Sunday, July 31, 2016

return of the ex-roommate

My ex-roommate (ERM) visits this weekend (he prefers I don't use his name). 

Friday he goes to a party. He comes in to see me when he gets home. He ignores the fact that I'm sleeping, and starts telling me about his night. How can I resist listening, even if my participation is lacking? I haven't seen my ERM  in three weeks and I miss him.

The next morning (before it's even light out) I am awoken again, this time with the unpleasant sounds of my ERM being sick. I suspect the cause of his illness and ask if he is okay. He says he is.

Two hours later I am more fully awake, and getting ready for work. I see small remnants of my house guest's sickness. On the living room rug. In my bathroom. On his bedding, including a new blue coverlet. And then, worst of all, on my light beige Ralph Lauren sofa. 

I awake him. He tries to gain some sympathy by saying I may have ebola.  His humor does not appease me.  

 "GET UP AND TAKE THE COVERS OFF THE SOFA CUSHIONS AND BRING THEM TO THE CLEANERS NOW!!!!"

"I will," he murmurs as he flips over to go back to sleep.

"NOW," I yell.

He gets up.

"And also, spray the bathroom with something. It stinks."

"With what?"

"I don't know. Look at the cleaning supplies and find something. You know where they are. I'm pretty sure I have Febreze somewhere."

Next I see him holding a spray bottle, heading toward the bathroom.

"Wait, What's that?"

In his hand is this: 




By the time I get home Saturday night he's out with friends. And when I leave this morning he is still asleep.

Am hoping the next visit home is a better one.


Friday, July 29, 2016

kissed by joe

Word spreads fast when a celebrity shops at Saks.

"I just got a text that the Vice President is on 6," says a colleague.

I take the escalator up one flight.

At the elevator banks  on the 6th floor stand five or six NYC policemen with helmets on, holding guns. Not little handguns. I'm talking those big assault rifles that look like they could take out a small army.



I go to the back of the store to an exclusive private section for male shoppers. Standing around are several secret service guys; these men appear unarmed.  And there, right in front of me, is Jill Biden. Her husband has just finished shopping and is graciously taking multiple photos with the store employees who have helped him. Of all times not to have my camera or phone with me!

As Joe is walking out, he passes me. I say, "Hi, my name is Lyn,"  while I extend my hand. I don't think I address him as I'm unsure of the protocol  Is it Mr. Vice President? Mr. Biden? A combination of the two? 

"I loved your speech the other night," I begin (I know, not very creative). He smiles and thanks me with a sincerity that feels real. And the whole time we are speaking he is shaking my hand. A long, good, solid shake. Then he surprises me, and kisses me on my right cheek. 

Thank-you, Joe. We will miss you.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

file this under helpful to know on a hot summer's day

Today is day six of a heat wave that is scheduled to continue for at least a few more days.

So if you want a very cold glass of water ...



  1. Take a refrigerated bottle of water.
  2. Wrap in damp paper towel.
  3. Put in freezer for 15 minutes.
  4. Take out, pour and enjoy.

Saturday, July 23, 2016

ice or no ice

I walk into Starbucks on this blistering hot day and order a large passion fruit, unsweetened iced tea. 

"Could you please put the ice in a separate cup?" I ask.  I don't like watered down iced tea.

Barista #1 hands me my drink. It's 3/4's filled.

"Can you fill this to the top please," I say, assuming it's a mistake.

"I'm sorry, I can't. We are only allowed to fill it to this height if you get ice on the side."

"What if I don't want any ice?"

Barista #2, overhearing our conversation, answers for Barista #1. "Then we'll fill it all the way."

"Okay, I'll have no ice then."

Barista #2 takes my first drink, empties it into a sink, and refills it to the top.

I walk out wondering what the difference is, or has ice just become expensive.

Thursday, July 21, 2016

transition

M picks me up around nine-fifteen.

My mom gives us strict instructions, "I want you back by 11." That's when she wants to leave for the 45-minute trip to Hyannis. My plane is scheduled to takeoff  from there at 1:38. When I protest, she counters with, "So you'll read if we're early. What's the difference between reading there or at the beach?" I have no good answer.

We drive downtown to arguably the best little French bakery on the eastern seaboard, Maison Villatte.



We end up with a little time after our quick coffee and, in my case, a raisin twirl thing that's amazing. 

