lunch with the girls

Lyn (yes, spelled the same way), Jill and I used to work together in the late 80's at CBS.

At the time, what we did was pretty revolutionary. We created and sold added-value promotions to big network advertisers. Now of course everyone does this, but at the time, it was a novel approach to packaging and selling media.

Our department eventually disbanded. The network was looking to reduce costs, and our small department was cut. But our many intense meetings were always laced with laughter, and we all left the network feeling good about what we'd accomplished and the relationships we'd built. Plus our severance packages were more than fair.

Lyn, our faithful leader, later became our friend. Today we get together for lunch — in Dumbo, where Jill lives.

We meet at Westville, my favorite little place in the West Village, that just recently opened in Dumbo. The one in Brooklyn is a lot better — bigger, nicer tables, modern lighting, outdoor seating, and most importantly, a real bathroom that doesn't require a traipse through the kitchen to reach.

We order inside.

Then take our food outdoors. It's a spectacular early fall-like day.

Our conversation, no longer about which advertiser is a likely to buy whatever we're selling, we talk about politics, technology, and kids: we each have one.

A few hours after I get home, Jill emails me with the subject line:

today was lyns birthday and she didn't say a freaking word

Apparently some people had remembered and posted on Facebook.

Such a missed opportunity. Fun as it was, our lunch could have been a celebration of our friend. Birthdays are special and should be acknowledged.

So happy birthday Lyn.  Now I know and next year I'll remember.

Still,  glad we all got to be together, laughing (and metaphorically crying) at the inanities of life.

loyal keys

In 2005 I got a Tiffany sterling key ring. The only reason I know the date is that it's engraved on the back. And while I have many key rings, this has always been my favorite. I like its small size and smooth feel. And for many years I've been able to hold on to it.

But then, during the summer of 2014,  I lost my keys, only to have them magically returned to me a few months later. 

I guarded them more closely this time, and managed to not lose them for another three years.  But on August 2, Susan and I went to see Summer Shorts Series B at 59E59. When I got home, I realized my keys were missing. The next morning, I called the theater, gave them my seat number, spoke to multiple people, and while everyone was helpful, no one could find my keys.

I searched my house everywhere, though I was fairly certain they had been lost at the theater. Still, I went through every pocket of every coat. Looked though all the crevices of every purse. Searched in drawers and closets. Looked under beds and sofas. It was no where.

Tonight, I meet Zelia and Ofelia (this friend likes to be anonymous) to see Prince of Broadway (despite what the critics say, I find it totally enjoyable, but long at two and a half hours). It's raining so I wear my raincoat.

I settle into my seat and the man behind me taps me on the shoulder. "Did you lose these?" he asks.  "I found them on the floor under your seat."

He is holding my lost keys.

Now I've been a member of Manhattan Theater Club for over twenty years. And I have always had the same seat. Could my keys have been sitting under seat B102 for months and months without the maintenance people noticing? Unlikely.

Or maybe they were nestled into the edge of my chair and somehow became dislodged when I sat down? Also unlikely. 

So that means that they must have been in either my purse or raincoat. But wouldn't I have heard them fall? And wouldn't I have seen them when I did my police-worthy search?

Divine intervention is the only plausible explanation I can come up with. Either that, or I need new glasses.

minor accomplishment

I love getting new electronics. I hate setting them up. The task always seems so daunting.

Right before leaving on vacation, my HP LaserJet 1320 died. No warning. The paper just started coming out crinkled and smudged in the top corner of every page.

I did some sleuthing and determined the problem was not fixable — something having to do with replacing an expensive part.

I couldn't be too sad. My printer had a good, long life. I bought it in May 2005 for $300. And in 12 years, it never gave me any problems.

I decide I want another HP given the longevity of my last one. It also has to be wireless. Black and white only. Simple (I have an ink jet for scanning and copying). Fast. And a laser jet that also allows me to use a high-yield toner. It also has to look decent and have a small footprint. 

