanging around inside, and decide instead to play some cards. Something I never tire of doing with my mom, especially since beating her at gin is a monumental and unusual event — which I do in a stress-inducing, neck-in-neck game.

We had planned to have dinner at Tony Di Napoli's, one of my mom's favorite restaurants in New York. My mom loves southern Italian food. But the mid-20's weather makes ordering in the better choice.

This morning my mom is up by six. She goes to the local bagel place to bring some of New York's best back to Cape Cod. She returns and has a quick cup of coffee, and says her good-byes by 7:30. Her bus leaves from Port Authority at 9:30, but my mom is taking no chances. Who knows, traffic could be heavy. A surprise snow storm could hit. You just never know.

my non-doorman doorman

I'll  just call him Travis.  

He's the man who masquerades as a doorman from 11 to 7 most nights in my building. I would guess him to be about 80.

Travis uses our lobby as his personal bedroom.  He locks the front door, pulls up a ratty looking chair and pillow, falls asleep, and then gets paid.

Around 3 a.m. this morning I hear a consistent beeping sound.  I think maybe I'm dreaming.

I get up and walk around the apartment. I definitely hear a pulsing beep-beep. There is some alarm going off somewhere, and it's not in my apartment.

I throw on a coat and a pair off shoes and set out to investigate. I go down one flight to the lobby. 

I wake Travis by asking, "Do you hear that?"

For the first three times I ask, Travis completely ignores me.  Finally he says, "I hear nothing."

I open the door to the basement where the boiler room is, and hear this.

Travis is still adamant, "I don't hear nothing." I implore him to stand at the basement door (a few feet from his bed) but he refuses. He also refuses to wake the super.

"Besides," he tells me.  "There is nothing the super can do. Even if there is something wrong in the boiler room, the super would have to wait until morning to get it fixed." 

"The whole point of an alarm is to not wait," I yell. "It could be a gas leak. It could be carbon monoxide poisoning. It could be something else. But whatever it is, the alarm is telling us to do something now."

"Listen, Travis, if you refuse to acknowledge the alarm, and refuse to call the super, I'm calling the police." He doesn't bother to respond.

And so I call 9-1-1.

The police come and together (with Alexander) we all go to the basement.

That's when we hear this and see this:

The police tell Travis he needs to do something.

Finally he agrees and calls the super.

The super takes care of it, though it takes about an hour. Obviously it turns out not to be life-threatening.  But it could have been.

And for some reason unclear to every tenant living here, management refuses to let go of Travis.

two days of hell with no solution in sight

A couple of days ago I notice that all the dates in all my Excel documents have converted to some bizarre looking format whereby the letter d follows or proceeds days and months:

'

And worse, my options in Excel are a mess:

I can't even format new cells correctly.

I begin by calling Apple support. Person #1  looks at the problem and concludes, "I've never seen anything like this. You need to call Microsoft."

I don't want to do that, so I call back, an hour later, hoping the next person will be willing to help.

Person  #2 at Apple disconnects me by accident, 20 minutes into the call.  She doesn't call back despite having my phone number.

So I try Microsoft.

I spend the next two hours with a surprisingly helpful guy from somewhere in Asia who finally concludes (after a complete uninstall and reinstall twice of the Office suite) that there's no problem with the Microsoft software (it works fine on a test account we set up).

I call Apple again. Another two hours with Adam until my patience gives out and I reschedule for more hell today.

I awake this morning with optimism and stamina. I call Apple and get Aaron. In the course of  our 131 minute conversation we uncover (I hope not create) more problems unrelated to Excel and solve nothing.

Aaron escalates my non-Excel problems to the Apple engineers — I never even knew there was such a group.  Aaron thinks the only solution might be a total reinstall of everything piece by piece. This is my worst tech nightmare (short of losing all my stuff).

Sooooooooo frustrating.

I remember a few years ago visiting friends in a small Connecticut town. They had just spent a ton of money to dig up their front yard and replace their septic tank. Ken described it this way, "It's like buying a brand new car and then burying it in your front yard."

That's sort of how I feel.  Hours and hours wasted with nothing at all to show for it. 

There has to be a solution, though, right?  

But what if it can't be found?