So M suggests a trip to TJMax.

I expect to find nothing, and walk out with a $29.99 last minute purchase. A gorgeous bathing suit that fits perfectly. But now we are going to be late.

I call my mom and am surprised at how calm she is. We arrive home to a very relaxed Phyllis.  

We leave the house around 11:30. Then my plane is delayed almost an hour. By the time I make it to my very hot apartment, it's after four.

I like being home. Sleeping in my own bed. Watching TV and reading the newspaper (things I avoid on the Cape). Catching up with emails and missed phone calls. And walking out the door to Agata's.


But the novelty wears off quickly.  Almost anywhere is better to be than 93-degree Manhattan.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

beaching 101

Okay, there's the obvious.  Sunscreen. A good lunch. A hat. And a bathing suit you can wear and not feel the need to cover up.



Sunny skies. Light wind so it never feels really hot. And of course the beach, private preferred.


Few people in all directions. The only chance of that happening is on a weekday. Today is Wednesday, a weekday.

facing west
facing northeast
A good chair. Telescope, with a place for a drink, and a side pocket for a phone and camera. They last for decades. Mine is at least ten years old.


Under ten-dollar floats, preferably with a head rest, and the kind where your body stays above water (just in case the ocean's cold or the air cool).

.
A few beach towels. Even if one is almost 20 years old from a job you once had and got for free (the towel, that is; the job cost me a lot).


$15 reader sunglasses and, the absolute necessity: a waterproof Kindle cover for float-reading and windy days. (I wish somebody would invent a phone that could be read in bright sunlight: why can Amazon do it and not Apple?)


Water so clear you can see your toes.


Gentle waves and a low tide.  


And lots of friends and family.

Jean, mom and me; not pictured: M, Tobey and Jean's friend Roberta




Monday, July 18, 2016

fine dining

I don't spend enough time with M.

She lives in Boston and I live in NY. But we speak multiple times daily so I never really feel her absence. But seeing her is always better than not. And I haven't seen her since last November, and then only briefly.

She and Tobey (her husband) have rented a spectacular home for the second year in a row, only a five-minute drive from my mom's. She's here for the month. During the day, we hang out at Wild Harbor Beach. Floating, swimming, talking, eating, and of course reading on our Kindles. Right now we are both reading (and liking) Before the Fall by Noah Hawley. 

M and Tobey invite my mom and me to dinner and ask us to pick the place. "Somewhere nice," is the criterion we're given.  We chose the recently-opened Cape Grille.  Word on the beach has been positive. My mom knows no one who has gone there yet and has had a bad meal; this is unusual. Typically in deciding where to eat (other than Crabapples or The Chart Room) there is always someone who will never go there again after last time.

The restaurant is quiet and lovely and understated. No loud cheering Red Sox fans anywhere. The chef used to be at The Glass Onion, one of the Cape's nicest restaurants (I've never been). He is known to be adventurous in his culinary choices.

Before eating, everyone humors me and poses for some pictures.











The generous drink-sizes and excellent bread basket are good indicators of the food to follow.


The caprese salad (burrata and heirloom tomatoes) is outstanding. As is my 18 ounce coffee-crusted bone-in Delmonico with spiced bourbon reduction (half of which will be eaten tomorrow).



My mom's salmon, M's cod, and Tobey's filet are also excellent, and beautifully presented. This isn't your typical Cape fare.









The two desserts we split are more than enough for everyone. 

The great food is only surpassed by the great company.

If I stay on the Cape much longer, none of my clothes will fit when I get home.

Saturday, July 16, 2016

3 not so great things about the Cape

wild animals on the beach
I love the private beach here at Wild Harbor. The feel of sand on my feet. The salt water.  And the sound of waves crashing on the rocks.There are no sharks. No riptides. Nothing to be afraid of in the ocean.

But on the beach...

My mom tells me that a few days ago a guy was peacefully relaxing on his chair when he feels something licking his hand.  He opens his eyes and next to him is a fox.  A fox on the beach in the middle of the day? I hope the cougars are caged.

finding avocados  
We're making a salad. I love avocado in a salad. 

My mom has just returned from the grocery store about 15 minutes away and has forgotten to pick up avocados. While there are some destination places close by, the important ones (Downtown, Mashpee Commons and the Movie Theaters) are all 15 minutes away, in different directions.


