new year's eve 2017

It's frigid out. 10 degrees. I do really love this weather. it makes staying in so cozy.

I leave work and stop at Agata to pick up the things I've ordered for dinner.

Yesterday I had planned to make a French Apple tart, having already purchased the required frozen puff pastry sheets. I am putting 8 large apples into my basket when I start to think about peeling and slicing them. That's a lot of work. And besides, I did already bake cookies. I buy an apple pie instead. So much easier and probably just as good.

There are only five of us, so I may have over-ordered. But I'd much rather have too much food than too little. I get sandwiches, shrimp, a fruit bowl, a cheese platter, crackers, guacamole and rainbow chips. Easy, informal and good. Just like my friends who are coming.



At 8:30 everyone arrives hungry and we toast the new year. I, of course, want a picture or two but no one except me and Linda wants to be in it. So we find a compromise. 





The food is great. So is the conversation.  And just hanging at home with some of my favorite people is really nice. Desserts  and drink keep us at the table longer.



And soon it's 10:30. 

With some trepidation I pose the question, "Do you all feel like watching a movie now, or would you rather just skip it?"

We all think alike. Within a half hour everyone's gone.

Exactly the kind of New Year's Eve I love most. 

Eating. Drinking. Spending time with friends. And never leaving home.

Happy 2018 everyone. 

perfect day at work

So if I write about the bad (which I do), it's only fair that I write about the good as well.

A couple of weeks ago I email Marlon (my boss) and ask to leave early on New Year's Eve. The store closes at 7 and I'm having friends over for dinner and a movie. 

He responds, 

"Leaving early will be based on business as we will be in the beginning of Final Sale. 

I won't be able to approve that until the day of."

Okay, I think, that's fair. If it's really busy I won't want to leave anyway, and besides, I doubt it'll be busy on New Year's Eve day.

But it turns out I'm wrong. 

A bad day usually means few customers. 

A bad and frustrating day is many customers but who buy little.

A horrible day is few customers who buy little and lots of returns.

Today is an amazing day. 

Lots of customers who buy lots of things.  Many foreign tourists who won't be returning anything. And everyone nice and appreciative and in the holiday spirit.

It's a lucky day too; good days usually are. 

There are several customers who ask:

"Where can I try these on?" Their arms are laden with clothes, and they answer no one to the question, "Is anyone already helping you?"

Or even better: The woman who asks, "Where can I pay for this?" and hands me a $900 coat, and no one is helping her.

At 5:30 I am ready to leave.  

But there are still too many people shopping. So I stay another 45 minutes, and sell another $4,300 of merchandise. 

If every day were like today, I would love my job. 

I leave at 6:15, having sold what I would in a good week.

It's a nice way to end 2017. 

Now I have to hope that nothing comes back.

hair in under 4 minutes

The Dyson hairdryer was launched in September 2016, and I wanted one.

First, I loved its aesthetics.

But more importantly, every review was incredible. Fast. Easy. And Quiet. But the price tag was just too high.

I tried to justify buying it.

I'd use it two or three times a week.

I hate blow-drying my hair and usually give up after 10 minutes. My arms get tired.

But in the end,  I couldn't sell myself.  $400 is too much money for a miracle hairdryer.

But then something happened.

Every December employees are offered a big discount on cosmetics. The promotion runs for seven days, and that's when I stock up on moisturizers, undereye creams, and Molton Brown body washes (these make the best bubble baths). On the very last day of the promotion, a couple of employees come in and ask, "Can you tell me where the Dyson Hair Dryers are?"

What?! How could I have missed this? I had no idea we even carried them.  So I go on a search, and learn — they were available on the first floor, but of course are now all sold out.

But I'm resourceful.

I find an associate who knows the barcode and can locate it for me at another store. I order one and pay $204, before tax.

So is it worth it?  I think so.

Maybe next time I'll use a brush instead of just myfingers.  But still, not too too shabby for four minutes.



And I just need to say,  selfies are really for people under 30. 

an admitted tracker

I like numbers. 

And statistics. 

And knowing how many of whatever I've done. 

