photo shoot

I write down exhibits I want to see. That act alone gets me closer to going.

Even still, I rarely do.

But recently I read that the Irving Penn Centennial at The Met is leaving July 30, so I make a plan to see it.

I meet Robin at 10 (my friend Ellen meets up with us later).




Already the line to enter sneaks beyond the base of the Met's stairs.








But the line moves quickly, and we are soon entering the museum.

The exhibit is energizing and expansive. I particularly love Penn's portraits and fashion shots. His photos seem to mirror a respect he has for each of his subjects. How lucky for him to be able to make a living at his art, and to be given the freedom to travel the world to do it. 

Hanging in one room is a large worn carpet that Penn used as a backdrop. Visitors are allowed to take their own photos against it, just as Penn once did. I could not resist.

Before leaving, we go to the roof to grab an ice tea.  It is no ordinary roof. Even the city looks like part of the art.

It's a great way to spend a few hours.

rug man

Now that I have clean, unadorned walls, I want clean, unadorned rugs.

I call and make an appointment with David at OnTime Steam Cleaning. I have used this company about five times and they never disappoint.

"We'll be there in the morning, between 9 and 11." That's what I'm told when I make the appointment weeks ago.

Last night Reuven calls to confirm. "We'll be there between 9 and 9:30.

At exactly nine, Reuven is here.

He reviews what is needed. I point out an impossible stain, and he says if they can't remove it, they will turn my rug around so the stain is under the sofa where you won't see it. 

"But I need two men for that, and I only have one. So call me if the stain doesn't come out; I'll come back and if I can't get a space, you can wait in my jeep while I do it with another guy."

In 45 minutes they are done.  My rugs look brand new —the stain (actually all stains) totally gone. And I don't need to car-sit.



If you ever need rugs cleaned (in house), these are the people to call.  

Windows are next.

unexpected visitor

Friday night around 9:30pm.

"Hi, I'm coming home tomorrow. I'm taking the 5:45 bus in, and the 11:15 bus out. Want to have breakfast around 9?

 If Alexander hadn't mentioned breakfast, I'd have thought he was talking PM not AM.

"Why are you coming in?"

"I have a prescription I have to fill at the pharmacist."

I don't bother asking my son why he doesn't have a pharmacist yet in Philly.

"Sure," I respond. I'll never pass up an opportunity to see my son.

At 8:30 this morning I get a call.

"Hi; I'm here. I'll come home first. I need to charge my phone."

I 'spose that's a good enough reason.

But since he's here, I manage to get Alexander to reluctantly agree to a picture.



We walk two blocks to a local diner called The Green Kitchen.

We order the breakfast special less half the things it comes with.

Two eggs instead of three.  And no potatoes for me.

Alexander choses grits instead of potatoes, thinking grits are something other than what they are.

Once he sees them (a big bowl of white mush) he knows he won't eat them.

The waiter generously offers to replace them with home fries.

Breakfast is great (the company, not the food).

I get to see my son for less than an hour. Still, it's a nice surprise.

an ordinary life

I get up early to attend a BAFTA Board Meeting at 8:30.

Before leaving, I weigh myself. Up 2.8 pounds from Cape food.

The suffocating heat requires a Via ride home from my Board Meeting. Within two minutes of requesting one, I am sitting in an air-conditioned car, listening to some smooth jazz. I can now take "having a personal driver" off my wish list. Private cook has replaced it.

Come home and spend the morning returning calls, answering emails, and handling the very small amount of non-digital mail I received while on vacation.

See Madhu at the local nail salon and for $31, get a manicure, pedicure and 10 minute massage that feels like 60. I sometimes try new colors but always return to the reliable combo of Ballet Slippers under Vanity Fairest.

And through all of my commonplace activities, I keep thinking about John McCain.

His life altered in a second. A small surgery to remove a blood clot becomes a devastating diagnosis. 

Blogging about the insignificant is what I do most days. I complain about small annoyances. Whine about incompetence. Get angry at some unfair work practice. Or describe some nice night out with family or friends. All of it quite ordinary.

I watch a lot of Dateline — simple lives upended with murders and disappearances from the most unlikely of suspects. Enough to have 25 years of stories to tell. Children go missing. A college student comes home brain dead from North Korea. An innocent bride-to-be is shot and killed by a police officer. Bad things happen all the time to people like the ones we know.

Yes, I need to create more adventure in my life.

There is so much I still want to do. And see. 

