a short 90 minutes

I buy tickets on TDF for A Doll's House Part 2.  

I meet Zelia around 1:45. I look quickly at the tickets we are handed and only see Row E. Great seats I think. But then we are directed to the stairs on the left. I take another look at our tickets and see the abbreviation, RMEZZ. Ugh!

If I'm going to see a play, I almost always get good seats. Intimacy is part of what makes theater so exciting. But not this time.

From our seats, the stage looks like a picture taken from a low-flying plane.  

In fact, we are only three rows from the furthest seat in the house.

But A Doll's House Part 2 doesn't disappoint, even if our seats do. 

a long 90 minutes

Too often I make plans, then wish I hadn't. Especially after a long day of selling clothes.

I am now working some days in the new area called The Advance and some days in Vince. The Advance just opened and has some great, edgy designers: Comme des Garcons, Rick Owens, Nocturne 22, and Sacai, to name a few. All are on the newly renovated fifth floor.

For the past couple of weeks, sales have been decent. Customers have been appreciative. And being able to wear sneakers has helped the 7-9 mile walk I do walk every day I work. By the time the day ends,  I'm exhausted, and all I really want to do is go home and do nothing.

But tonight I've agreed to meet Jill, who has free tickets to a new, quirky musical called Ernest Shackleton Loves Me. 

At six, I leave Saks. Grab an unsatisfying dinner at Pret A Manger, and am at the theater by 6:45.

I go to the window to pick up the tickets when an usher says, "There's a line," and points to a small group of people. "Sorry," I say, and go to the end of the line.

The person in the front of the line insists that I was actually there before she was and that I should go before her. When I thank her and say, "I don't think so," the man behind her jumps in and adds, "No, she's right. You were definitely here before us." Who says New Yorkers aren't considerate?

Our seats are good, with an unobstructed view of the stage.

Maybe it's that I'm tired, or maybe it's the electronic violin that sounds grating to me. The play is only 90 minutes, but when I first look at my watch and only 20 minutes have passed, I know it's going to be a long night.

The performers  have beautiful voices. But I just can't get into it, though I do love the actual video and stills of the real Shackleton saga. At the end, the audience stands and applauds; their wild enthusiasm for the play is obvious. I must be the only restless one.

The ticket line and seeing Jill are the best part of the night. 

My VIA comes within four minutes of requesting it; I'm happy to be going home. 

hi, bye and nothing in between

"Hey, will you be staying in the city before going to the Hamptons for the weekend?" I ask my son.

"Ya, but I don't know my exact plans yet."

This was Wednesday.

Early evening Friday his plans are finally confirmed.

"I'm going straight to Sam's from the bus."

In other words, I won't be home until late. Even the promise of a sushi dinner can't entice him to spend the evening at home.

I try to stay up but fall asleep.

I wake around one to see Alexander's bed is still empty.

I fall back to sleep and wake again around two. 

I text Alexander and get no response.

Then I call and my son's phone goes straight to vm.

I get anxious. When he's supposed to be home and isn't, I worry.

At 2:27 am I text Sam.  "Can u ask Alexander to answer my text?"

I get out of bed. The lights are still on in the hall. But I notice my door is half-closed, and I'd left it open.

I peak into Alexander's room and find him sound asleep, atop his covers, fully dressed.

I kiss him good-night.

Then I text Sam again, ""Never mind; he's home asleep." I must sound like the neurotic mother I am.

7:20 am Alexander comes into my room to say good-bye. He's meeting his cousins for a ride out to the Hamptons.

I ask him why he didn't wake me last night to tell me he'd come home. "I forgot," is his explanation.

And then he's gone.

nasty medicine

It was supposed to be a routine body check at my dermatologist.

I get their a few minutes early, not anticipating any surprises.

The waiting room is quiet and everyone but one is respectful of the silence. This one woman decides to have breakfast. And she's not eating an unobtrusive protein bar. That I wouldn't mind. But she's chosen the very loudest of things to eat.

First, every time her hand goes in her little plastic container, there is a loud crunch sound as she wiggles around for a few pieces. Then she finds a few, pops them in her mouth, and gnaws down on them — it sounds like she's trying to eat cement. Every bite reverberates through the otherwise quite room. It is so annoying. How can she not know that?

Finally she finishes, and takes out her phone to text a few people. She has the volume up and I can hear every letter she clicks across her keyboard. Click. Click. Click. Why do people do this? Does she think no one can hear?