It's pretty much a ridiculous waste of time. Yet I find myself unable to break this decades-old habit.

I can tell you how many books I've read in a year, and what they are (40).

The number of movies I've seen (49 this year).

What plays I've attended (26, exactly the same as the past two years).

The current balance on my credit cards at any given time (I basically use only two: Amex and Saks).

My weight. It's been the same (+/- 3 pounds) for the past 7 years (I note it on a calendar every Wednesday).

How many steps I take in a week (between 70 and 85,000).

I keep multiple lists of things to do, exhibits to see (although too many of them get crossed off the list unseen), and TV series to one-day watch (I still need to see Homeland from last season).

Most of these numbers have a neutral affect on me, except for one.

I track my sales and returns, by week. The last four weeks of the year should be the best. Last year they were; this year they're not. 

My gross saless are down by 3%, not horrible but they should be up. But my returns are disastrous.  For the past four weeks, even before christmas, my returns are double what they were last year (31.5% vs. 16.1%). So a third of what I sell comes back. And with it goes a third of my paycheck.

I control everything else that I track. 

I can always read another book. See another movie. Go to another play. Consume fewer calories. Or walk more steps. But I can't make every purchase a final one. If only I could.

xmas day

Since 2008, every Christmas I invite friends over to watch some movies.

Where my friend M and my two sisters can easily entertain a group of 20, I stress over a handful of friends coming over to eat junk food. I've never been at ease in a kitchen.

Alexander is not interested in "sitting around with old people" when I invite him to join us. 



So he leaves for a friend's house as soon as the first guest arrives.

While I supply candy, popcorn, chocolate-covered pretzels and water, my friends arrive with the good stuff.  And lots of it. A fruit bowl. Homemade chocolate chip cookies (I never even take mine out of the freezer). A fruit bowl. Biscotti. Prosciutto. Hummus. Soppressata. Olive bread. Baguettes. Various kinds of hard and soft cheeses. Homemade brownies. Seasoned breadsticks. Prosecco and wine.  

Before starting the first movie, I ask Stew, Shari's husband, to take a photo of the girls. It's too bad the flash isn't set to go off.

l to r: Jill, Shari, Carol, Robin and me

I start Molly's Game,  then take out my phone to google the instruction manual for my six-year-old phone.  About 20-minutes into my search, something goes wrong with the DVD: we can hear the movie; we just can't see it. The TV screen says something about a lost connection. Ugh. I have no idea what that means and no idea how to fix it. 

About 15 minutes of fiddling with the millions of cables and wires, the picture finally comes back on. The movie is long, and before it ends, Linda arrives to see the second movie, I, Tonya.

 I ask Stew to take another picture, this one including both Linda and use of the flash.



The last movie we watch is Call Me By Your Name. It builds slowly to a beautiful and heartbreaking end.

I love spending Christmas this way. With good friends, good food, and good movies. 

But two is enough. Movies that is, not friends. You can never have too many of those.

xmas eve

I  wear a sheer, tulle Simone Rocha dress to work, in celebration of the season. I pair it with a long black Wolford top and black leggings.

I get to work and decide I don't like the look. Leather pants or a full-length black slip would have been better. My honest co-workers agree. But some less discerning customers are complimentary. 

Within an hour, my leggings (which I am wearing for the first time) split in the seam. An unstated perk of my job is the magical Alterations department. I go there asking for a safety pin. Instead I'm told, "Take off your pants; it won't take long for us to sew that up for you." And within ten minutes, my pants look like new.

The store is quiet, yet I do surprisingly well.  All my customers, with no exceptions, are appreciative, kind, and in the spirit of the holiday. Not even one messy room.

I leave work around 6:30 and call for a Via.  Miraculously it's only a three-minute wait. I just need to walk two blocks to Fifth and 52nd. The crowds outside are wild. Barricades at every corner. Police everywhere. Streets blocked off. People with cameras holding up pedestrian traffic. I wonder if the tourists think New York is always like this. 

Finally, I get to my Via. He needs to go nine blocks in the opposite direction of where I'm heading before he can turn. My fifteen minute ride is tripled. 