I hope to expand my experiences. Do the unexpected. Take advantage of sleeping opportunities. Make a difference. Do more good. Blah blah blah.

But the truth is, I am lucky to be living an ordinary life. 

getting back

Three hours before my plane departs, we are on our way to the airport. There is no negotiating with my mom when it comes to leaving time.

In the car my mom looks at me and says, "I've never seen you with a better tan. It's even, and not too much."

I was certainly more careful than usual. And, I wasn't sitting in the sun as long either, as there was far less of it this vacation.

But my feet. Or more specifically, the top of my right foot. Swollen and burnt. Next time I'll extend my vigilance to my feet.

Before heading to the airport, we stop at Maison Villatte in downtown Falmouth. It's a great bakery, evidenced by its long customer lines. I buy a sandwich for later, a small blueberry muffin, a dessert that looks incredible, and a loaf of cranberry bread that is better than any I've found in NY.

My mom gets gas. And still, we are in Hyannis by 10:15; my plane leaves at 12:54.

So we stop at a Dollar Store. It's my first time in one, but it won't be my last.  I get an orange mango Blistex and two pairs of reading glasses for work. Total cost: $3.

We get to the airport in plenty of time. 

JFK is the busiest international gateway to North America. When I flew out of there last week, I breezed through security. Nothing beyond the usual. My shoes stayed on. My laptop remained covered. And my body was untouched. 

Barnstable Municipal Airport is no JFK. Neither is its check-in. 

Here, I have to remove my shoes.

Then take my computer out of its sleeve.

Then put everything in the plastic bins that go on the conveyer-belt thing.

Then walk under some scanner.

Then plant my feet in yellow painted shoe markers where something like an x-ray is made of my body. 

Then be patted down by a TSA female. Twice.

Then finally, be asked to stick out my hands, palms up. The TSA-person then uses some type of wand to run over my hands. When I ask her what she's doing she says, "I'm checking for remnants of explosives." She isn't smiling. 

Barnstable Municipal Airport is serious about its security. Not like the more relaxed measures taken at JFK.

The flight itself is fine. 

I take the airbus to subway home.

NY is sweltering; the worst kind of weather.

I get home. Unpack, and realize I had left my precious bag of food from Maison Villatte under my seat.

Guess I won't be having cranberry toast for breakfast.

last day

The weather forecasters get it wrong. Today is supposed to be cloudy.  

But the sun comes out around ten, and never disappears.

It is a perfect (and unexpected) beach day.

I spend it alone.

Do some reading (Sycamore by Bryn Chancellor).

Eat my half-sandwich from Dean's.

Let my feet graze the warm ocean.

And say good-bye to a beautiful Cape beach.

 

I am not ready to go back to work.

Or face the sweltering heat that is enveloping the city.

Or be without a washer and dryer.

Or focus on anything more than the weather and what to have for dinner.

But I am ready to:

Watch more of The Crown; I'm five episodes in.

Read the paper.

Catch up on local and national news.

And sleep in my own bed.

But in less than four weeks I'll be back. 

Ready again to enjoy the laid-back, low-maintenance Cape Cod life.

chez jean

My sister is the gourmet cook in the family.

"I have to use up the scallops I bought yesterday, so why don't you come for dinner?"  It's a casual  invitation for what I know will be an extraordinary meal, as all of Jean's meals are.

This spring Jean and Jim sold their house in Medfield and moved full-time to Falmouth. Their beautiful new home is walking distance from both Main Street and an ocean beach. Perfectly situated for just about everything.

My mom and I arrive around 6. Jean is still in the prep stages. She asks if I want a drink. How can I say no to someone who for many years was a bartender and has the expertise (and ingredients) to make about anything? 

I choose Grey Goose and lime on the rocks, which Jean makes into her signature kamikaze. After drinking it, I can (for maybe the first time) understand why people like to start their evenings with a drink.



Jean chops stirs, cuts, pours and sautés, all effortlessly. The result is incredible. 

A scallop recipe she invented that includes maple syrup. Yams that I thought were squash and loved (even though I normally don't eat yams). A beet and fig salad with my sister's dressing that everyone (myself included) tries to emulate but never quite gets right. And sautéed yellow squash that blends beautifully with the other flavors.

Oh, and everything else about the night is as good as the meal.

sun, finally

Five days of overcast skies, and finally, there's sun.

Sunday is generally a busy beach day, but after such dismal weather for so long, big crowds are anticipated.

I get to the beach early. Around 10:15. 