After consulting one friend and doing some internet research, I decide on the HPLaser Jet Pro M402dw. I order it Saturday; it arrives Monday (Amazon Prime is the absolute best). Based on aesthetics alone I love it. 

But I'd love it even more if it could read its own instructions and set itself up.


The hardest part turns out to be getting it out of the box. After that, it's actually pretty easy.

Within a half hour, everything is working as it should. Honestly, you'd think I'd just figured out how to assemble a circuit board or something equally complicated. I want to yell to someone, "Hey, look what I just did. All by myself!"

Must be why I'm blogging about this.

The printer is a bit loud, but super fast, and doesn't look all that bad.

I'm hoping it's good for at least ten years. But by then, probably some machine that hasn't been invented yet will have replaced it.

Addendum

A few hours later I notice that the power button continues to blink white. Not sure if this is supposed to be happening. So I decide to to use HP chat support.  It takes 11 minutes before Priyadarshini responds.

Then three times, yes three times, Priyadarshini asks me what the problem is. And three times I write, "I'm not even sure if this is a problem. But why does the power button keep blinking in white? Is this supposed to happen?"

Then he writes, "Sorry for the inconvenience," and waits for me to respond.

Eventually Priyadarshini tells me that the light is not supposed to blink.

We then begin trouble shooting.

After 36 minutes of getting no where, I ask for the support phone number. I say good-bye and call HP.

Someone picks up after three rings.

Tells me the blinking white light is totally normal.

Next time I'll know better than to engage in chatting!

switch on hold

So I'm on the Cape. Riding around with M, Harrison and Tobey. And I can't get a signal.

Meanwhile, Harrison and Tobey are having no problems at all.

I check my settings. I am doing nothing wrong. I have an old iPhone 5S. Could it be that?

No, I'm told. "Who's your carrier?" asks Harrison.

AT&T.  "What? You of all people? I can't believe you don't have Verizon?" says M.

That's  it. Decision made. When I get home I'm switching.

So now I'm home. I call Verizon. Get all the info I need from a lovely woman named Bernadette. She's from Utah. Even that's nice. Seems like every time I call AT&T I get someone from a foreign country who's English I can barely follow. Bernadette reviews several plan options. When I call back, I tell her I'll get the $130/month Unlimited.

I next call Alexander to get some info off his phone that I'll need to make the switch. His first response, per usual, is, "Does it really have to be now? I'm in the middle of something?" He's always in the middle of something when I call.

"Yes, it does, and it'll only take a second." He finds what I need and then apologizes, as it really does take only a second (well, maybe a minute).

I next call AT&T and the first person I speak to (from the Philippines) disconnects me when transferring me to another department. (Another confirmation on how right my decision is to switch). I call back and the next person I speak to is very helpful and tells me my next bill close date will be September 1st. Perfect. I'll start September 1st with Verizon. No cancellation fees. And no partial and full month charges (hate those). 

I then call back Verizon and speak to the sweetly-accented Keith in South Carolina. I'm feeling good about the switch. I like my new family.

I tell Keith what I need. Mention that Bernadette offered to waive the $30/per phone activation fee. And then Keith says, "But first, I need to do a credit check. It'll only take a few minutes if you don't mind waiting." I don't. 

A few minutes later I'm deep into the process. I pick my 4-digit code. Give Keith my name, address, and other personal info. And then Keith asks about our phones. "Oh, we don't owe anything on them. My son has the iPhone 6-S and I have an old 5-S (as I've been waiting for the 8's to come out this fall)." 

There's a pause and then Keith says, "Only the 6's and 6-S's are cross-carriers." Huh???" I don't know what he's talking about but it doesn't sound good.

Keith continues. "You can only switch to Verizon if your phones are either a 6 or 6-S. Otherwise you'll have to buy a new phone now to switch."  And then what? Get the 8 a few months later? 