Will I have to adjust my thinking and accept seeing January 14 displayed as 1d14d16?  I doubt it; I'm not that forgiving.  

good-bye to another job

A little over a year ago I join J.Hilburn (JH).

It was October 2014. The woman who recruited me, Joy C, is great. Smart, fashionable, knowledgeable, a good trainer and a good leader.

I also liked the company concept and product. Cut out the middleman and sell directly to men who traditionally don't like to shop. Custom shirts and suits. Door-to-door service. And a stylist who will handle any fit or quality problem.

None of that has changed. Joy is still amazing. JH pricing is still substantially below retail. And the fabric quality is comparable to (if not exactly the same as) the top Italian designers. 

I was excited when I started. I met some great men. Enjoyed the selling component. And felt good making recommendations that were genuinely appreciated.

I accepted having to pay for all the new fabrics every season. All the marketing materials. The annual dues. And even meetings to see upcoming product.

But then in May, the commission structure is altered under the guise of "exciting new changes." It used to be that my monthly commission, for example, on $2400 in sales, was 20%. The "new and better" plan drops it to 9%, less if some of what I sell isn't custom or made-to-measure. Now the only way to earn a decent commission is to recruit and train new stylists. This is not something I want to do.

In October some local senior stylists pay for a pop-up store in New York. Last year the company sponsored it.  If I want to meet one of my clients there for an appointment, I have had to pay $20.  I think this is the proverbial straw.

Since joining, I have spent $1,286 and have grossed $3,634 in commissions.  It doesn't take much analysis to conclude that this is not a productive endeavor.

I give my notice today. I'm left with a book of beautiful fabric samples that I'll probably give away, some styling experience, three relationships I intend to keep up, a new WWF formidable competitor, and no regrets.

a blog-worthy life

Despite my son living at home, we don't spend a lot of time together.

Either he's at the library looking for work in finance or real estate investment, working out, hanging with friends, or preferring social media to time with me.

But most nights we eat dinner together. And while we eat, we watch TV.

I know this sounds anti-social, but it's not. In fact, choosing the right show evokes considerable conversation. And once we land on one, there is much to discuss.

Our go-to shows are old Law & Order episodes and Seinfeld. But the best is when we find a series we both want to watch that has concluded. That promises about two weeks of engaging dinners.

This past summer, Alexander and I watched and were mesmerized by all six seasons, 62 episodes, of Breaking Bad. I can't imagine anything topping the brilliance of that show.

We sat stunned at the antics off Jack Bauer over 8 seasons of 24. Alexander can still, if asked, recall in detail every episode. I can say, what happened in Season Three, Episode 4, and he can likely tell me. As ridiculous as Jack's one-day experiences were, there was something hypnotic to the series.

And now we have Homeland. 

Tonight we watch the final episode of Season Five, having seen all previous seasons. In this one episode a lot happens. Poor Carrie. 

• She stops a terrorist attack in Berlin. 
• Outs a CIA mole. 
• Kills a man. 
• Her mentor offers her a job in the CIA where she can pick the city and craft the assignment. 
• Another man — though he still loves her — breaks up with her because living with her is too dangerous. 
• A third man, this one a billionaire, wants to marry her. 
• And a fourth man, probably the one she loves most, lays dying with catastrophic injuries, and she must decide if she should be the one to pull the plug.

That's when Alexander looks at me.

"Now that's someone who could write a blog. She has a lot to say."

The implication is obvious.

$100 day

With Powerball now over a billion dollars, I remember when $100 seemed like a lot.

I was in High School, and later college, when my mom, my sisters, my Aunt Frances (or Auntie Fanny, as we called her) and I did sporadic work for a man named Gene Bauman.

It was a nice way to pick up extra cash. And back then, if I could make a hundred dollars a day, I felt rich.

Gene would contract with credit card companies. Then he would rent a booth at local events across the country and Canada. We worked at car shows in Springfield Massachusetts, boat shows in Los Angeles, and even county fairs in London Ontario.

When a person walked by our booth (where we all sat in one long row), we would shout out, in one continuous breath, 

Hi sir (or ma'am) can I see you a minute I'd like to sign you up for a (filling the blank) credit card, you can rip it up when you get it but I get credit for just signing you up what's your first name?