I wear an obscenely high SPF on my face. Bring a shirt to cover my chest. And even purchase a new hat whose fabric qualifies as UPF of 50+. This is all so not me.

My mom and I strategically block out our space. With only two chairs and three towels, we create an area big enough to hold the people who will come later. Others do the same. 

It's high tide so there is much less beach than usual. One needs to plan well.

I finish The Sisters Chase by Sarah Healy. A decent enough read but not a book I'd recommend.

Around 1, my sister Jean comes, packed with her amazing sandwiches. A few minutes later M and her husband Tobey arrive, along with their son Harrison and two of his friends from college. And a little while after that, Jim, Jean's husband shows up after golfing.

The weather is perfect. Sunny with a little bit of wind.

Weekdays are better when fewer people come to the beach.

But, hey, the sun is shining. The sand is smooth. The ocean is clean. And I'm hanging with family and friends.  Life is good.

cape dining

Since I've been here, I've abandoned all restraints on eating —especially given that it hasn't been bathing suit weather for more than four hours total since arriving last Wednesday.

So instead of floating in the water and reading, I've been focussed on food, especially the kind I can't get at home.

The first night was Crabapples with my mom and M. It's a local, nondescript little place that has a huge menu, where everything is excellent. I had my annual fried-clams-with-bellies dinner. Outstanding, as usual.

Another night my mom and I met Jean and her family at The Quaterdeck. It's a downtown establishment that's been around forever. The food is reliable and the menu large. It's good enough but not great.

Last night M and I go to C-Salt. I've never been. The atmosphere is casual. Jeans are fine. Oh but the food... it's inventive. Beautifully plated. Big portions.  And beyond outstanding. This high-end restaurant is not just one of the best on the Cape (which it is), it would be one of the best in NY if it were there. 

We sit at the bar as a last-minute reservation is impossible. The truffle fries and calamari are among the best I've ever had. I take that back. The calamari IS the best I've ever had. The batter is light and it's seasoned with mango, grapefruit, baby spinach and cashews.  No sauce is served with it; none is needed. it's amazing. Everything is. 

And tonight, my mom, her wonderful and fantastically fun friend Cindy, and I all go to The Chart Room for dinner. The sky is overcast and it's a cool 65 degrees. We get there and a woman sitting near us is dressed in a short down coat. She does not look out of place.

This hard-to-get-a-reservation place is less busy than usual. Our first table is too near the serving station. We move. Our second table is situated next to a table set for 12. We move again. Our third (and final) table is too high, but this time we smile and say nothing. 

My mom will be 88 in September. I often forget her true age, as nothing about her suggests it.

Some don't like The Chart Room. My dad didn't. Too crowded. Too loud. Always a long wait. And mediocre food. Others love it. I'm in the latter category, but only when it comes to the baked stuff lobster. The kind where all the cracking is done for you. The claw meat is taken out and re-stuffed into the tail. For me anyway,  it's worth a trip to the Cape just for this meal.

here and gone

Somewhere around noon. 

Every day since being here it goes something like this. 

"I think I see the sun breaking through."

The beach is a three minute golf ride away.

And so...

I change into a bathing suit.

Spray Neutorgena #30  on my body. 

Apply La Roche-Posay #60 (which it pains me to do) on my face.

Make sandwiches for my mom and me.

Call M and arrange to meet on the beach around 1.

Pack bag, making sure phone and Kindle are fully charged.

Drive the golf cart down.

Mom and M show up about ten minutes later.

Sun is out. No wind. Extremely hot.

So hot need to move our chairs into the water.

Even put on a hat; trying to be careful about face.

Position chair with back to the sun and feet in the water.

Eat lunch. 

Read some of The Sisters Chase. 

Within 15 minutes, no exaggeration, the temperature drops maybe 20 degrees.

Sun disappears.

Cold enough to get goose bumps.

Leave the beach. 

Come home and play gin.

vacation, day one

So here I am on Cape Cod.

M, a very close friend, has rented a house for the summer nearby.  She has to return to Boston but will be back on Wednesday.

The weather for the next few days does not look promising.

Today is overcast and rainy.  Definitely not beach weather. 

Compared to my mom and M I look like I've been living underground for the past few years. I will definitely be careful of the sun, but there's a big gap between my current skin color and having a summer glow.

Finally, around two, the clouds part, ever so slightly. 