I guess since I'm not expecting to be on the Cape for another year, I'll stay with AT&T awhile longer.

But really, what a waste of a morning!

40th anniversary

I met Tim when we both worked at Continental Bank in Chicago. He was in the Wealth Management division and I was doing HR work in the Trust Department.

He was handsome. Smart. Accomplished. And nice. Everyone liked Tim. He was one of those people about whom no one ever says a bad word. That was true then, and I'm sure it's still true now.

I wasn't then, and am not now.

But Tim appreciated my feistiness. I was more exaggerated than he was. A bit more wild. And he was never judgmental— one of the things I loved most about him. Tim was accepting of everyone, willing to try anything, and had a keen, analytical mind (having both a law degree and MBA).

On one of our first dates, we watched the Republican Convention. That was the year Gerald Ford was nominated. And though I had little interest in politics, I remember reading Newsweek before our date to brush up on the issues. My guess is that before my prep, I knew nothing about either Gerald Ford, or his strong opponent, Ronald Reagan.

Within a year of dating, Tim and I became engaged.  It was in December and I was at his place, not far from my own. Tim said something like, "We've been spending so much time together, we should just get married." I said yes, and a few months later we were.

We moved in together before the wedding.  Tim had just bought a floor-to-ceiling, two-bedroom apartment in a Mies van de  Rohe high-rise, across the street from where I currently lived. The building had a great outdoor pool, was near all my friends, and was right across from Lincoln Park. Everything about it was perfect.

In May we had an engagement party in Brockton. And I remember having doubts.  My smile doesn't even look genuine. I knew I wasn't 100% sure. But who is, I thought?

with sisters Jean and Valerie

On August 27, 1977, we got married. It was a beautiful wedding in Massachusetts. Friends from all over came. I wore the same dress my sister Valerie had worn two years before, hoping it'd give me the happiness she had found (and continues to find) with Abbey. But it didn't.

Within a year, I had moved out. I decided that Tim wasn't ambitious enough. I was immature and didn't know what I wanted. And poor, lovely Tim, put up with my foolish whines and wavering feelings.

Tim got a job in San Francisco and moved there.  I finished my MBA at Northwestern and moved to Boston for a job with Gillette. Bob, an ex-boyfriend and still current friend, kept in touch with Tim, as Bob also lived in the Bay Area.

Tim eventually married again and started his own company. He's been recognized as one of the top wealth managers in the country, even appearing on the cover of Worth Magazine not that long ago. 

40 years ago today I got married. What could have been didn't happen. But other good things did.

the difference a day makes

I read about personal tragedies and think, just an hour before, everything was fine.

Before the diagnosis.

Before the car crash.

Before the storm hit.

Before the phone rang.

Before the murder.

It really is scary how quickly a life can change. One minute life is fine and the next it's not.

This is a blog about the everyday. The forgettable stuff that happens and is just part of living. But when something major occurs (or that at least feels major),  it does make you pause.

Okay, my one day of pain was no big deal. Certainly not in light of everything else that can go wrong.  But at the time, especially since I didn't know the pain would be so fleeting, it felt monumental. And it did make me think.

Living alone is great, but not when you need help. I learned how lucky I am to have friends to call who will be there in a flash, no questions asked.

Be prepared. I had Aleve and Advil in the house that still had a year to go before expiring. Food in the fridge. Peas in the freezer.  (Though I'm now ordering two different sized FlexiKold Gel Cold Packs on Amazon).

Listen to people whose medical advice you trust. M told me to ice my hip but it took me a day before I did. 

The internet isn't always the best source. Often it alarms more than helps.

Don't sweat the small stuff —like my now-swollen right foot from tripping over the metal shower track on my tub — or the 10 big fly bites that I took home with me from the Cape.

left arm

right arm

Health is a precarious thing that can alter in a second. I am grateful for being part of a family blessed with good health. My mom, at almost 88, is the best example. She walks two to three miles a day, is fun to be around, and looks and acts like a woman years younger. Plus, she still beats me in gin; last time 4 games to 1.