I am grateful when the nurse calls my name.

Rhonda Pomerantz is my dermatologist. I've been seeing her for years, and there is no one better. 

Rhonda scans my body as she always does. Then examines my face. Then concludes I need this cream called 5-fluorouracil. It's actual a topical form of chemotherapy.  I've used it before, many years ago around my lips. I remember it well.

For 21 days I will need to apply this product twice a day. This time to my nose and a portion of my forehead. The cream brings out precancerous cells, and makes the affected skin red, scabby and overall hideous — as in, I'm really not sure I'll be able to be seen in public hideous. And, the worse it looks the better it's performing. So I want to look bad. The directions say  it can take one to two months after I stop using it for my skin to clear up completely.

Tomorrow I'll begin. Days 11-21 should be the worst, I'm told. I cancel some meetings during that time. One is for a photo shoot. Definitely can't do that one!

But looking scary for a couple of weeks is a small price to pay for a cure. 

I see lots of hats this summer!

different kinds of friends

My friends are all kind, compassionate, and smart. But there are more differences than similarities among them.

Some are married. Some are single.

Some have children, some don't. And several are, like me, single mothers.

Some I can call and they will be there, regardless of time or problem. And they will always give me wise, honest, advice.

Some live here, while many live outside New York

Some are creative and astound me with their abilities to see the world through unusual eyes.

Some write in a way that puts me to shame. I rely on them to catch and correct any grammatical errors in my blog.

Most I've known for many many years, but several have entered my life more recently.

Some astound me with their ability to fix and build things — a talent I am envious of. One friend (a female no less) just built out her closets.

Some I speak to more than see, regardless of geography.

Most love theater and film.

But one has not been in a commercial movie theater for as long as I've known her, and another loathes theater but will go if the play has been thoroughly vetted and doesn't last more than two hours max. (Hamilton was the exception).

One is a compulsive shopper and always finds the very best bargains. A few never ever shop. 

All are self-deprecating.

Most wear some makeup. A couple wear none. And one friend only owns one lipstick.

Most of my friends read novels, but one admits to not having the attention span.

Some are athletic; some workout; and a few are in amazing shape. Two swim up to five times a week.

One retired just today as CFO of a large company and then enrolled in a course on welding. 

Most are liberal-minded democrats, but not all.

And a few are always up for doing anything, as long as they are available.

Robin is one of these friends.

At noon Susan tells me that unfortunately she can't come with me tonight to see The End of Longing; we've had tickets for awhile. But she's found a substitute: our mutual friend Jill.

A couple of hours later Jill finds out that she can no longer go.

I call Robin. She checks her calendar; finds herself free; and agrees to come. We meet three hours later.

And the play? Just okay; engaging enough if you want to see Matthew Perry play act drunk for 105 minutes with no break. 

not as planned

I get to bed late and can't stay asleep. No discernible reason. Just one of those nights.

The alarm wakes me and I'm exhausted.

Work is busy. 

I plan to leave exactly at six. Skip lunch but grab a quick bite before. Then see Ricky Gervais at the 92nd Street Y with Robin. 

I'm also looking pale and my hair (despite washing it this morning) looks awful.  I'll go to some makeup counter before leaving work and get some color put on my face. I need something. Too bad there isn't a blow bar here.

But then...

Around 5:30 I begin helping someone. She's lovely but nothing goes smoothly. The item she wants to purchase is missing a price tag. I need to find someone to make a tag. The tag gets printed on another floor. All this takes time.

Then there's an issue with a coupon. More time to sort that out.

Now I'm really running late. Not even sure I can make it. Plus, I definitely won't have time to get a mini-makeover. Or eat dinner.  And my feet!  I clock 9.3 miles today.

Around 6:30 I finally leave work. 

I take the subway to 96th street and actually am at the Y a little after 7. 

We take our seats. I thought the interview was scheduled for an hour, but it's actually 90 minutes. Ugh!

Myy aching feet, growling stomach, and half-closed eyes make it difficult to concentrate. What can I get to eat after? Should I even bother eating, as it'll be close to 9:30 by the time I get home? When can I take off my shoes? My toes actually hurt. My toes!  Is it time to get Keratin done to my hair again? It's been since October and my hair looks like it died. Should I take a Via home even though I live less than a mile away? 

