last days of summer

It takes a lengthy negotiation before Zelia agrees to drop me at Coopers Beach and then pick me up later.  

Zelia doesn't like the beach ("It's too hot and the water's too cold"), and I live for the beach.  It's $40 to park for the day so it's better to get a ride.

We are only 15 minutes away from Cooper's Beach. It is ranked among the top ten in the US. 

The plan is this: Well get to the beach early, take a long walk, and then Zelia will pick me up later. 

The beach is empty at 8 a.m.

Cooper's Beach in Southampton

We finish our walk, and the unexpected happens. 

Zelia admits that on this glorious day,  it's not too hot (there's a great breeze), and the water's not too cold. In fact, it's pretty perfect.

Zelia in morning light

The waves are big, there's no one here, and the water — while not warm — is certainly not cold.

Zelia leaves around 9, but promises to come back later, and stay for a few hours.

Cooper's Beach is deserving of its accolades. Miles and miles of soft white sand, no seaweed anywhere, and big, surfable waves.

The beach is empty, except for a few dog-walkers and runners. I buy a coffee and find a deserted spot (any spot is deserted at this hour) right near the water's edge.

I settle in with a new book (Liane Moriarty's Truly, Madly Guilty) and my coffee. About a half hour later, a very large  multi-generational family comes and pitches a tent about 6 inches from where I'm sitting. 

And then, about 15 minutes after that, a lone guy squeezes his towel and backpack in between me and the family. 

This is despite a still-deserted beach. It's like being in an empty movie theater and having someone sit down next to you.

I want to scream, "HAVEN'T YOU ANY BEACH ETIQUETTE?"  I MEAN, REALLY, PEOPLE
WHERE'S YOUR COMMON SENSE?  Instead, I move a few feet down.

Zelia comes later, and by now the beach is filling up. 

A guy not far from us  is conducting business on his phone, in a voice so loud he's impossible to ignore.  Zelia gets up, stands right next to him, and then begins an equally loud conversation with me, several feet away.

The strategy is successful and the guy moves.

I think I need my own beach.

We leave around three. 

I can't remember ever being on a beach for seven hours. But when the weather is so perfect, and the beach so majestic, there is no better way to spend a day. 

prickly pricing

Zelia has prior plans for tonight;  I stay in.

Mid-afternoon, we take a drive into Southampton Village so I can pick up something for dinner. "Drop me at the Golden Pear, and I'll get a sandwich," I tell Zelia. 

The Golden Pear is an upscale coffee-shop chain; it's been around forever, and has three other locations in the Hamptons, as proof of its success.

I grab a couple of bottles of Poland Spring, a diet Snapple, a muffin for breakfast (I'm on vacation), a bag of chips, and a sandwich. The sandwich is nothing special: turkey and cheese on a baguette. The bill comes to $34 and change. (Almost as much as a baked stuffed lobster, salad and vegetable at The Chart Room on the Cape).

I live in NYC, so I'm accustomed to high prices. But $34 for a sandwich, chips, a muffin and some non-alcoholic drinks? Really?

It turns out the water is $3 a bottle, which I return. The Snapple is about the same. The And the ordinary sandwich is $17. I return that too.

We end up at Citarella where I buy a very good pre-made chicken cacciatore for $10.

home alone

Somewhere around my sophomore year of high school I read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood.

That did it for me. 

Never again would I feel safe sleeping alone in a house. If a family in the middle of Kansas could be bludgeoned to death by total strangers as they slept, no one was safe anywhere.

One other person in the house and I'd feel protected. Even if that other person could no more defend themselves against armed men than I could, I would still felt safe, or at least, safer. (I conveniently forget the fact that the poor Clutter family had four people at home at the time of their murders). 

So when Zelia tells me months ago that she'll only rent a house in the Hamptons if I promise to come out during the week so she won't be alone, I totally understand.

I go out again today. It's a charming house, a bit set back from the road. I even have a room with a deck and a view.

backyard view

deck of second floor bedroom

Before we go out for dinner (LT Burgers in Sag Harbor, excellent), Zelia says, "Lyn, come here. I want to show you something." She points to her bedside nightstand.

