rain rut

Can't get a VIA.

Stuck walking to and from the bus.

A cold, pelting rain slams into me.

I am chilled to the bone with my groceries held close to my chest.

My favorite raincoat is only water repellent, not waterproof. 

Good for a sprinkle, not for a downpour. 

My wet clothes cling to me.

My hands feel frozen.

I am tired, having walked almost 8 miles, lugging clothes all over.

Another $1,300 in returns get added to the $5,000 in returns from earlier this week.

I gross $43.92 today; that's $4.98 an hour. I made more as a high school baby-sitter.

Even sunny skies couldn't make this day much better.

If I could only find a better way...

birthday dinner with friends

Six of us get together to celebrate my March birthday.

I choose a restaurant in the East Village. It's called PMF for Pardon My French, and the online reviews are good.

I take a Via, exit the car, and look around. It's in a  pretty desolate neighborhood on Avenue B.

I see the restaurant and go inside.

Ronda and Zelia are already there. We are given a nice round table in the middle of this very-French looking restaurant. We order red wine, and soon Shari, Pam and Janice arrive. I ask the waiter to take our picture. And because it's my birthday dinner, no one complains.

Zelia, Pam, me, Shari, Janice and Ronda

The restaurant is so dark we all use our phone flashlights to read the menu. But the food doesn't disappoint. Everything is excellent, especially the beef tartar appetizer and duck entree. 

We all have 24-year old sons. And all our sons have graduated college and started on their careers — in Chicago, DC, Boston, New York and Philadelphia.  I hope that when our sons are all starting their families, we, the moms, are still celebrating each others' birthdays. 

nice to be recognized

I typically don't work Wednesdays but today I do. It's Friends and Family (25% off most items in the store) and I volunteer to come in.

I arrive and check my sales. It's one of the first things I do on the days I work.

In the two days I've been gone, my customers have returned over $5,000 in merchandise. That wipes out more than half my sales for the week. It is very distressing. I want to go home and cry; and I'm not exaggerating. This job is so strenuous, and for such low pay, it is incredibly stressful.

But I stay. 

At the beginning of each season we are given monthly goals. I never pay much attention to mine as I always try and sell as much as I possibly can. 

Today Marlon (my boss whom I love) comes over to me. He tells me that I earned an award for achieving the highest percentage over plan for the month of February. 87.5%. And that's among a very large group of associates (almost half the flagship store). Okay, maybe it only translates to a Starbucks Gift Card, but still, it makes me feel good.

Marlon hands me the envelope with my Gift Card. A few months ago I got recognized for my relationship with customers and was awarded a paper certificate. The certificate had my last name spelled incorrectly.

This time my last name is spelled correctly but my first name is given an extra N.

Perhaps if I can earn a third recognition award both my names will be spelled correctly. It's something to aspire to.

spring cleaning

I love to let go of things. My ideal apartment has no clutter. 

I am tired of looking at the same things. I want to redo my apartment at minimal expense. So I start with paintings/framed photos.

M is very helpful. "I never liked that camel painting. Get rid of it." I bought this at a small art gallery on upper Madison years ago. There's no camel in it; the "camels" are actually coyotes. I loved it for a while, but no longer. My mom says she wants it.

"That painting of the three palms looks very 80-ish. I'd get rid of that too. And I hate the frame, too dark." I remember buying this one at a gallery on Spring Street in Soho. It's by an Israeli artist. Still, I need a change.  My mother will like this one too.

The round navy Oriental rug that I bought at ABC Carpet years ago no longer fits my more contemporary preferences. And I never liked a round rug under a rectangular table (which will be delivered soon).  My mom has a good place for it. I no longer do.

I clean my bookshelves of books I know I'll never read. I throw out old framed photos of Alexander that I have in photo albums. 

When I'm done, my apartment looks as if I'm moving.

We pack up M's car, not a simple task.

We say our good-byes. I go back into my building, then hear my doorman yell, "Your friend's calling you." 

"I forgot my stuff," M yells out her window. I run upstairs. Grab her suitcase, briefcase, and coat. 