I get home at around the same time Alexander's bus arrives from Philadelphia. My son is coming home for Christmas which makes me very happy.

Together we eat a big sushi dinner before he runs out to see a friend. But tonight he'll be sleeping at home; I like that.

WIshing everyone a happy holiday with hopes that they, too, get to be somewhere with those they love most.

"So what do you do when you're not working?"

I work three days a week and do absolutely nothing else on those days.  My very-physical job totally drains me of all energy. Even talking on the phone feels like an effort.

So I'm sometimes asked what I do on the other four days. An honest answer would be, "Depends on the month." 

Aside from taking long bubble baths, reading, running errands, and wearing comfortable shoes so my feet can recover (I've never been so focussed on feet as I am now), I do a lot in the four days since I last worked.

I see five movies:

The first two I watch alone on Monday —

• Film Stars Don't Die in Liverpool  (the lead character wastes away from cancer which kind of ruins it for me).
• The Killing of a Sacred Deer (creepy and disturbing).

On Tuesday, Jill comes over and we watch two, half movies:

• The Lies We Tell (too many plots to care about any).
• Their Finest (cute but not that interesting).

The next day I watch the second half of the two movies Jill and I couldn't finish. They don't improve.

But tonight I see a screening of The Disaster Artist with Shari. It surprises us both — it's very funny, cleverly-written, and James Franco is brilliant in the title role.

I see The Children with a friend-who-doesn't-like-being-named-in-my blog and Zelia. It's a very long, one-act play about a catastrophic event. And if that isn't depressing enough, it suggests that if you're over 50, your life is pretty much over anyway, so why not volunteer for a job that will kill you from radiation so someone younger doesn't have to take that job?

I also have:

One conference call and one in-person meeting for BAFTA.

A dermatologist's appointment where I'm told, when asked: "You're losing your upper lids." I know, I know. But it's still something I don't like hearing, even if I do ask.

A manicure where I opt for a dark shade then immediately wish I'd gone with my usual Ballet Slippers or Limo-scene.

I even prepare 11.5 dozen chocolate chip cookies using my sister Jean's amazing recipe and then freeze the cookies without baking them. I'll do that before I serve them on Monday. This feels like a major accomplishment as I rarely bake.

So yes, I was busy is the correct answer to the question, "What did you do this week?"

Ask me again in two weeks. My answer then will be very different.

the elusive plan B

Two middle-aged, well-dressed woman approach me.

"Do you work here?" they ask, knowing that I do.  I am wearing no coat. I am carrying no purse.  And I am wearing a metal name tag attached to my sweater.

"Yes, how can I help you?" I respond, ever eager to offer assistance.

"We are looking for the ladies' lounge, the one that has big comfortable chairs in it where we can sit and relax. What floor is that on?"

I don't recall any ladies' lounge that has big comfy chairs. But trying to be helpful I respond, "I'm not sure I know the lounge you're describing  but it's  definitely not the one on this floor. Maybe try four? They have a nice ladies' lounge." 

"You work here, right?" one of the women sarcastically asks, implying that I should know the decor details of every bathroom in this 10-story building. 

I bite my tongue and say, "I'm sorry, but I'm not exactly sure where it is, but I know the one on four is very nice and does have a small sofa."

They walk away talking to each other, but loud enough for me to hear. "I can't believe she doesn't know; she should."

And then I feel bad. Belittled. Disrespected. And treated like some low-life unworthy of their time.

Of course I know I shouldn't feel bad. That this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with them. But I can't help how things affect me.

When I have a good day I think, I like selling and I'm good at it. I love the interaction with interesting people. I like that they depend on me for having style and knowing the merchandise. 

But when I have a bad day, which is happening far too frequently, I think, I can't believe I'm doing this. Clocking in and out. Getting paid almost nothing. Being dismissed by people who act as if I'm beneath them. Knowing I am now part of the working poor. 

I come home, like I do tonight, feeling crippled from the 17,358 steps I walked in little leather booties, and just want to cry.

My effort on a bad day is no less than on a good one. The only difference is in my pay check.