Zelia is petite (5'3", 110), with no experience wielding a knife. But when I'm not here, and her weekend guests have gone, she feels safe(r) with this paltry weapon by her side.

After I arrive she puts away the knife (so dull it probably couldn't cut through lettuce). Now that she has me, I guess she assumes there's no need for a weapon. As if there ever was!

visit home; marginally better than last time

 9:53 Friday night; my phone rings.

I'm alone in a Via coming back from Soho ($6.48 total; how can you not love Via?). I've just seen a screening of War Dogs (great) with Susan and Jill. 

"Hi, I'm on a bus, on my way into Manhattan." 

It's Alexander. I haven't seen him in four weeks and miss him.

"I'm seeing some friends tonight, but I'll be home after, so don't double lock the door."

"You're coming home?"

"Ya"

"Great. I'll take you out to dinner tomorrow night."

"Can't. I'm going back tomorrow."

At four a.m. my son wakes me to let me know he's home.

I leave a sleeping boy on Saturday to go to work.

I'm at Saks; it's late afternoon and I'm having a miserable day. I've been at work since 9:15 and plan to leave around 6. So far I've sold zero. That means I've earned zero. 

But at 5:29 I get a text that brightens my day.

Great. I start to think of restaurant possibilities. Steak? Burgers? I'll see what my son wants.

About an hour later I call.

"So where do you want to go for dinner?"

"I'm eating with a friend." 

I see Alexander briefly when he and his friend come back to the apartment around 10 to watch a movie.

And I see him briefly again this morning. He reminds me of how well-behaved he's been. "You forgot to thank me for not sleeping on the sofa for the two nights I was home."

I don't expect my son to miss me in the same way I miss him.  But a little more time with him when he is home would be nice.

His leaving is always a rush.

"Get off your computer. Now! I need to print out my ticket."

I ask to take a photo before he leaves.

"I don't have time."

You do. It'll take a sec.

"I don't."

"You do."

"Okay but hurry. If I miss my bus it'll be your fault."



A smile would be asking too much.  

On the positive side, my son didn't throw up everywhere like last time he was home (return of the ex-roommate), and he did sleep in his own bed. And he did let me take a picture of him.

I guess that's progress.

sally

Everybody loved my grandmother Sally (or as we called her, nanna). My sister Jean even named her daughter after her.

My maternal grandparents, Sally and Jack, 1927 

Growing up, every week my family would have dinner with my grandparents. They lived at 45 Favre Street in Mattapan, about a half hour drive from my home. My grandparents lived on the first floor; their landlords, the Bellos, lived upstairs.



Their apartment, though small, holds big memories. 

My grandparents made a walk-through (no-doors) dining room into their bedroom. The front bedroom (with the window on the left)  was my Aunt Rozzie's, who was still in high school.  And the back bedroom was for Bubbe. Bubbe spoke no English, and I remember her always sitting in a chair in her room, not saying a word. She was very very old, and looked like she could leave this world at any time. She was probably younger than my mom is now, but looked centuries older.

Bubbe's room also housed a real barber's chair. My grandfather was a barber at Filenes and on weekends local customers would come to his home.

Because my family visited so often, we knew the neighborhood well. My sisters and I played with the neighborhood twins, Barbara and Harriet. We bought penny candy at Cantors, a block away. And we sometimes played in the park at the end of the street.  

We weren't allowed to walk into Mattapan Square, because that would mean walking alone down Cummins Highway. But I do remember the Oriental Theater  where we'd often go with my grandparents for the double feature when my parents left us with our grandparents while they vacationed.

Great aunt Celia (I think), my mom, Rozzie, Sally, me and Valerie, around 1957

Occasionally we'd take the trolley into town. Unlike NYC, where you "go into the city,"  in Massachusetts, going into Boston is "going into town."  And we'd sometimes dress up. Nana (as we called Grandma Sally) would let us use her one-inch tall lipsticks of varying shades of red. It made us feel very grown up.

My grandmother wasn't the best cook, but she was known for her stuffed veal. Her carrot-based stuffing is still a family favorite.