Alas, my good friend is now packed and on her way.

It isn't painful saying good-bye to these things. If anything, it feels good.

day with a friend

We used to feign interest in going to a museum. But it's Monday, and most museums are closed. And besides, this time M is forthcoming, "I don't want to go to a museum."

M is only here until tomorrow morning, and just arrived last night from Boston. Still, she comes with a large rolling suitcase (in case it rains, it's cold, it's hot, it's sleeting, or she unexpectedly needs to stay for a week) and two rolls of toilet paper (that I can't explain).  So today is the only day we'll have. What's great about having a close friend visit is that no plans are needed to have fun.

M has a meeting in the morning, and I ask her to look at some dining chairs I desperately need. She calls me around 11:30 from Home Nature, an amazing store in Chelsea. "Paul's helping me; he's great; get in a Via and come down."

I do and she's right. 

Paul. with his seductive Australian accent and great sense of style, is fantastic.








And so are the affordable and comfortable chairs M finds, after I've been looking for months. We select a grey wood base in a durable faux leather in a sand color  (not shown in picture of chair below).

I  recently heard a real estate agent on the show Open House actually pronounce faux as fox. 

I wish I could redo my whole apartment with the furniture from this store.

We come back to my apartment where M helps me make decisions regarding where to hang what; along with what should go and what should stay.  A friend's objective eye is always helpful when it comes to purging.

Dinner is at Ethos, one of our favorite Greek restaurants in midtown East. We both get the langoustines.  I've had them before at this restaurant and I would have them again. Succulent, easy to eat, and relatively healthy,

I love when M visits. We always squeeze so much in it feels longer than a day or two. I so wish it were.

downtown dinner with M and Sam

I no longer know the trendy new restaurants. So when M visits, we rely on her son Sam to tell us. 

Our reservation is at 8, as I work until 7:15 on Sundays.

This morning I get up early. I take my time getting ready as I don't need to be at work until 12:30. I go out, buy some breakfast food, and plan to have a leisurely breakfast. I watch Chuck Todd on Meet The Press. I do some emails. Update my calendar. And then, around 10:20, right before I sit down for a bagel-lox-and-cream cheese open sandwich, I see that today I'm actually scheduled for the Early Shift. Early Shift means being at work by 10:30. (I still can't believe I have a job that entails using the word shift). 

I skip breakfast. Race out the door. And make it in by 11, just as the store opens. It's an awful day. I earn about $72, much less than what I once got paid hourly. It's thoroughly demoralizing to work hard and make less than the cost of a nice tee shirt. Even if I make it up the next day, it still makes me sad to go home having earned next to nothing, and sometimes, even nothing — despite having helped customers, opened cash registers, replenished supplies, processed returns, carried lots and lots of garments out of dressing rooms to the restock area, and re-hung clothes. I'm required to do a lot besides sell, yet I only get paid when I sell. Retail is a tough business.

But it does offer a few perks. I get my makeup done before leaving.

I meet M and Sam downtown at the restaurant Sam has chosen.
 

Sam just got engaged to Josie; they've been together since college and are a great couple. I adore Sam, having known him from his first few days on this planet. He and Josie make a gorgeous couple, and complement each other beautifully.

This small, busy restaurant is excellent. The manager comes by our table often, but not intrusively. The staff is friendly and attentive. And the food, especially the house burgers, are top of my list for best burgers in the city.  Pig Bleecker even makes its own pickles, and the butter (really, who ever even notices butter) is whipped on the premises and is outstanding.

We ask the waiter for a picture, and though the blinding flash embarrasses Sam, the other diners don't seem to mind. 

My friend M is the one in red on the right ... she prefers her photo cropped.

leslie and linda

Leslie is the name she was almost given when she was born. So that's what I'll call her. She's more private than I am.