Nearby are some restaurants, Deans (the king of all sandwich makers), a few small stores, a Post Office, a Library, a Bank, a bakery (that closes at 3), a Dunkin' Donuts, and a fish market. But trying to find a nearby place that sells avocados? Not so easy.

I try three different places before I finally find them at the Wild Harbor General Store.They're $1.99, same as I pay in NY. But half the size. The manager of the store is even apologetic. "That's how they've been coming in. I sell them at cost or I wouldn't be able to sell them at all." I buy two.

They look like the plums my mom just bought.



dark roads
Cape-living mostly happens before sunset. Once the sun goes down, the roads go dark. Maybe there's a government assumption that people hang out at home. There are few, if any, lights on most roads. The town quiets down. 

This is when I miss Manhattan. Although I'm not always out in it, I  feel the city's energy. And I'm comforted knowing it's always there.





Friday, July 15, 2016

dinnah at the chaaht room

If you like baked stuff lobster, there's only one place to go on the upper cape: The Chart Room. 

My mom calls a few days ago and gets a 5:30 reservation; the only other ones were for 8:30 or later.

I go with my mom and her friend Cindy, one of the nicest people in Wild Harbor, and there are lots of nice people here.



The views are always beautiful.















We sit on the porch, overlooking Red Brook Harbor.

We don't need menus.We know what we're having.

The chart room makes the best baked stuffed lobster. The claws are cracked and the meat from the claws is re-stuffed back into the lobster. It's amazingly good.And easy to eat.



As it turns out, 5:30 at The Chart Room is a good time to go.  Same great views but with no crowds. No long waits, even with a reservation. Fewer loud tables. Better service. And the same great food.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

owning the beach

Finding a place to sit on the beach is not difficult. Except for one other couple, my mom and I are the only ones on it. And, it's late. 1:30.

My mom keeps observing, "It's good that it's windy. Without the breeze it'd be really hot."

Around two, Jeannie arrives with Ellen and Jodi.

Except the breeze that is keeping us cool soon morphs into a major wind. Now we're all eating sand and its sticking to our skin and getting in our ears.

"I'm going back,"I announce around three.

"Oh stay, it's not that bad," says my sister.

And the company is great. So I do.

Sun is nowhere in sight and big cumulous clouds fill the sky.

Sand is blowing everywhere.

Our little group stays. Now we are the only ones on the beach.

"It's so nice with the beach empty," someone observes.  I'm with a positive-thinking group.

"I feel rain," I say.

"Oh, it's not raining," says my mom, ever the optimist.

My sunglasses (clearly not needed) are covered in droplets. "Well, it's raining over here," I say. 

We stay. Some drink. Some eat. We talk. We laugh. But the light rain continues and now everyone feels it.

So we all pack up.  We unbury our towels. Attempt to shake off the sand from our bags.  Fold up our chairs. And brush the sand from our skin.

But then someone sees a glimmer of sun, and the rain has stopped.

So the beach chairs are put down and set up again. And the towels are re-laid. 

I leave. 

About fifteen minutes later the others follow. The rain has returned.

Blowing sand. No sun. And sporadic showers. 

Still, it's a great day at the beach.


Wednesday, July 13, 2016

a spontaneous dinner

My dad had a sister named Frances — or, as we used to call her, "Auntie Fanny." She married Sonny and had three kids: Ellen (who is my sister Jean's age), Jodi (who is 8 years younger than I am), and Jack, the youngest.

Growing up, our families were close. Geographically we lived only a few blocks from each other, as did our shared grandparents. So lots of holidays were celebrated together, along with birthdays, dinners, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs, and everything in-between.

Over the years, life happens and for a long time we didn't see each other. Jean and Ellen maintained their friendship, despite Ellen's move to Tucson. Jodi and I recently began playing WWF, and got together for lunch last year when she and her family were visiting NY.

Today, fate intervenes. After a day on the beach, Ellen invites us to dinner (she and her husband David also have a magnificent home here on the Cape, overlooking Jehu Pond).



Although it's impromptu, the beautiful spread looks like it's been planned for months.  Different varieties of cheese. Two kinds of dinner pies from the famed Centerville Pies. Jean's luscious Greek salad. Steamed broccoli. Kasha varnishkas. About ten different desserts from an Italian bakery. And a segmented fruit platter where none of the fruits touch each other (per the request of one unnamed adult).