So a colleague asks, "Okay. I hear you. So what's your Plan B?"

I wish I had a good answer. I don't. But I do know I have to find one.  My pocketbook and my mental health are screaming, "YOU'VE GOT TO GET OUT."

I'd even consider a Plan C or D. The bar I've set is not that high. I need a fair and reliable salary, in an environment where I won't constantly be feeling bad about myself.

Really, how hard can that be? Apparently, pretty hard.

3 resolutions for the new year

A year ago Linda came over for New Year's Eve. When she left, there were big hugs, and promises to get together soon. She lives less than two miles away in upper Manhattan.

Tonight we get together, almost a year later. 

Resolution #1: 
See the people I love more often.

We are meeting for a quick bite before a screening of Phantom Thread, and a Q&A after.

I get to the bus stop around 4:30. Expecting to take a Select Bus, I enter my Metrocard into a kiosk and get proof of payment. The Select Bus is on the honor system but you need a paper ticket showing proof of payment in case you're asked by a transit police person to show you've paid. But it's cold, and I don't feel like waiting, so when a local bus arrives before the Select one, I board.

The driver insists that I use my Metrocard again; he will not even look at my paper proof. In a deep booming voice that carries throughout the bus he says, "Local busses only take Metrocards." He acts as if I'm trying to sneak on the bus without paying. 

I know my Metrocard will note this ride as a transfer and I won't be charged. But  if I were transferring to a crosstown bus after, I would be charged again. Okay, I am not transferring after, but still. 

I tell the bus driver he is wrong. We get into an argument.  Basically he says, "Either pay with your Metrocard or get off the bus." So I pay. He's also a horrible driver, riding the brake the entire trip. And even worse, he barely uses the bus lane and the trip down Second Avenue takes forever.  

I am hating this driver. He should know the rules, not me. And he should certainly know how to drive a city bus. I  later google the policy to confirm what I know and find this:

Can I use my SBS (Select Bus Service) ticket to ride on other bus routes? 

Your SBS ticket is your proof of payment for SBS service.  However, should another bus (local or limited) arrive at your stop before your SBS bus, you may board at the front door and give your ticket to the bus operator. 

Resolution #2: 
Don't make a big deal about the small stuff. Don't argue over petty things. And certainly don't let it bother you.

I meet Linda for a quick dinner and a quick catch-up. We head over to the theater early, but not early enough. (I am the ghost on the left).

The movie is ... well, see it and decide. 

The Q&A is great. Everyone uses their iPhones to capture great pictures of the illustrious panel. I use the camera on my cracked-screen, no-space-left, 3-year-old, ancient iPhone 5s and get another phantom photo, this time of Daniel Day-Lewis.

Resolution #3: 
Get a new iPhone.

BAFTA board dinner

Our Board is changing. 

Some members are leaving, others are being added. And tonight we all get together for a meeting and dinner. The last one (dinner, that is) was held during the summer of 2015, when I first was elected to the Board.

I bring a small compact zoom camera, hoping for a group photo. I even announce to the charming Chairman that I have a camera. He looks at me  puzzled and says, "So do I." Of course, so does everyone. Unfortunately, I later forget and my camera remains unused.

We all meet in The Wine Room at the Standard Hotel downtown. It's the perfect setting for this small group. 

Without meaning to sound all gushy and sentimental, I am truly humbled to be a member of this talented, impressive Board. Unlike many events I've been to, no one scrambles for seats, hoping to sit between X and Y rather than the dull A and B. Here, every seat's a good one.

In fact, after the appetizers are served and eaten, we switch around seats. I love this idea. And even though we said we wouldn't talk politics, it inevitably comes up. It's nice to be around like-minded people. I'm sure if this get-together were in Wyoming or Kansas, the discussion would be a lot different.

The evening ends on a bittersweet note. Five of my favorite people won't be returning next year as Board members. But they'll still be around, and I hope my relationship with them all continues. 

growing up

Alexander tells me he'll be home on Friday.  I'll still be at work when he arrives so I leave a note for him on the dining table.