Leslie is a very close friend whom I rarely see, though I speak to often. She lives in the city, but our schedules frequently don't align. But tonight she is taking me to dinner before we  see the play Linda at Manhattan Theater Club. I suppose it's worth noting, in the spirit of name reveals, that Linda is the name my parents chose for me after a popular movie star of the time named Linda Darnell. And it was also the name I went by until I left for college. My mom and some friends from home still call me that.

I meet Leslie at a restaurant she's chosen near the theater. Neither one of us has ever been. It's called Molyvos, and the menu is described as rustic Greek cuisine. This 20-year old restaurant is not new, but feels it. It's sophisticated without being pretentious. 

The waiter is accommodating and attentive; the decor is warm and Mediterranean; and the food — every single thing we order — is outstanding. Of particular note are the multi-colored roasted beet salad with whipped mizithra (a type of goat cheese),  the citrus seafood souvlaki, and the sundae dessert with baklava ice cream.

Leslie and I have been friends for over twenty years. She's a constant in my life. Someone I can always count on. Someone who will always give me honest, unbiased advice. She knows so much about so many topics. And is the only woman I know who is adept at sewing and carpentry, and is the handyman I wish I knew how to be (or that I wish Alexander knew how to be). She astonishes me with her knowledge of both the arcane and mundane, and catches me off guard with her thoughtfulness. 

Needless to say, dinner is perfect.

And I love Linda too — a play about an older woman who is a successful marketing executive, married with two kids, and presumably has it all. But she's 55, and aren't these woman invisible to the world? Not listened to as much as before? Not looked at as much?  Not taken as seriously? Are all their best years behind them?

Is Linda like the playbill design?  Unadorned? Uninteresting? A just-there kind of person?



I leave dinner feeling great; I leave the play wishing I weren't an older woman named Linda.

fun at the dentist's, really

In 2006 I had a very bad experience.

Without going into all the tedious details, a simple replacement filling (not really needed), caused me prolonged, debilitating  pain. And no doctor of any kind could identify its source. I lost weight. I had a horrid sore throat and was convinced I had throat cancer. Food lost all its flavor. I was dizzy. Thought maybe I had a brain tumor. I couldn't sleep. I didn't feel like me. I was anxious. My hands tingled. I almost had a nervous breakdown.  I had a root canal, then later a crown. And eventually an implant six years later — all on the same tooth. It was hell.

Ever since, I have dreaded going to the dentist. Even for a cleaning, for fear it'd lead to something much worse, as it did in 2006.

But my teeth need to be cleaned. And x-rayed. And checked. So today I go to a new dentist, Dr. James Koretz. His office is near my apartment, which makes getting there easy.

The hygienist is Maureen. I immediately like her friendly, open and empathetic style. I describe my history. And I ask for nitrous oxide from beginning to end. Maureen complies, wanting my experience to be a good one.

And it is.

The hour and a quarter feels like five minutes. I am not exaggerating. I feel nothing. Not the full mouth x-rays. And not the vigorous use of what-look-like torture-weapons in my mouth. Were in not for my watch, I'd think nothing was actually done.

But my teeth are cleaner. The dentist  tells me the x-rays are fine, and that my gums look good. 

I make my next appointment before leaving. Almost wishing I was told me to come back in four months, not six.

and I see him for a second

I get home from work around 6:30 on Saturday.

Alexander is just finishing up my birthday card. It's mostly all I want from him; just that, and a little bit of time.  

After throwing around some ideas for dinner, we settle on our favorite sandwich from Agata (prosciutto, mozzarella, arugula and avocado) and fries from Burger-Fi (I have no idea about their burgers but their fries are amazing and their orders huge). 

Then we engage in a favorite pastime, watching Law & Order SVU over dinner. It may sound like a passive activity but it's not. The show always raises some kind of issue and we typically end up in a spirited discussion about it. The 60-minute run time usually takes us twice that to get through.  

Alexander meets up with some friends later on in the night.  When he gets in, I awake briefly to ask,"Breakfast tomorrow?"  "Definitely," my son responds.

I'm up early this morning. I go out and buy lox, cream cheese and bagels. Around 10 Alexander gets up. But he's not ready for breakfast. He has to shower, go out and buy a razor, and blah blah blah. I eat without him. Kiss him good-bye, and leave for work.