LA, April 1973, I'm second from left, my aunt Franny is 4th from left, and 
the lovely Rhonda K is to Franny's right
(too bad there weren't iPhones then)

And we'd get a dollar for every person we signed up, whether they were approved or not.  We would approach everyone, the only criteria being that that the were over 18 and alive.

I would often overhear,  "Sir, what's the name of your bank?"  And if the response was, "I don't have a bank account," the counter would be, "That's okay, if you were to open an account tomorrow — and you really should — where would it be?"

The work was long and tiring. But we got to sit. Meet new people (most of whom lived in rural areas and didn't own credit cards or have bank accounts). And we would know exactly what we made at the end of each day.

Now I am again doing retail work. I don't sit ,ever, but get good exercise for the 8 hours I'm working. I also get a very attractive discount at a fantastic store. And I meet new people all day, most of whom are respectful and appreciative.  

I just wish $100 /day still had the allure it did back when I was signing people up for credit cards.

Yes, January (as I was told) is a dreadful month for retail. Few sales and lots of returns.

a simple, delicious and protein-packed recipe

I have no culinary skills.

I make a good steak, and little else.  But tonight I decide to cook, and choose a recipe from  — of all places — PEOPLE Magazine.

I chose it because it's easy to make, includes no exotic ingredients that are impossible to find, and sounds like something a non-cook can handle.

I rarely post recipes but I'm making an exception. The combination of the salt with the honey and the other ingredients make this a dish worth sharing. That, and the fact that it's so easy.

Lemon and Scallion Salmon

Ingredients:

• 2 scallions (white and green parts finely chopped)
• 1/4 cup of extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 tbsp. fresh lemon juice
• 1 tbsp honey (I may have added more)
• 2 cloves of minced fresh garlic
• 2 salmon fillets with skin (about 7 ounces each)
• Sea salt
• freshly ground pepper
• sliced lemon wheels for garnish

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
2. Whisk together the scallions, olive oil, honey, lemon juice and garlic.
3. Pour the marinade into a ziplock bag with the salmon (make sure salmon gets fully coated) and let sit at room temperature for 30 minutes.
4. Place fillets skin side up and sprinkle liberally with sea salt and pepper.
5. Bake about 15-20 minutes (medium rare preferred).

Alexander's summation:  "This is definitely the best fish dish you've ever made." Not that I've made many, but still, I'll take this as the ultimate compliment.

winter hair

My hair is dry, lifeless, and uninteresting.

On August 5, 2013 I meet Lyo. Such a lucky day.

I have never been that faithful when it comes to colorists. A year. Maybe two. But that's because I've never found a colorist I totally trust. Until I met Lyo.

She is a petite, beautiful Japanese woman. She has only been in the US a few years, and is still learning English. I believe she is taking courses to improve, but I think she communicates just fine. 

Lyo offers great suggestions. Has been exceptionally well-trained in Japan. And gives the most amazing shampoo and head massages.

I always walk out feeling better than when I walk in. Thank-you Lyo.

a short-lived career

During the last quarter of 2013 I take 20 real estate courses.

I then spend a month studying for, and later passing, a rigorous state exam.

I get my real estate license, pay the requisite $350 annual dues to the Real Estate Board of New York, and begin work at Bellmarc in early 2014.

I make flyers. Send out emails. Tell everyone I know. Even add my new position to LinkedIn.

Over the next two years, I rent two small apartments, one to M's son.

I have one family member sell their apartment, and another both buy and sell an apartment. Both use other brokers.

A friend of mine forgets that I'm in real estate when he buys a very large condo in lower Manhattan.

Another friend's daughter uses me, along with several other brokers, to help find her and her friends an apartment. In the end, I find them a great apartment. But for reasons I don't understand, they choose an inferior apartment with another broker, in an area that wasn't even in the criteria I was given.

Bellmarc is in the news for all the wrong reasons. A merger with Caldwell Banker goes bad. An acquisition of a rental company turns ugly. Commissions aren't paid on time.

The woman I work for (and think is great) leaves the firm.

The east side office where I work closes and consolidates with another Bellmarc office.

Today I execute a Termination Agreement with Bellmarc and sever my relationship, which really isn't much of one, since I haven't been to the office in months.