The night is dominated by laughs and shared memories. Names of people I barely remember. Who got old and who stayed young. Who remained married and who divorced. Who still lives locally and who moved. Even who had an illegitimate child raised secretly by her mother at a time when raising a child alone was not socially acceptable. 

Jodi shares photos, including one of my aunt (with Sonny) in the days when "wiglets" were popular.



She also finds a photo of my aunt and mom, around 1965, hanging out in our kitchen.



Now here they are again near a kitchen.




It's probably been close to 40 years since we've all been together. I'm sure my dad is looking down and smiling, happy to see us all enjoying a magical Cape night.


jack
my mom, frannie and sonny

first cousins: jean, ellen, jodi, me

the gracious hosts: ellen and david


Tuesday, July 12, 2016

3 great things about the cape

Wild Harbor Beach.



The chowder at Crabapples, however it's spelled.



And spending time with my mom.



Monday, July 11, 2016

home away from home

I get up at 7. Pack. Empty the baskets. Arrange for my doorman to get my mail. Clean the fridge. Give a box of blueberries to my neighbor.  And go to the bank. By 8:30 I'm out the door.

I have an 11:55 flight from JFK to Hyannis. I leave early as there is no way to predict subway delays and check-in lines. 

But this morning there are neither. The subway is fast and I am directed to the expedited security line at check in.  I must look the innocent I am.

And though my carry-on is heavy, I am traveling light.



The three different lines I wait in to get coffee (one to order, one to pick-up, and a third to pay) take twice as long as the entire check-in process.

And still, I am at the gate an hour and forty minutes early.

The flight is short, and I arrive to cloudy, cool weather, having left sunny skies and warm temperatures. My mom greets me, looking closer to Jane Fonda's age than her own.

Unpacking is easy as I've brought little. But I have shipped three boxes, including my old computer, and clothes I no longer wear in New York, but are great for here.

My mom and I eat lobstah rolls for dinner, and then start our summer gin games.

The Cape is a very relaxed place. No make-up and casual clothes are the norm.   Manhattan feels very far away.


Sunday, July 10, 2016

alexander's brief visit home

"I think I might come home this weekend."

Alexander calls around 7pm on Friday.

"I won't be here. I'm going up to the Cape. When were you planning on coming?"

"Tonight."

Oh, this weekend! 

"That'd be great. Let me know the details when you know."

I'm working all weekend but maybe we can have a nice dinner together. Or see a movie. Or watch some TV. Something. 

Within the hour the plans morph from I'll be taking a ten o'clock bus in and going straight to Tory's to I'm not sure I really want to rush and get in late to Let me figure this out and I'll call you back to Now Tory isn't free to I'll come tomorrow, but I'm not sure when I'll see you.

Today is a busy day at work. Lots of volume but few dollars. Mostly everything is 75% off. Expensive designer tops are selling for under $50. Almost nothing ends up being taxed since few purchases are over the $110 threshold. It's a great day for buyers; a bad one for sellers.

Jane Fonda and her granddaughter come in. We all casually walk by her to catch a glimpse. She's 78 and looks amazing.

A few hours pass and someone else surprising is on the floor. Alexander.  It's around two and he's come directly from the bus station to Saks to say hello. I offer to shop with him but he doesn't have time (or, more precisely, doesn't have interest). He swoops in and swoops out; I see him for about five minutes.

I get home around eight and Alexander has already left for the night. I don't bother staying up, as I know he'll be home long after my bedtime.

Around three my son comes in. My sleep is never deep until I know he's arrived home safely. We talk for a few minutes. 

When I leave this morning Alexander is asleep in his bed. Not on the sofa surrounded by an empty pizza box. I kiss him good-bye, and wish him a safe trip home.

Maybe next time I'll get more time with him. In the meantime, I'll take what I can get.

Thursday, July 7, 2016

caught!

It's 90 plus degrees and miserable out. 

But since I'm working the next three days, and flying to the Cape on Monday, I do a bunch of things today to get beach-ready.

  • Waxing. (Guys are so lucky).
  • Manicure and pedicure (another girly thing).
  • Canceling my paper.
  • Getting my hair colored (darker but with a few highlights added).
  • Cleaning my apartment.
  • Getting my laundry done (really, it's cheaper and easier than doing it myself in my basement laundry room).