When I was 15, my grandmother got sick and had to be hospitalized. I remember one day being home, and looking out the kitchen window. There I saw my mom and dad in the backyard talking. I watched as my dad took my mom in his arms to comfort her. Later I would learn my mom had just found out that my grandmother's illness had been diagnosed as breast cancer, and the prognosis was not good. 

On my grandmother's birthday, she succumbed to her illness. She was 60 years old. 

50 years ago today.

a nothing special — soon to be forgotten — very nice day

First, there's Jack, my nephew.  Today he heads off to begin his freshman year at Quinnipiac.  He is happy; his puppy Roxy (Music) is not.

I gave up the practice of weekly manicures in January, and my nails have been so much healthier. I am now into short nails; they are easy to maintain, and almost always look good.  But a sign like this is hard to resist.

I'm lucky and get Madhu. 

Her English is weak but everything else about her is strong. The massage she gives is amazing. 10 minutes (I think she actually does 15), followed by a hot towel rubdown. I leave without the aching lower back pain that's been tormenting me all summer. $30 well-spent.

Then I see Lico. She is the consummate professional — excellent at everything she does. Her coloring skills are outstanding. That's why I see her.  But her long, luxurious head massages are incredible.

Blue Blocker is a small unassuming salon on East 75th. No glitz at all. But surprisingly they have a pull-down white screen for photos.  I love this place. 

While I'm waiting for my color to take, I get an email saying I am one of 6 winners in a vendor contest. I'll be getting $250 in KENZO merchandise that I choose.

And my not-special-but-nice day will end with some good TV. I'm watching the 7th and next-to-last episode of an excellent HBO series. It's smart, nuanced and suspenseful, with great characters and story.

Today is an uneventful day that will easily be forgotten. But the experience of it  — like so many — is nice.

face from the past

I'm walking to Grand Central after seeing a screening of an intriguing new documentary called Tickled. The Q&A after with David Farrier (the film's star and director) is every bit as good as the film itself.

It's a beautiful night. I'm actually thinking how much I love the city.  Knowing its streets. Its subway system. Its newest exhibits (not that I go to them). And how to get around without the need to ask for instructions. I'm more comfortable here than I am anywhere else, and it's a good feeling.

I'm about to cross the street when I look up and see a familiar face, a face I haven't seen in a very long time.

In 2005, I was hired as Sr. VP Packaging by the then CEO of PHD Media, Steve G (real name). And though I liked the people and the environment, the job never materialized into anything substantial, despite the nice title and big corner office. And when the agency lost some major clients, Steve had no choice but to let me go. I understood Steve's decision, and would have made the same one myself, probably months earlier. That was in May of 2006. 

When I see Steve my first thought is, he looks exactly the same. 10 years later and he hasn't changed a bit. My next thought is, I wish I'd worn makeup (or at the very least mascara) and not relied solely on my tan. 

Steve held the highest position in the company, yet he was always approachable. Fair. And kind. Given the competitive nature of advertising, it's not all that common to find someone who is respected, smart, and a really nice guy. 

We talk for a few minutes about what we're doing. He's still involved with advertising and now the digital world. I confess my day job, but also tell him about my work with BAFTA.

That's another thing about New York that I love. You never know who you'll bump into.  I should remember that the next time I go out and opt for a no-makeup look.

free day

Zelia has to cancel our trip to the Hamptons.

I have to admit, I'm not all that disappointed. I need time in the city to get some things done.

NYC. The most exciting place to live. So much to do. And I have a free day. 

So here's how I spend the first three hours of my day: on the phone dealing with a second-notice of an unpaid bill from a doctor's visit for my son.

Last May Alexander had an X-ray taken on his leg at City MD.

A month ago I (well he, but really I) get a bill for $226. Apparently the bill was rejected by my son's  insurance company. Reason: they need a letter of termination from his prior insurance company (Aetna) that ended in August of 2015.

I call Aetna on July 29. Speak to Daryl in Boston. Give him all the information he needs to send a termination letter to the new insurance company.

Yesterday I get an overdue bill notification from City MD.