Still hobbling, but no pain. Life is good.

searing pain

I always look forward to coming home and sleeping in my own bed.  I just hadn't planned on spending so much time in it.

Tuesday night, Jean and Jim take us all out to eat at a fabulous new restaurant called Water Street Kitchen in Woods Hole. Everything we order — from drinks to appetizers to entrees to desserts — is excellent. The menu is small, but not one thing on it disappoints. It's a great send-off to a nice vacation.

But that night, I awake with severe pain near my left hip. It keeps me up the whole night, and by morning, it has gotten no better.

I can barely walk. But three Advils give me some relief and I'm able to make the flight home.

As soon as I'm in my apartment, I drop my stuff and crawl into bed. Then I call my doctor and make an appointment for tomorrow. The pain is debilitating. Honestly, the worst pain I think I've ever experienced, including child birth. At 6:30 I fall asleep, mostly to escape the acute and constant pain. I sleep fitfully until 7.

With much effort I get into the shower. But soon I start to feel dizzy — from not eating the day before, I think. I can't really lift my left leg to get out, and fall. I'm lying wet on the bathroom floor, not knowing how I'm going to get up. After a few minutes of doing nothing, I gingerly and painfully get up and drag myself back to bed.

I call Robyn, my kind and reliable neighbor who lives in the building next door. She is leaving for work, but before I finish my sentence that I need her help, she is here. When I say, "Don't worry, it's not contagious," she shouts, "DID YOU HEAR ME ASK YOU IF YOU  ARE CONTAGIOUS?" She's such a good friend.

She makes me toast (as I don't have the strength to make it into the kitchen) and hangs out a while to make sure I'm okay. The food and two Advils help.

I am able to make it to the doctor who diagnoses me quickly, "Trochanteric bursitis."

"It should go away by itself in a few weeks," the doctor tells me. The only treatment is two Aleve, twice a day, and icing. A few weeks seems like an eternity. And when I check online, for some people it's years, or never. I couldn't live like this. I am already contemplating surgery and it's only day one.

I call my Director at work and tell him the news: I won't be working the next three days  (and I don't think I get paid when sick, unless I don't take 6 days vacation). 

I can't charge my computer (on my desk) because there's no way I can bend down to plug it in. Nor can I pick up anything off the floor. Putting on a pair of shorts is impossible. The smallest effort takes so much energy that I debate doing the simplest activity. 

Should I put this dish and glass in the dishwasher now or just leave them in the sink? 

Should I put moisturizer on my face, though what's the harm in skipping a day?

Should I pick up the package that my doorman says he has, or wait until tomorrow?  I'll wait.

Should I unpack my small bag... nope, that can wait too. 

I am in so much pain and every movement seems to exacerbate it.

Now even the top of my right foot and right shoulder hurt from my fall this morning.

I'm  back in bed writing this, feeling pretty miserable. I was fine two days ago and I'm a total mess today. I feel like  I've aged 30 years overnight.


Friday morning:

Wake up to a totally new day.

The fierce pain is gone. I slept through the night.

Have much more movement today than yesterday. I can even bend my knee without any discomfort. I still walk cautiously and uncomfortably, but no wincing with every step.

Will continue to ice, but may skip the Aleve. I am optimistic that improvement will continue.

I have a new appreciation of what real pain feels like. I am so lucky it's gone.

underwhelmed

This morning, I actually hear some on-air news correspondent ask Bonnie Tyler, "Can you explain the difference between a total eclipse of the sun and a total eclipse of the heart?" 

Is that really the best question he can conjure up?

For days now, the media has focused on the total eclipse of the sun. It's a major event; the last one was in1979, and the next one won't be until 2024. 

Details of where the eclipse will be and when have been dominating the news for weeks (a nice reprise from the daily deluge of upsettling Trump headlines).