I grab a quick lunch. In shorts and a T, I take the golf cart down to the beach.  I set up my chair. There's a little wind, a little sun, and zero people. Perfect place to finish my once-promising but ultimately disappointing book, The Good Widow.

getting there

A couple of weeks ago I sent most of the things I'll need to my home-away-from-home on the Cape.

It's mostly the electronics I now have to carry on-board. 

• My phone plus charger.
• My laptop plus charger.
• My Kindle plus charger.
• My Fitbit plus charger.

To think that a little over ten years ago I didn't need any of this stuff (some of which didn't even exist then), and now I'd feel naked without them for even a day.

I take the subway to JFK. It's pretty easy: Bus to 53rd and Lex, E train to Sutphin, and sky train to JFK. Still, it's hard to know how long it'll take. So I leave at 8 for an 11:11 flight.

By mistake I get on the M train. But no problem, I can change at Queens Plaza and catch the E there.  

The ONLY two people at Queens Plaza are clearly in no hurry to get anywhere.

The E train comes and I get on. The 20-something girl sitting next to me, while clean-looking and dressed well-enough, exudes a pungent, nasty smell. It could be some fragrance she's wearing but I doubt it. I breathe through my nose until my stop.

I no longer need to check-in at the airport — just show my boarding pass that's on my phone. And again, for reasons I don't understand, I am elevated to the pre-approved TSA check-in line. 

By 9:45, I am plugged in, with my coffee, paper and phone, waiting for my flight.






The packed flight pulls away from the gate at eleven minutes ahead of schedule. Good that I arrived early. The 35-minute flight is smooth and fast.

And by noon, I'm in the welcoming arms of sunny Cape Cod.

in and out

8:30 pm Friday.

I'm about to hang up when my son says, "Oh, I'm coming home tomorrow. But I probably won't see you.  I mean, you're working, right?"

Yup, I'm working. My son doesn't have to feel guilty about not seeing me, not that he would. And not that I'd try and make him feel guilty. He should want to see his friends more than his mother.  I think I'd feel worse if he came home JUST to see me. But I do miss spending time with him.

So today I'm at work when Alexander calls.  "Where are you?" I ask.

"At home."

"What do you think of the paint job? Pretty nice, don't you think?"

"I'm just walking in now. I'm not in the apartment yet. Where are you at work?"

"In the cafeteria having lunch." 

"You mean the food court?"

"Ya, of course, the food court."  As if Saks has a food court and not just a very ordinary employee cafeteria.

"What section of the food court?

"The sushi section," I add playing along. But now I'm getting suspicious.

"Are you in the apartment yet?"  I ask.

"No, I'm actually with the Canadian Geese."

Aha. Now I know where he really is. On the ninth floor of Saks, same as the employee cafeteria AND the winter coats, including Canada Goose.

I walk out of the cafeteria and see my son. Such an unexpected  surprise. We spend about 15 minutes catching up.

I get home from work, see him for another 30 minutes, and then he's gone.

Quick, but still more time than I thought I'd get.

mostly recovered face

Have an appointment with my dermatologist (the wonderful Rhonda Pomerantz) to check up on my face.

I shower and leave. No makeup except for lipstick.

I walk to the subway in a light drizzle. Enough that I think to wear a raincoat. I hate umbrellas and never bother with them. Plus, it's only a light rain I'm hopeful will end soon.

I exit the subway to a total downpour.

My water-resistant raincoat gets soaked through. My jeans are drenched from the knees down. And my suede sandals look like they won't recover.

I get to the doctor's.

She looks at what I call my ugly pictures and says, "To me these are beautiful."

She tells me the efudex worked well. My face is smooth (except for one small thing on my nose that she freezes off). She's very pleased with the results. 

It's been exactly three weeks since I stopped the medication. The redness is mostly gone, but not totally. I can now leave my house with no makeup and not scare anyone.

Glad I did it.

Glad it's over.

And hope to never have to do it again.

finally meet one

I met Terri in 1989 when we shared a summer house on Flying Point Road in Southampton. That was the same house, the same summer, when I met Eric. And that led to Alexander. It was a memorable time.

The tiny 3-bedroom (as big as most one bedrooms) was kind of a dump, but it sat right on a glorious beach, had a deck, and everyone was there to forget work and just have fun. 

Terri and I became good friends. She grew up in the city, went to NYU, and spent many years on the Upper Westside. Then, she moved to NJ, had a baby, raised him on her own, and has been living in Florida for the past seven years or so.