I call Aetna again. Apparently nice Daryl is nice but not competent. He did nothing. In fact, he didn't even note that he ever spoke to me.

This time I speak to Yolanda. She needs the fax number so she can send the termination letter.

I call the new insurance company to get the fax number. While dialing, I think (for the first time), why do they even need a letter of termination? My son has been on this new insurance for a year, and they've paid other claims. They must have gotten the letter of termination last August.

But his time I am very very lucky and get Yusef. He thinks what I'm thinking before I even say it.

And then Yusef (who is both nice and competent) does what he needs to do to correct the problem.

That's my morning. I'm hoping for a more exciting afternoon.

day two of doing nothing

I am trying not to get more sun. This is an unusual (but reasonable) change in behavior.  My mother would be proud.

I sit by the pool and read most of the day (The Marriage of Opposites by Alice Hoffman). Zelia and I are very compatible.

We don't feel the need to entertain each other, and are happy being independent. — even down to separate lunches.

Most of the day Zelia does work, and I read, with a little BAFTA business thrown in.  I sit under a hat, in the shade, except for a brief time floating in the pool. 

Around seven we drive to Sag Harbor and have dinner at another informal place, this one specializing in seafood.

I have the excellent grilled shrimp taco special, and Zelia gets the lobster roll, which is amply filled.

The yachts that are docked are impressive. As is the view.




And the almost full moon.

a very nice favor

A few months ago Zelia calls.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure, what is it?"

"Well, I'm thinking of renting a house in the Hamptons for August, and I don't want to stay alone during the week. Would you come out?"

Would I come out?

To the Hamptons in summer during the days I don't work?

To escape the heat of the city?

With a  pool outside the door?

With an ocean nearby?

On the weekdays when it's nicest?

"Of course.  Thank you. I love favors like this." (This of course being my first favor of this kind).

So now it's August, and my Cape vacation is over.

Around 11, Zelia picks me up. Two hours later, no traffic, and we're stopping at Citerella for a few basics: corn, grapes, guacamole and gazpacho. We are at the house by 1:30.

Lunch is on the porch.

Dessert is finishing a not-horrible book by the pool, that I need to Google to remember its name (First Comes Love by Emily Giffin).

Dinner is at a casual, local place.

And the best is the easy comfort of a good friend.

is the question really that difficult?

"Hi, this is Katie. How can I help you today?"

I'm calling my insurance company to see if my quarterly payments can automatically be charged to my credit card.

I just got a bill in the mail, and one payment option is to manually add my credit card information and then mail back the form. Who does this anymore?  All my other bills are paid electronically.

Me:  "Can I just give you my credit card info over the phone to pay my bill; I don't like putting it on a form."

K: "I'm sorry; we can't do that."

Me: "Okay, then is there a place to do this online?"

K: "No, I'm sorry there isn't."

Me: "Well, is there a way to set up an automatic quarterly payment  to my credit card?"

K: "Yes. But you'd have to download a form, fill it out, and then mail it back to us."

Me: "That's fine. I can do that once. Where do I find the form?"

Katie directs me to the company web site for the form.

Me: "The only form I see is for you to directly take the money from my bank account."

K: "Yes."

Me: "But that's not what I asked.  I want to know if I can have my American Express card automatically charged every quarter."

K: "Ma'am, I already told you. You can. But you need to fill out this form first."

Me (starting to feel like I'm in a Kafka story): "But, Katie, the form is for an automatic deduction from my bank account or paycheck."

K: "Yes. I told you that. So if you miss a payment on your credit card, we can just automatically deduct it from your bank account."

Me: "But that's not what I asked you."

I can now tell from the change in tone that Katie is beginning to find me over-the-top annoying.

K: "Every month, you still have to manually add your credit card information to the bill you receive and mail it it..."

Me:  "Katie." (I interrupt and she continues to talk).  "Katie!  Listen to me. So are you saying, then, that there is no way to automatically charge my credit card every quarter?"

K: "If you fill out the form....."

Me:  "KATIE!!!!!!  That form has nothing to do with my credit card."