Note reads:
Hi Sweetie-Call me when you get in — and please don't put anything on table or new chairs. xx

Alexander goes to a friend's house after arriving in NY, and I'm asleep when he finally makes it home. 

I get up Saturday morning and see a dark-colored coat, flung over a light-colored chair, next to  my note asking that this doesn't happen:

Later on Saturday Alexander shows up at work; he is buying jeans today. 

He does this on his own. Four pair of jeans in under an hour. "It's so much better shopping alone than with you. It's so much faster,"  he tells me. 

My son is the typical male shopper. He'd prefer to never do it. Shopping for him is a necessity, not a preferred activity. He doesn't browse. He doesn't waste time viewing alternatives. He wants to be in and out as quickly as possible. 

But in the end, Alexander feels good about his purchase. "You know, this is the first time I've bought clothes for myself."  I guess he really is growing up.

Now if he'd only pay attention to my notes...

three very good movies

This being screening season, my week is filled with movies — some hosted by BAFTA and others offered by studios. 

Monday I see The Shape of Water, and then watch a Q&A with most of the cast, and the writer/director Guillermo del Toro. The actors are impressive and articulate; del Toro is brilliant.  

On Tuesday it's a studio screening of Lady Bird — an exquisitely written, gorgeously acted, totally entertaining film.

And then tonight I see The Post — a story about the Pentagon Papers, a strong woman, an ambitious editor, a local DC newspaper on the verge of becoming a national one, and a corrupt President who uses his power to try and silence the press. It's an old story that resonates today. Okay, our President hasn't tried to use the legal system to stop a story from being heard. Instead he uses tweets to try and discredit stories he doesn't like. One used an injunction, the other creates a fake news label. The outcome they both hope for are the same. 

A Q&A follows The Post,  and most of the stars show up, including the two leads.

if you can, go!

August 2003, more than 14 years ago. That was the last time I saw Springsteen live.

My sister Jean (who is likely one of his most avid fans) and I took our two 10 year-olds (Sally and Alexander) to their first concert. It was at Gillette Stadium outside Boston. And we, along with 65,000 others, rocked to the Boss. We all enjoyed the concert from our high-in-the-sky seats, but none as much as my sister. Even her dog Daisy used to howl along with Bruce every time one of his harmonica riffs filled Jean's car.

Another summer, many years before, Jean and I drove from the Cape to Hartford Connecticut to another Bruce concert. We left for our two-and-a-half hour drive, with confidence that we would find scalpers to sell us tickets as we had none. We bought the first tickets offered to us for $100 each. And then found our seats way up in the rafters, behind the stage. We moved around separately for the rest of the concert, filling open seats wherever we could find one.

And two other times in the 80's, I saw Springsteen perform his three-to-four hour sets. And again, I was just another singing, dancing, screaming fan, among thousands.

When it was announced that Bruce was going to be on Broadway, in a house of less than 1,000 seats, I wanted to go.  But getting a ticket proved impossible — unless you're resourceful, which I am.

 I make a few calls and find the name of the PR agency handling the show (DKC/O&M) and contact them. I ask for house seats, give them date options, and they give me options: $400 seats in orchestra or $200 in the mezzanine. With reluctance, I choose the latter, expecting to be a million miles away from the stage.

I buy two tickets, and last night, Zelia and I go. 

We meet at the theater which is a madhouse. Tons of people. Security outside the theater and again inside. And smiles everywhere of those lucky enough to be holding these precious tickets.

And I am one of them!

Our seats are much better than expected. Despite patrolling ushers everywhere announcing no photos, I pretend not to hear and sneak in one picture before an usher pounces and warns me again of the no-picture policy.

Exactly at 8 Springsteen comes on stage to wild applause. And the two and a half-hour show begins.

He's a master, poetic storyteller. His songs (sung without the audience sing-along) are sung with his unique gravelly voice. The audience is respectful and seated. At 68, Springsteen's voice is strong and unchanged. I love every single second of this mesmerizing, mostly contemplative, show.

If you can get a ticket, grab it. It's one of those shows you'll wish you'd seen if you don't.

evolution of a closet

I once wore color. 