My time with my son is minimal, but I'll take whatever I can get.

alexander visits home

"I'm coming home this weekend." Alexander tells me a week ago.

Even though my son says these words, I'm not totally sure I'll see him until he walks through the door. He's young. Has friends. And lots of things can get in the way of his promise to come home.  

Around Wednesday, Alexander asks, "Do you want to have dinner together Friday and Saturday, or just one night?" 

I know it'd be selfish to suggest both nights.

But then he says, "We can have dinner on Friday and I'll go out after, but on Saturday I just want to do something with you."

I know that hanging with me is never his first preference, but I appreciate the offer.

Today I get a call at work.

"Hi. Listen, I'm taking a late bus and won't be home until 9, and then I'm going straight to D's house. I'll be home late."

I'm not really surprised. Not even disappointed. I want him to see his friends. And all night Saturday is just fine with me.

I fall asleep early. Somewhere in the wee hours I hear, "I'm home."

Maybe tomorrow I'll even get to see him.

my birthday

I wake up early to go to a BAFTA Board meeting.

I put on my Nike Fuel Band and it flashes the words, "Happy birthday."

As the meeting is closing, the charming and wonderful chairman says, "And in case you didn't know, today is Lyn's birthday." We're Facebook Friends so he was probably alerted. So sweet that he made the announcement.

I come home to texts, phone messages and emails. You expect family and friends to remember but it's still nice when they do.

I get a couple of cards in the mail, and a couple of electronic cards.

I go on Facebook and like a little kid opening presents, I smile widely as I read the many birthday messages I've been sent. Some from people I haven't seen or spoken to in decades. It's heartwarming to know that even for a few seconds, so many have stopped what they were doing to wish me a happy birthday. It is the absolute best thing about Facebook.

I hear from people in cities where I once lived; from jobs where I once worked; schools that I once attended; schools that my son once attended (including the principal of one); classmates from the town where I grew up; people I've never met but who know me through my blog; an actor I met while he was performing in a play I attended; friends I've met through my sisters; children of friends of my sisters; my mom's friends; people in television I met through industry events or job interviews; weight-watcher buddies from years ago; my best friend growing up; current friends; family; Cape Cod friends; past lovers, including my first; BAFTA colleagues; and more.

I see a voicemail on my phone from the Bahamas. I don't bother listening until hours later, assuming it's some telemarketer trying to induce me to buy a condo there. But no. It's from an old boyfriend who's buying a boat there, and took out time to call and wish me a happy birthday.

All the good wishes and kind messages make me feel immensely lucky.

I have no plans for today and that is just fine.  I celebrated last night, and have dinner plans with friends for the 30th.

I buy a cooked duck breast for dinner at Butterfields — to go with a can't-put-down book called The Marriage Lie (by Kimberly Belle). I am healthy and feel much younger than the calendar says I am. I have friends I couldn't live without. A family I'm proud to be part of. I live in the best city in the world. And my son says he's coming home this weekend.

Yup, it's a very nice birthday.

dinner at The Mark

A month ago Valerie texts me asking if I'm free for my birthday. Of course I am. We decide on tonight as the night to celebrate, a day early.

My mom was supposed to join us but then came the blizzard, so she was unable to make it to New York. It ends up being an intimate group of four: my sister, Abbey, Jason, and me. Valerie has impeccable taste in everything and chooses The Mark Restaurant by Jean-Georges.

The food is amazing and plentiful. The house tuna tartare is a must-have-order, though everything is delicious and beautifully presented. It's nice to have family that is genuinely interesting and fun. 

We toast to my birthday and Abbey adds a few words. "May this be the year you meet that age-appropriate guy." This of course leads to a discussion of age-appropriate. For me, it's probably 55 to 67 or so. But then my sister adds something like, "If anyone that age is worth dating they are looking for someone a lot younger than you."