Ricky is funny and genuine. The interviewer is also good — Tim Goodman, TV Critic for The Hollywood Reporter. Too bad I couldn't have stayed more focused.

And the two slices of greasy pizza that I end up eating afterwards make me feel more guilty than satisfied.

solo date

I've never minded going out by myself. Sometimes it's just easier.

I read about a new play.

The reviews are universally excellent. And then there are two added benefits: the play is a one-act, 80 minutes long; and on the eastside, not far from work and not far from home.

I find a cheap ticket on TDF ($12), but there's only one available. I buy it anyway.

After a long, but decent day, I take myself to dinner at the Food Hall in the Plaza Hotel. There are an overwhelming number of options.  I choose Luke's Lobster, and treat myself to their signature trio of half sandwiches: crab, shrimp and lobster.

Dinner is okay; the lobster rolls on the Cape are so much better. These lack something; I think its taste.

I get to the theater, a short walk from the Plaza. My seat is excellent. Second row. The small theater is packed.

I never find it awkward going to theater (or even dinner) alone. The play is outstanding. This powerful piece of drama is far more satisfying than my dinner. See it if you can.

surprised at work

On Monday, I get a message from someone I've never met.

Carol, who follows my blog, messages me on Facebook: 

Hi Lyn - I have a friend who recently moved to NYC...thought I would send her your way for some shopping. Which Saks are you at? Fridays and Saturdays? Generally what time?

I respond that I'll bet working this Friday, and she answers:

I'll make sure she talks to no one and no eye contact until she gets to your part of the store!!!

So today, I'm working, and one of my colleagues comes up and says, "Someone is here to see you." 

And there is Carol with two friends! I recognize her immediately from her Facebook page. She deliberately hadn't mentioned that not only would her friend be visiting, but that she would be too.

So a little bit of background.

M had a friend named Michelle (I met Michelle once, nine years ago). Michelle had an assistant named Carol. When M and I wrote a blog called Two Friends And A Diet from 2009 to 2012, Carol followed us. Then, when I began writing my own blog, Carol followed me. So for quite some time, we've been virtual friends.

But now here she is, in person. I am utterly surprised, and monumentally touched, that Carol would take time our of a planned trip to New York (she is from San Diego) to see me.

Carol knows the details of my everyday life, and I know so little about her. Though the little I do know is impressive — she's compassionate, kind, fun, and charming.  Carol asks one of her friends to take a picture of us, and she does.

We talk briefly (it's a busy day or I'd have loved to talk longer). 

Before leaving Carol says, "Oh, I brought you a little gift." And she hands me a wrapped present. I open it and there's a San Diego magnet (that will live on my refrigerator) and a  beautifully scented blood orange and bergamot candle. 

I am so glad our relationship has skipped outside the boundaries of virtual.

safe!

I get a mammogram and sonogram every year.

I start to get nervous a few days before, when I look at my calendar and see my scheduled appointment. 

I go to Rosetta Radiology on the Upper East Side. It is located near me; the staff is professional, friendly, and I assume competent; and I am never kept waiting. But I am also superstitious (not of the over-the-top kind). And I also wouldn't leave because for years, I have always gotten the outcome I want: "Everything is fine."

And today is no exception.

I leave feeling safe. Happy. And of course, relieved.

Then I think of my friends who have not been as lucky. Who didn't get the all-clear on a routine visit. And how their lives changed in a nanosecond.

All of them are fine. But not before going through months of uncomfortable medical procedures and intense emotional trauma. 

I know it's more than a little sappy to be grateful for the good, and happy for the mundane. Life is precious, and we are all vulnerable. Some days are slow, others boring. I often wish for more adventure. 

But today, nothing happening and no new news is the best news of all.

the best job

I've had many jobs.

First I was a counselor for little kids at Camp Maplewood. I was only ten years older than the four-year olds I was charged with supervising. 

I was a lifeguard at a local pool where I spent the summer of '67 listening to the Red Sox earn their way to the pennant, but then lose to St. Louis in the World Series.

I taught swimming one summer at a camp, and swam a mile every day I worked.

Then there was my filing job at my friend Gary's father's company. 

I worked at Continental Bank in Chicago, once thinking my goal in life was to be a loan officer.

I hired non-exempt employees as an HR recruiter for Blue Cross Blue Shield. The dress code there allowed claim adjusters to walk the floors in fluffy slippers.