The last time I saw Terri was when we met for dinner in May of 2013. It's scary how fast time flies. She texts me the other day, says she'll be in NY, and we make plans to meet for dinner — along with Ken, her boyfriend of two years.

We meet at Cookshop.

Terri is beautiful, edgy, smart, accomplished, and liberal. She seems content. Her life is good. Terri's 16-year old son is doing well. Her job is fine (she has worked for the same financial company for 25 years and I still don't really understand what she does, but it sounds complicated and above my level of understanding). She is in amazing shape with arms I'd kill for. And she loves the more-laid back life that Florida offers. 

None of this is surprising. What is surprising is Ken. He's good-looking and could be a double for Joe Mantegna.

Ken's very smart. Well informed. Interesting. Articulate.  And.... a big Trump supporter. The first one I've ever really met. 

We start to talk politics and I quickly realize that I am out of my league. I don't have the knowledge to effectively argue. And even though Ken knows his facts and can argue them all effectively, I doubt I'll ever be convinced that we have a good man in office.  

Dinner is excellent. The company too. Seeing Terri is always nice. But seeing her so happy is especially nice. Oh and Ken? Aside from his politics he's pretty great too.

unexpected piece of drama

My friend, with whom I am seeing Pipeline at Lincoln Center, has to cancel.

It's a beautiful day and tonight I'm having dinner with a friend I haven't seen in a while.  I'd love to spend the day at home reading The Good Widow (great so far) and the last three episodes of The Crown. But I have a ticket, a good seat, and maybe it'll be good.

I am totally surprised, and shamefully admit, I enjoyed this play far more than the much better one at Lincoln Center, Oslo. 

Pipeline is a powerful 90-minute play that totally sucked me in. And others too, as I didn't spot even one matinee-goer dosing off.

As I was leaving the theater, I inserted myself into the conversations of two different groups as they discussed the many issues the play raises. The playwright has a good ear for dialogue, and there's not one false note in the play.

Among other things, it's a play about a single mother who's dealing with her own issues, and those of her only son. She would still like a relationship with her ex, but he's made it clear that their relationship exists ONLY because they share a son. The boy's parents want him to have the best education, and so are willing to pay the high price that private school demands. The father regularly sends his support check, but is absent in any meaningful way. The son is angry at his father because of his absence. Loves his mother who blames herself for any of her son's shortcomings. And that's just the basic set-up. There are multiple overlapping plots.

For me, this isn't an escapist drama. Rather it's a short trip back to those challenging middle and high school years. 

I am happy to be beyond that. And beyond college too. But as a mother — single or not — our love for our children, and vulnerability because of them, never really stops. 

for my protection, of course

At least five times a week I shop at Agata.

Today I run over to buy a few things. I leave the house with only my debit card. No phone.

I see my cashier friend whose hair is actually more turquoise than green. I tell her I wrote about her in my blog.  "C'mon, really?"  She must think I have millions of readers.  "The Jimmy Choo sneakers, right?" she asks.   

I go to pay (with another cashier). My groceries total $26.88. The cashier looks at me sorrowfully, and says "I'm sorry. Your card was declined."

"Really? Wow. There's nothing wrong with my card; can you try again?"

She tries twice more and it's declined twice more.

"Can you try it as a debit?"

She does and it goes through. Strange. Declined as credit but accepted as debit.

I come home and see two texts and one email from Citibank, alerting me to possible fraudulent activity on my account.

WHAT ALGORITHM COULD CB POSSIBLY BE USING TO MAKE THEM THINK THIS IS FRAUD???

Agata is a store where I shop almost daily.

$26.88 is close to the amount I typically charge.

I have not used my Citibank card in any unusual way recently.

So why am I receiving this email?

Dear LYN:

We've identified possible fraud on your Citibank Debit Card account ending in 1234.
As a security measure, we routinely monitor your account activity to prevent possible fraudulent use. During a recent review we identified transactions that we're concerned may be fraudulent...

I call the number on the back of the card.

I get an automated response that if this is regarding my personal account, I should call 1-800-.....

I call the number and after going through all the prompts, am told that this is for the credit card department and I need to reach the debit card department. I get a third number.

I call the third number and again, after giving all my info, I'm told that they don't handle fraud, and am given the number to the fraud unit, (866) 248-4226.

I call that number, and finally get someone... from a country far away, or so it sounds.

After a twenty-question ID check I learn that the black strip on the back of my card didn't work properly, "And we see that on a lot of counterfeit cards."

Should I be grateful for this protection?  Maybe.

Am I?  Definitely not.