And then, as if to punctuate her point, as we are walking out, Val and Abbey bump into someone they know. He's cute. Has a nice demeanor. And I'm thinking age-appropriate. I see him with a pretty blond. I'm thinking maybe his daughter. Turns out it's his date. 

But yes, to Abbey's point, it would be nice to fall in love. Or at least deep like. If you know of anyone.... I am trying to be more open ... my birthday pledge.

Before leaving, and because I ask, everyone agrees to a photo.

much ado about nothing

Open my eyes, and run to the window.

Expecting to see a winter wonderland, I am so disappointed.

Instead of buried cars and white mounds, I see a smattering of snow. 

12-18 inches is now expected to be 2 to 4 inches.

Record-breaking nor'easter has been the headline for at least a week now. Even overtaking Trump's latest absurdities.

Warnings. Closings. What to do segments on shoveling, staying warm, etc. 

And then, not much.

snow, maybe

Finally it's winter. Freezing temperatures. Definitely glove weather. And now snow.

Since last week, meteorologists have been predicting a major winter blizzard (12-18 inches) in the Northeast for Tuesday, tomorrow. I love cold and I love snow, so for me, it's welcome news.

But last week my mom decides she won't be here for my birthday. One of her biggest fears  is being on the road in a snowstorm.

My dentist calls to cancel tomorrow's appointment. He's already planning not to be in.

I receive an email from some people at BAFTA; they'll be working from home tomorrow.

NYC schools have already been cancelled.

MTA above-ground service has been suspended starting at 4am.

Governor Cuomo has declared NY a state of emergency (beginning at midnight) and has ordered all non-essential government employees across most of New York to stay home.

I go to Agata. 

The store is packed; people on top of people everywhere. I overhear someone saying, "It looks like the end of the world." I select only items that don't need to be weighed so I can get in the shorter line. It still takes about 35 minutes to pay. The longer line snakes through the entire store. People must fear having no where to eat tomorrow.

I come home and see an email from Saks, sent to all its NYC employees. The store plans to open at its usual time.

At least there'll be somewhere to shop tomorrow if you need a nice dress. Oh, and Saks also has a very nice restaurant, just in case you find yourself without food.

gag ordered

I sometimes wonder if all my best adventures are behind me. It's a sobering thought, and not a welcoming one.

I am busy, but not with post-worthy activities. I went to a screening on Monday (Get Out) and again on Tuesday (The Sense of and Ending). But what can I really say beyond I liked  both films?

I haven't been writing often because any drama in my life is mostly banned from this blog.

Family. Everyone has something to say about family. Small and large misunderstandings. Unintended (hopefully) slights. And the desire to get along beyond the obligatory holidays. I have written things in the past that I thought were innocuous only to find out later that I've deeply offended someone. I don't think anyone in my family even reads my blog, except for my mom occasionally, and my nephew Michael.  

Friends. Recently I wrote that Petunia (of course not her real name) and I went shopping together. Petunia is very private and wrote to me asking that I delete her name. I of course obliged. But it now makes me overly cautious. I try not to mention any friends, unless I've explicitly been given their permission.

And then there's my job. Oh, the stories I could tell. Some outrageous, some funny, some heart-warming, and some pathetic. All would make for great story-telling.  But alas, I cannot. I've been warned. Literally.

So I'm left with little but the mundane to write about.

Or maybe this should be my incentive to find some wildly exciting new endeavor.

27-47-58

I stop by work today to get something.

I'm feeling good. It's a beautiful day. Sunny. 60 degrees.

I'm wearing jeans, a white tee, an Iro biker jacket that I love, and my new haircut.

I see my friend Charlie; he's 27 and always teasing me about my age. At first I was offended, but now I think he's just angling to find out how old I really am. Given his youth, I must look ancient to him.

He puts his hand near my neck and says, "From here down you look 27." 

I laugh and say, "Well, what about from here up?" 

"48," he responds. I'm complimented.

I tell him I have a birthday coming up and he says, "Let me guess. 58?"  

I look at him with feigned shock and say, "You're right."

He smiles all proud of himself.