I'm done with real estate. It's a tough business, and a frustrating one. It brought me more heartache than pleasure. 

Cleaning house at the start of the new year feels good. More cleaning to come, I'm sure.

sofa facelift

In 2007 I spend more than I ever have before on a piece of furniture. It costs more than my first car.  But I love it. 

It's a Ralph Lauren sectional at Bloomingdales.  The cushions are filled with down, and look gorgeous.



But overtime, the down feathers keep escaping. Sort of like collagen in a person. The cushions begin to sag. My once plush sofa is prematurely aging.

I notify Customer Service in September and after several emails and phone calls over a two-week period, Melissa, a senior supervisor, ultimately concludes, "There is nothing we can do. The sofa is out of warrantee; I'm sorry."

Not happy with this response, my investigative skills yield me the direct email of the President of Bloomingdales, Tony Spring. On September 16, at 10:45 am, I sent him an email asking for help. Within 45 minutes, I get a phone call from the senior person in charge of furniture, the truly lovely and wonderful Nancy M.  

The sofa cannot be replaced, but, Nancy offers to switch out the down filled seat cushions with Deluxe High Density Foam ones. I agree that's a great solution. 

Today the cushions are delivered (one short, but Nancy has already found the missing one and I'll get that next Tuesday).

It's not perfect but it's infinitely better. And because it isn't all down, I can now sit on my sofa and then get up without having to re-fluff all the pillows. 

When the delivery guys leave, there are so many feathers on my rug it looks like a goose has just been slaughtered. I still have down to sleep on, and will definitely not miss it for sitting.

if you live here, do this

I awake to 11 degrees and sunny skies. My favorite kind of weather. Finally, winter has arrived.

The day starts early with an 8:30 BAFTA Board Meeting.

My second appointment of the day is nearby. I am applying for a NYC ID.

The process is surprisingly quick. I arrive 40 minutes before my scheduled time. I'm expecting a crowded room and a long wait, but I'm surprised to find neither. It's a quiet morning and I am seen quickly.

I fill our the requisite form (basically name and address), show my NY driver's license, and have a photo taken. I'm in and out in ten minutes. I should receive my card within one to three weeks.

The benefits are many. Among them are free memberships to:

• American Museum of Natural History
• Museum of Jewish Heritage
• Museum of Modern Art
• Museum of the City of New York
• New Museum
• The Public Theater

And it costs zero.  Just one more reason to love New York.

shoes

I am in constant search for the perfect shoe.

It would look like a four-inch Louboutin, but feel like a running shoe.

I know it doesn't exist.  But that doesn't stop me from looking.

I wander the 8th floor of Saks regularly, looking for a boot or shoe that will fit my specs, or at least come close.

I am not exaggerating when I say that when I work two days in a row, the bottom of my feet still hurt in the morning. I could enjoy my job so much more if I had comfortable, well-supported shoes that were compliment-worthy.

The Saks style standards (yes, they exist) specifically say: 

Not An Option For Work

Sneakers, flip-flops, slippers

So everyday that I go into work I struggle with what to wear on my feet.

I have a big-enough work-wardrobe (mostly black dresses and skirts) with various tops (allowed are jacket/blazer, blouse, tailored shirt, knit, and sweater set). I don't have to dress in black, but normally do.

But it's the shoes that I angst over. My Prada-sport boots are what I wear most days. They are fairly comfortable,but are very old and look it.

Sometimes I'll wear my ancient Fiorentini + Baker shoes. But they don't go with as much, the soles aren't rubber, and they're good for five hours, tops.

A couple of years ago I bought a pair of Prada wedge shoes that a friend told me were very comfortable. As it turns out, they may have been great for her feet but not for mine.

These  Vince shoes are comfortable enough, but with a thin rubber sole, they don't provide enough support.

My rubber soled booties are okay, I guess. Uggs would be better but aren't allowed.

I have five  additional pair of booties and none are comfortable enough to last me all day. In fact, the blue Rag and Bone, bought two years ago at a sample sale, have been worn once. They were comfortable in the store and then never again. I'm sure they were switched.

I recently buy a pair of Prada-sport ankle boots for 40% off, and am hoping they are as comfortable as the knee-high boot I've been wearing for years.

I am totally open for suggestions.  My feet and back would be most grateful.