My job as an Assistant Brand Manager at Gillette after business school was my first real job, and I loved it. There I met M, V, and Gail, all of whom are still big, important parts of my life. 

But I wanted to live in NYC so I moved for a job at Lever Brothers. That, too, put me in a creative, smart environment, where everyone was my age.  It was there I met my still very close friend Leslie.

Next was a conscious move to the media industry. I got my first big corner office at SImon & Schuster. Unfortunately though, I had nothing to do for the two years I was there. But I got a free gym membership and got in shape.

Then came CBS. There I became lifelong friends with J and recently reconnected with my boss who shares my name (and same spelling).

Next, I was VP of Marketing at CNBC, a job I loved and lost right after giving birth to Alexander.

I later worked on four soap operas for P&G Productions.

And then came Discovery, where I was head of Ad Sales Marketing. I had the best staff in the business; too bad the head of Ad Sales at the time and I were toxic together.

Sr. VP Packaging (one of those fancy titles that lacked substance) at a big media company came next. Great people, gorgeous corner office, but not enough responsibility.

And now I sell clothes at Saks. I've written enough about that.

But my best job of all has been, and always will be, being a mother to Alexander. 

24 years ago when I was pregnant, people told me how brave I was. Having a child by myself was not as common then. But I never thought of myself as brave, just lucky.   And I have never ever wavered from that view.

My son has given me more joy than I ever thought possible. He has kept me up nights with worry, too. But he's made me smile more, and appreciate the good in life, in ways no one else has.

He came home yesterday and just left. This morning he bought us both breakfast, and read me a card he wrote. As with all his cards, it made me laugh. But the sentiment made me proud. Proud that I have a child who is growing up to be a responsible and thoughtful adult. Proud that I have a child who can be affectionate and kind. Proud that we have a close relationship.

Being a mom can be a tough job. There is no pay;  the hours are long; and the responsibilities are immeasurable. There are times we'd like to quit and times we're under-valued. But there is absolutely nothing that is better! 

.

Happy Mother's Day.

rainy day shower

Jessica and Dan are getting married in September, and today is Jessica's shower.

Despite bad weather, my Via arrives two minutes from my requesting it. And, I am the only rider. Rainy day. No wait. $6.48 to go 50 blocks. How can you not love Via?

River Park, the venue for the shower, is situated along the East River. It's the perfect place to celebrate an upcoming bride.

I see my sister soon after arriving,. As usual, she looks stunning. (I look like I've been shut up in a room without sunlight for years).



The room is filled with flowers, wait people, and women in colorful spring dresses. My fear of having nothing to say is quickly dispelled, as everyone is friendly, talkative, and welcoming.

I soon see Jessica, who looks radiant.

The appetizers are all excellent, as is the food. But it's the heartfelt speeches that will be remembered. Jessica's mom (Jill) and her mother-in-law-to-be (Nina) both tell stories of the newly-engaged couple. It's clear that the marriage is not just about Dan and Jessica, but the blending of two families.

When Rita — Jessica's 93-year old vibrant grandmother —stands up and gives her speech, everyone mists up. Jessica is the only girl among 5 grandchildren.  And her relationship with Rita has always been an exceptional one.

Over lunch, I sit at a table with Jill and her college roommates, Rita, Valerie and Allyn. Allyn is Jessica's aunt — we've probably met, but it was so long ago we've both forgotten. We start talking and she says to me, "Oh, aren't you the one with the web site?" I assume she's talking about this blog. Surprisingly, her son found it (I have no idea how) and reads it. So while I know little about Allyn (aside from the fact that she's lovely and has an unusually great first name), she knows a lot about me.

Even the wet weather can't dampen the positive spirit of this happy day.

view from River Park

movie date

It's easy to become non social. Not exactly anti-social, just a bit non-social.

"Oh, I don't want to spend the money."

"I've been running around a lot, but thanks, I think I'll just stay in tonight."

"It's too cold to go out."

"I'm tired."

"I don't feel like putting on make up."

And a million other excuses.

But now it's spring, and staying in is better suited for cold winter weather.

I'm seeing a screening tonight of Snatched. Typically, I just meet whomever I'm going with at the theater. Conversation is limited to a few minutes before the credits roll, and a few minutes after. 

But not tonight.