And I smile, grateful for the years he's erased.

a mistake to leave him

"Hi Mark, I hope you remember me."  That's how I begin the conversation. 

I began seeing Mark in February 2015, but stopped a year later. No reason. The breakup was purely situational.

I was having my hair colored in May of 2016, and it was easy to just have someone who worked with Lico cut my hair. But Koda was never as good as Mark.

So yesterday, when I looked in the mirror and realized that I absolutely had to have my hair cut immediately, I called Mark. I felt guilty. I left him without explanation. So I tell him the truth and ask if he'll take me back. "Of course," he replies.

Today I see him. I actually spot him crossing Park, on my way to my appointment with him. It's like bumping into an old friend. Mark is still adorable. His salon (Mark on Madison) is pristine.  He is talented, interesting, and treats me with respect and kindness.

Mark is one of the few hair cutters I've ever gone to where I don't sit and read, or play on my phone, while he cuts my hair. We always have good conversations. About work. About family. About marketing. About his other business (hair extensions) and how to grow it. About life.

In thirty minutes he's done. And in eight weeks I'll be back. 

happy birthday shari

Our sons originally were responsible for bringing us together. But they've all since graduated and are all now working —in New York, DC, Chicago and Philadelphia.

But us moms still get together. And we always make time to celebrate each other's birthdays. We've been doing this for many years, and have morphed into a solid group of seven.

Tonight we meet at Antonucci's, an intimate Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side. We are celebrating Shari's birthday. The entire dining area is a little bigger than my bedroom. We look around and there's not a single table that looks big enough to accommodate the seven of us, though we are assured by the friendly maître d' not to worry. 

Finally, after hanging around in an inconvenient place near the door, we are seated at a table that tightly fits six. A little while later, a table that is better suited for seven becomes available and we move. For the inconvenience, we are generously given a bottle of good red wine.

Shari, Janice, Brooke, Ronda, me, Zelia, and Pam

Despite the intimacy of the table, and the excellent food, this is not a place that is conducive to conversation. But somehow we manage to do just fine.  

We split appetizers of grilled calamari and roasted asparagus. My duck ravioli is one of the best pasta dishes I think I've even eaten. And though no one feels like dessert, we order one (a scrumptious chocolate banana cake) as an excuse to sing happy birthday to our dear friend Shari.

We leave sated from good food and good friends.

pul-eeze, you're not alone in this world

Aren't good manners just good common sense? Or common courtesy? Or something that people should know without being told?

I get in an elevator. It's full. There's a person having a loud conversation, in a foreign language. Not that the language spoken matters. But it's even more irritating if I have no idea what's being said. 

I'm in a bathroom stall at work. The person in the stall next to mine has her phone tuned to a salsa song. Volume turned up. What if I don't like salsa? What if I want to pee in silence? Why should I be subjected to someone eles's music in a public bathroom?

People in the work cafeteria use their smart phones as TV's. I don't want to hear audio from some show. Or some hilarious youtube video. Or mumbled words from your best friend's wedding. Maybe I'd like to eat in silence. Or have a conversation I can hear. 

I go to Agata, or Starbucks, and people have their phones to their ears — or worse, walk around empty handed with a bluetooth connection. As they pay the cashier, they continue talking, as if the person helping them is invisible. How can they not know how rude this is?

And please, leave your phones behind at the dinner or restaurant table. Unless your wife or child is about to give birth, or you're waiting for that call that will truly change your life, it's disruptive and inconsiderate. Eat alone if your friends/family are less important than what you might be missing on your phone.

Don't only call me to chat while you're driving. Occasionally, sure, but not all the time. It makes me feel like you're squeezing me in because really, while you're driving, you have nothing else to do.

And don't get angry when I ask you to stop unloading the dishwasher or peeling potatoes while we're talking to me. You may feel the need to multi-task, but all I hear are loud, amplified nosies.

Don't wish me a happy birthday via text, Facebook, or email if you're a family member or a close friend. Call.

And finally, if I take the time to get you a gift, take the time to acknowledge it. A call or written note is nice. A text is not.

The end.