K: "You still have to send in your credit card information each month," she repeats as if I'm the one who doesn't understand.

Me: "Katie. (I say this slowly and deliberately, like one would talk to a five year old.) Next time someone calls and asks, "Can I set up an automatic payment on my credit card, the answer is NO!!!!!!!!"

K: "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Anything else? Really? What did I miss that you helped me with already?

Maybe it's the heat.

privacy

I meet Susan after work. We are seeing a new play — Privacy,  downtown at The Public.

I would describe Privacy as a clever lecture more than a theatrical production, despite a charming and deft performance by its star, Daniel Radcliffe. Among other things, the play discusses our digital footprint, and how much we leave behind every time we use our smartphones and other electronic devices. But it's interactive and fun, with a few twisty surprises.

The play relies heavily on audience participation. But things aren't always as they seem.

This downtown audience differs significantly from the ones uptown and in Times Square. First, they are mostly young. No one talks during the performance. And the crowd seems  more local than not.

Early in act one the audience is asked to take and then send selfies to The Public Theater website. Some selfies (including mine) are later uploaded to a big onstage screen. Given the pervasive and permissive use of phone and cameras, Susan and I feel comfortable taking pictures of the people sitting in front of us. 

So now these people are on a stranger's blog. But as the play suggests, what you see isn't always what is.

never too early

"Are you up?"

Nothing about me says I'm up.  

I'm lying in bed.
Eyes closed.
Covers up to my neck.
Lights off.
Ice cold room, my favorite sleeping environment.

My mom ignores the obvious signs of sleeping.

"No. I'm not up. What time is it?"

"7:15."

"I'm getting up at 7:30."

My mom continues. "I want to do a wash before you leave?  Are these all your whites?" She points to a pile of clothes in a corner of the room.

"Yes, but I'm going to add a few things. I'll do it when I get up."

I told my mom before going to sleep last night that I would do a final wash in the morning.  I also reluctantly agreed to leaving at 11:30 for my 1:38 pm flight out of Hyannis. It takes an hour, tops, to drive from North Falmouth to Hyannis. Google Maps clocks the ride at 37 minutes, 21.1 miles. So even taking into consideration traffic and check-in (the airport is tiny), leaving over two hours early provides enough time for any possible unforeseen event.

I close my eyes again, and fifteen minutes later my mom is back.

"Do you want me to do your laundry now?"

"NO. I'LL DO IT WHEN I GET UP."

I look at my watch. Now it's 7:15. 

I can't fall back to sleep.  I get up, shower, and bring down my laundry.

I also have time to go to the Daily Brew for one last coffee.  Play gin with my mom. Finish the laundry. Pack. Do some emails. And make some calls. 

We leave a few minutes early to stop for some frozen yogurt along the way.

And then we hit  traffic. An accident, we think. We're delayed an extra 15 minutes.  But still make it to the airport an hour early.

And then, quite shockingly, the 1:38 plane takes off early. I am actually airborne by 1:30.

Between the backed up traffic on 28 and the early departure, next year we'll be leaving at daybreak.  

morning ritual

Every morning  M and I have  coffee at The Daily Brew.

This millennium-friendly place accurately describes itself as : 

Neighborhood coffee shop serving java, sandwiches & smoothies in quaint digs 

with a laid–back vibe.

Daily Brew looks like someone's little Cape house.

















But the parking lot that's always full, and the line that's always there, is evidence of the excellent coffee and home baked offerings.

In the past, I've avoided this place. I've always assumed it was too trendy and overrated. I was wrong on the latter . 

Inside there's an overflowing bulletin board and a kitschy atmosphere.

Cutesy signs are everywhere.

We take our coffee to the outdoor porch. There we meet a brown lab mix named Coffee. "He's a rescue dog," the proud owner tells us. "Of course he is," M whispers to me, then adds, "That was more of a statement than a comment."

It's the kind of eco-friendly, socially-conscious place where an adopted mutt is more welcome than a pure bred.

The Daily Brew has exceptional coffee. And though a glass of water isn't free, at least the absurdity of the charge is acknowledged. And, no one here is searching for Picachu.