Here in North Falmouth, coverage won't be total. About 65% of the sun will be blocked by the moon. In other words, it'll just look cloudy.

I get to the beach around noon, and it's still pretty empty. But by one, my mom and some of her friends have started to arrive. 

Phyllis, my mom, Hope, Davida

The group eventually expands to about 15 people.

Some have bought the officially sanctioned glasses, and others have created their own viewing devices.

Around 1:30 someone shouts, "It's starting." And just as quickly someone else yells, "Don't look up or you can go blind."

We share the two sets of viewing glasses and see what looks like a bright yellow-orange sliver. It's pretty cool. 

Harrison

The home-made devices don't work nearly as well.

Every ten minutes or so we take turns using the regulated glasses to watch as the moon passes over the sun. "Don't look too long though. It can hurt your eyes." I'm not sure if this is true, but I'm not taking any chances.

One person doesn't want to look at all for fear that the glasses may fail her and she'll lose her sight.

Someone else warns, "Put your hat on." This advice I ignore since I don't recall anywhere reading that an eclipse can cause harm to an un-hatted head.

beached out

It's a perfect beach day.

Sunny. Warm. A gentle breeze. Low tide. Family and friends.

Around three, my mom and I pack up to get ready for our next beach outing. Jean's invited us to her beach for cocktails. 

So after our beach, my mom and I come home, shower, and change. Then we get dressed in non-bathing-suit-beachwear for Jean's.

We get there around 4:30; Jean has prepared a beautiful beach spread.

t's a nice way to end the day.  But by 5:30, I'm antsy and ready to go.  

My sister gets a call from her son and I hear her say, "We'll probably be leaving by seven or so....."

We eat more. Talk more. And I get someone to take a group photo.

Finally around 6:30 my sister starts packing up.  "We're going to go home and shower, and start getting dinner ready," she tells my mom and me. "Why don't you stay awhile longer and then come over."

So we do. The sun is starting to set. The few other people on the beach leave.

It's peaceful being alone on a beach as day ends.

Finally around seven my mom and I leave to go to my sisters (a short five minute drive from the beach).

Jean is making her own pizza. Three different kinds, including making her own dough. As expected, they are amazing. As is the salad, the dressing, and everything else my sister effortlessly makes.

We are home by 9:30, sunned and sated.

beach break

Thick clouds. Rain threatening. No possibility of sun.

Makes decision-making easier.

I've been coming to the Cape my whole life and today I discover a restaurant that's been around for years. 

We show up around 11. And already the outside waiting area is packed.

But the line goes fast. 

Every diner we pass is eating something I want to order. It's a welcoming place, except for our overtaxed waitress. The menu lists summer and fall pancakes.

When my friend asks when the pumpkin-pecan pancakes will be available, our waitress responds, "I have no idea. I have more important things to worry about than fall pancakes."

There are two kinds of blueberry pancakes offered today —ones made with small, frozen Maine blueberries or ones made with large local fresh blueberries. I choose the latter. The butter looks recently churned. And the maple syrup is real. They are incredible.

M and I later decide to have a book club meeting — a real benefit of a two-person book club; we can meet whenever the two of us choose to. We get together at M's summer rental,  overlooking the Atlantic. 

It's the perfect setting for discussing what we've just read (Missing Presumed by Susie Stein) and what we plan to read next (The Late Show by Michael Connolly).

My final non-beach activity is a long overdue facial. My last was three years ago, at the same place and with the same person (Andrea). 

By the time I leave, the rain has finally started. It's a good night to stay in.

dinner with jean and M

Seems like I write a lot about eating. 

But aside from sitting on the beach reading (Missing, Presumed by Susie Steiner, excellent so far) and losing at gin to my mom, that's pretty much all I've been doing.

The Falmouth area has, in the past few years, added some city-worthy restaurants. Better than the local fast-food -fried-fish places that used to abound here.

C-Salt is one of them.