Stephanie and I meet at a hole-in-the-wall near the theater. The pizza and conversation more than compensate for the restaurant's total lack of charm. And as it turns out, dinner is the very best part of the night.

life lesson

My parents always had a lot of friends.

As a little girl, I remember the many parties my parents hosted in our finished basement.  And if my parents' friends weren't at our house on a Saturday night, my parents were out somewhere with them.

My mom still has many friends. She is forever busy with the girls from bridge, Mah Jong, walking, the Cape, Brockton, and even her childhood.

Maybe it's genetic, but my sisters and I have all been lucky too. We are all fortunate to have many good friends. Sometimes I think, I have enough. I need a man in my life, not more girlfriends.

So when someone I work with wants to get together, I'm not that enthused. Not because I don't like her, but because I feel spread thin as it is. How did I ever do it when I was working full-time and Alexander was a toddler? But that was all before the internet and cell phones. I think I had more time then — before I was reachable any time, any place. Before I had to check-in, fearful of missing any life-altering text or email.

So today we meet for coffee. I live uptown and she lives downtown, but she agrees to meet in my neighborhood. She is immensely likable and our conversation flows effortlessly.

Without trying, she teaches me something important. Life is never so full that there isn't room for another good person to enter it. 

closet turnover

I was buying a new laptop a few months ago, and couldn't decide on size.  Should I spend the extra money for a 15-inch, or would I be able to adjust to the smaller 13-inch?

I was giving up a 21-inch monitor, and my previous laptops had all been 15 inches. My friend Jill had a 13-inch and I called her for guidance.  "You'll adjust quickly. Trust me. You won't even notice the smaller screen after using it for a few weeks."

Well, Jill was wrong. There was zero adjustment period.

I loved the smaller footprint and portability (even though my laptop rarely leaves my apartment) from the start. I've been using my new laptop since February and I have never missed not having a larger one.

That's the same mindset I use today when I ruthlessly clean my closets... switching from fall/winter to spring/summer clothes. Once an item leaves my apartment, I am pretty confident I won't be missing it.

Without much thought, I eliminate:

Perfectly good cashmere sweaters because I have others I like more.

Pants I rarely wear, even though they're almost new.

Shoes that have never been comfortable for more than five minutes, regardless of label or how nice they look when not on my feet.

White blouses that have since been replaced by newer, brighter, crisper ones.

Even old sunglasses. When will I want to wear those when I have newer ones that better suit my face?

Having less in my closets somehow makes me feel cleaner and lighter.

Okay, I guess I could use a little color. But still, I love my abbreviated wardrobe.
Drawers are next. 

self-interview

I haven't been writing because I don't want to keep writing about the same stuff that's been consuming me of late. Even thinking about it is tedious.

My conversations with myself go pretty much like this:

What's going on at work?
Well, recently the floor I work on was renovated and my department was moved to the back of the store; it used to be in the front. By the time customers get to the back, they have already been helped. In fact, I did an analysis of my sales, comparing the three weeks I've been on the new floor to the same period year ago. My gross sales are down 22% but my net sales (that's sales minus returns) are down 39%. I am paid off net sales. So I'm doing pretty badly. My returns have more than doubled, going from 17% last year to 35% this year. I am working hard and making next to nothing. It's very upsetting.

Why do you think your returns are so high?
I have no idea but others have seen their returns increasing as well. Tourism in NYC is down and that may be a factor. People who live in the states can (and do) return more than people who don't.

How would you rate your performance overall?
Well, I just got my review and for the year, I achieved 32% above my target. That was all before moving to the new floor. So I know I can sell; I just need customers to sell to.

Would you consider working full time?
Not in this job. It's an incredibly physical job. I walk over 20 miles in the three days I now work. And that's on a cement floor with no carpeting, and not in running shoes. My body couldn't do this job more than three days a week.

Could you move to another department?
I'm trying.

You seem to complain a lot; why don't you just quit?
One. I can't afford to. Two. I really like the collateral exercise. I weigh 126 pounds and eat a lot. If I quit, I'm afraid I'd quickly gain ten pounds and nothing would fit. And three. When I'm selling, I really like it. Oh and four, the discount.

What do you do on the days you're not working?
Worry about what I can do to earn a fair salary.

Anything else?
See my friends. Talk to them. Laugh with them. And feel lucky to have them. They keep me grounded, and conscious of all that I do have.