It was the early 80's when I began working at Gillette. I had just graduated business school and had moved back to Boston from Chicago, eager to begin my professional career. Back then, woman wore suits to work. And no one would think of coming to the office in any shoes other than heels. I remember going to Saks and buying two suits, thrilled to find them on sale. One was red, and the other an off white, with very thin stripes of reds, greens, and blues.

When I moved to New York in 1985,  M threw me a going-away party. I wore a white blouse and a pair of red wool pants. With pearls, or course.

A few years later I was still wearing color, but had shunned the brighter shades for a more subtle palette. Like this dark green patterned sweater I wore for Thanksgiving in the late 80's. My big-hair nicely aligned with the fashion of the time.

By the time Alexander was born, I had pretty much begun wearing primarily neutrals.



And now, I look in my two small closets and  find it mostly devoid of color — maybe 75% black, 20% white, and 5% other.

It's odd how my wardrobe has evolved. I'm sure some of that comes from living in New York, where black is the dominant color. And, it's the most slimming.

(Right now screenings and work take up most of my time, or clearly I'd be writing about something other than my closet).

making an attempt

Had a great day at work on Friday.  24 different customers. High sales numbers.

Saturday, too, was very good.

And then along comes Sunday. I am expecting another good day, as it's a big shopping weekend, and we are offering lots of incentives (40-50% off, and a high-value gift-card).

My work day begins around noon. Within the first hour, I have a big sale. Then everything goes downhill.

Over the next 8 hours, I have only two more small (very small) sales. And a couple of returns (one large). I walk miles (8 to be exact). Move around lots of clothes, with few going out the door. I end the day 25% lower than where I was at 1:15. I leave at 8:40, frustrated and sad. This job takes way too much out of me, both physically and emotionally.

This morning I have an interview —my first in over two years. It's with a large fashion search firm. It's been so long since I've been asked to tell someone about myself, I'm afraid I won't remember what I have to tell.  

But then I'm surprised —the words come easily. I have a lot to say. I'm not applying here for a specific job, and placing me will not be a simple task. I don't fit neatly into any single category. I'd be happy to do what I do now if I were compensated fairly, but it would have to be part-time.  Or, I'd work full-time if the job were a corporate one.

I am not optimistic, but I am hopeful. And it does feel good to at least be trying.

thanksgiving in the hamptons

Thanksgiving has been shortened to a one day celebration close to home. But it's still my favorite holiday — no religious overtones; the one time of year my entire family gets together (if they can); and lots of great food.

Alexander came home last night. He arrived around 9, and was gone by 9:15. But today I get him for the whole day.

We are on the 9:40 bus to Bridgehampton. My nephew Adam is again hosting the holiday. We'll be missing a few family members this year: Sally (who's living in Spain); Jason, Amanda and Chloe (who are with Amanda's family); and Jared and Jessica who will be with Dan's family, but can join us for hors d'oeuvres.

It's a beautiful, brisk fall day, and Adam's house has an indoor-outdoor feel. Because we are smaller in number than in previous years, all 14 of us can fit at one table — no children's table this year.

This is really the only day of the year that we all get together. And we all look forward to it. We are a close family, and a fun one. There are many humorous people among us, starting with the kids, who are now all in their twenties and thirties.

adam (our stellar host)

alexander

michael

jack

adam and rachel

And the adults, too, can be pretty entertaining.

jean and jim

rita, abbey and valerie

me, valerie and jean

phyllis and rita

The food, like last year, is amazing. And because it's all catered, everyone is a guest. No one feels compelled to clear dishes or clean them.  I am not a huge turkey-lover, and could have been totally satisfied with just the hors d'oeuvres. Well, really, who wouldn't have been? Gigantic shrimp cocktail. Tuna tartare. Crispy mini crab cakes. And the most popular — lollipop lamb chops and mini cheeseburgers on brioche rolls.

The main course, too, is excellent. My mom's traditional stuffing (made with corn flakes and carrots and still the best stuffing ever made) and Jean's fresh cranberry sauce are real standouts.

But of course it's not the food that makes the day. It's having Alexander home.

And being with the rest of my great family.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!