If you sit at the bar at C-Salt (where you can only make a reservation for 5 o'clock), you can order their burger. And, the number of burgers they offer is limited to the number of ground steaks they make each day. And that number is small.

Tonight, M (who is back down; her son is doing better), Jean (my sister) and I go. We make a 5 o'clock reservation — at least two hours earlier than we are all accustomed to eating.

We arrive at the restaurant on time and join the other early diners who are waiting outside for C-Salt to open.

Mike, our server and bartender, is charming. He tells us that "seven or eight burgers are available tonight, and they're made of ground prime rib, sirloin, and short rib."

Dinner doesn't disappoint, and makes eating at this unfashionable hour totally worth it.

We are home before the sun even sets.

dinner with my mom

The food is good, not great. And it's always loud. 

More often then not you need to wait for your reservation. And why do they still serve butter that needs to be unwrapped? 

But the view is spectacular. The crowd friendly. And the baked stuffed lobster among the best I've ever had.

At least once per visit home we go to The Chart Room. 

Tonight it's just my mom and me.

The weather is perfect. We are seated at the exact same table as last time we were here in July.

And just like last time, the tables around us are filled with large parties. This time we sit near two well-behaved babies, one of whom is named Ellie, same as my mom's cat.

The lobster, which we both get, is excellent. What helps make it so good is the lack of difficulty (and mess) in eating it. The meat from the claws is taken out and stuffed inside the lobster. No crackers are offered, as none are needed. It's the way all lobster should be served, but rarely is.

I've been here two days and have probably gained two pounds already. I still have seven days left.

not according to plan

Weeks ago my good friend Zelia decides to come up to the Cape with me.

We talk about restaurants. I make reservations at two of my favorites. We discuss transportation. She decides to fly (books a non-refundable ticket) since she has to leave on Friday. We are both looking forward to spending time together as it's been awhile.

The plan was for Zelia to fly up to Hyannis today. 

Around 3 yesterday I get an email:

I might not be able to go: my computer crashed - I was planning to bring it because I have some things that I need to do- and my computer guy is away. I spoke to him and he will try to fix it around 6 pm. If he is able to fix. it; I will go. If he is not I won't. I can't leave with this problem hanging over my head.

We text back and forth and finally, around 9:30, I get this:

We'd been planning this for weeks. 

And I'd wanted her to meet my friend M who's renting a house near my mom's. But M's son had his tonsils out a week ago today, and at 23, the recovery's been painful and complicated. So M's  been home in Weston nursing her son, and hoping to be back sometime this week. 

Then there's the matter of the weather. 

Beautiful vistas, but no sunny skies.

Still, it's only day one. 

could have flown to Paris

After another wretched day of working for pretty much no pay (unless you count $29.70 as fair compensation),  I am happy to be leaving for Cape Cod.

Last summer my round trip ticket from JFK airport to Hyannis was $121.70 .

When I came last month, I paid $144.68.

When I try to purchase tickets for this trip, one-way to Hyannis is $185; I take two busses instead ($26 total).

I awake to dark skies at 5:30.  Am in a Via by 6:10.  And at the Bolt bus stop at 38th and First by 6:20. The bus leaves at seven.

A line has already started to form, but I desperately need my morning coffee. I remember a deli nearby.

The sign on the door says it opens at 6:30. 

So I wait. And wait.

And watch the bus line grow longer. And longer.

Four hours to Boston and no coffee would be awful. 

But then I spot a little mobile food cart.

I get my cup of java just as the Bolt bus pulls in.

Despite the bus being near-full, I am successful in looking unfriendly enough to dissuade anyone from sitting with me. It's a fast, freezing trip to Boston's South Station. We arrive, as planned, by 11:15.

I have an hour's wait for the bus to the Cape. But then it's a short 70-minute ride.

I left my home at six. 

Arrived in Falmouth by two.

Eight hours. Same as a flight to Paris.

Except had I gone there, I wouldn't be having dinner with my mom here.