And then I see him. He's enormous and ugly. 

It's just six o'clock, and all the building help have left. And, I no longer have a son at home to help me.  

I start shaking. Stupid, I know.  But he's moving so fast and I don't want to lose him and then have to wonder where he's hiding all night.

I grab about five paper towels. Tree-lovers would hate me.  Now I don't see him. 

I grab my iPhone and light up its flashlight. I look under my bureau, the last place I saw him. And then, he quickly dashes out.

But he takes a break, and I grab all those paper towels and swoop down on him. 

I  feel bad, but not as bad as I would have if he were crawling around my bedroom while I slept.







Tuesday, July 5, 2016

my foot doctor

Going to a podiatrist is like going to a professional pedicurist who doesn't do polish.

My toes are not one of my favorite features. Eight are okay, but two are slightly curled over, making it impossible for a non-doctor to cut them really short.  I used to think the thickening nails on these two resulted from years of going to cheap nail salons. But no, my podiatrist (whom I love) tells me, "It's from your feet being cramped into shoes."  

Every three or four  months I see Dr. Alan Rosen on the Upper East Side. He's personable, patient, and knowledgeable —all good qualities for a podiatrist.





I sit in his chair while he does his thing. He uses a small instrument (nippers, I think) that in the wrong hands could be dangerous. Other than my bothersome toes, I am lucky to have no other feet problems.

I buy $34 inserts for the Mephisto booties I wear almost every day (even in summer) when working. I'll try anything to make my feet a little more comfortable for eight-hours of standing.

A half hour after arriving I'm done. I love short, short nails (both on hands and feet). Like a clutter-free apartment (still working on that), it's liberating.


Monday, July 4, 2016

a lonely way to spend a holiday

It's a gorgeous day. Sunny skies. Zero humidity.

It's a day of celebration. We get to live how we want. Say what we think. And despite my ramblings about unfair pay, I believe with all my heart that this truly is a land of opportunity. At the risk of sounding trite, I am grateful to call America my home.

The city is empty. Traffic on First is minimal.




Nevertheless, on the corner of 79th and First stands a bored looking Louis. (In this case, his real name).



Louis's  bright yellow vest clearly identifies him as a traffic cop.  And here, in this city, it's the traffic police who are responsible for enforcing the biking laws (which are the same as they are for cars, but Louis claims not to know this).



I'm standing on the corner waiting for the light to turn when a bicyclist zooms past Louis and takes a right turn on a red light. Highly illegal. This is so disrespectful to poor Louis. I almost feel sorry for him. But maybe the bicyclist  knows Louis or has seen him before. He perhaps knows better than I that Louis is busying himself with more pressing concerns.

So I say to Louis, "Hey, how come you didn't do anything when that bicyclist rode right by you, didn't even slow down, and took an illegal right on red?"

"That's not my priority. I'm here to make sure that traffic is moving steadily." 

There is hardly any traffic. And, I'm not sure what that even means, making sure that traffic is moving steadily. If a car breaks down will Louis personally tow it? If there are cars blocking the intersection (which is unlikely on a holiday weekend) will he fix it?  

"So you don't do anything at all if something else happens that's illegal?"I ask.

"That's right."

"I mean, it's not like you're chasing after some slasher and you can't stop to write up a bicyclist. There's hardly any traffic."

He says nothing; I continue.

"So let me make sure I understand. I'm told that the NYC Traffic police are the ones responsible for enforcing the rules of the road for bikers. And you're telling me that it's not your priority, so that even when a biker blatantly makes an illegal right turn on red in front of you, you don't do anything?"

Again, he says nothing. At least he's smart enough to know there is no good response.

Still, I love this country and this city too.

Susan and I go to Jill's to celebrate the holiday. Dinner, drinks and a spectacular view of the Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, and big, beautiful fireworks.  

Getting onto the subway for the ride home is a challenge. Police everywhere. So many people it looks like anyone who didn't go to the Hamptons came to DUMBO instead.





Finally make it home. It's now dark. 11:15. And there on the corner of 79th and First still stands Louis. I stop to say good-night. Eight hours standing on a street corner can't be much fun. I hope Louis has someone waiting for him at home.

Happy 4th.