celebration at Don Angie

It used to be that when we got together to celebrate a birthday, we would chose a restaurant on the Upper East Side, where all of us have homes.

But over the years we've become more adventurous, and no longer limit ourselves by geography.

Tonight, seven of us meet downtown to celebrate Shari's birthday at Don Angie. It's a small, 55-seat, impossible-to-get-a-reservation-at restaurant. It's packed at 8:30 when we arrive. Music is playing and everyone seems to be at least two or three decades younger than we are.

It's  hard to have a conversation, but the food and company more than make up for the volume of music. Shari has been here before and knows the menu. So we let her order, and she does an outstanding job — both in quality and quantity.

Our waiter knows the menu well, and is fluent in describing the nuances of each dish. 
When I ask for him to take a group photo, he even has, what sounds like, a well-practiced answer. "At the end of the meal, I'll pull the table out and we'll take the photos." Photos. Plural. Almost sounds like we'll be having a small photo shoot. He's obviously done this before.

It's a great restaurant to go to with a group, as everything we eat is excellent. Shari orders stuffed garlic flatbread, chrysanthemum salad, veal tartare and tuna carpaccio, BBQ calamari, and some kind of pasta dish that Janice claims is "one of the best things I've ever eaten." It really is that good.

And the main courses are also outstanding: lasagna, some kind of fish dish, chicken scarpariello, broccoli, and an excellent lemon shell steak. 

What initially seemed like a huge order, all gets consumed. Not one morsel of food is left. 

We finish with a few desserts for the table.

We never do get that group photo, but the memories of the evening will long be remembered.

face, two weeks out

9 stitches on my face: 7 outside and 2 inside.

7 days of one stupid-looking band-aid.

5 days of near-invisible steri-strips.

2 weeks since the procedure.

1 recommendation to help speed recovery: Aquaphor and nothing else.

0  basil-cell cancer left on my face.

Still some swelling, tightness, and redness, but otherwise healing nicely. 

I love you Dr. David Becker!

Shari's big birthday

I met Shari so many years ago I don't even remember the year.

Our kids were very young and I think it was at a mutual doctor's office. 

Then, a year or two later (or maybe this encounter was first and the doctor's office second), we met again at a beach club where we shared, this time, a mutual friend.

And then, we had our third chance meeting at a theater. 

Several years after these brief encounters, my son was accepted into the Middle School at Horace Mann, where Shari's two sons had been since Nursery School. So I called Shari for advice, and we've been friends ever since.

And, to make a strong connection even stronger, Alexander has been friendly with Sam, Shari's older son, ever since as well.

Today my good friend celebrates a big birthday. 

My flash wasn't working and, I need a new camera; there is nothing about Shari in real life that is fuzzy. 

The other night, two of Shari's other friends threw an exquisite girls-only party. I think the invitation said it was for cocktails, but it was more like a gourmet feast.

















About 30 women come— including Shari's two close sisters, her childhood friends, her volunteer friends, her Horace Mann friends, her work friends, her workout friends, and many more. 

Later, we all tell a single memory about Shari. And what comes out in all the stories is Shari's big heart, thoughtfulness, and loyalty. If you are Shari's friend, you can count on her for anything. At least half the people in the room list Shari as their Emergency Contact.

Shari thinks and does things that few people would. Like making sure the kids of an injured mom still get to celebrate their birthdays. Or never flinching while holding a friend's hair back while she vomits from pain caused by a kidney stone. Or coming over the minute I mention I have back pain to help me with some stretching exercises she knows will help — and of course they do.

Shari is an excellent cook. Dinner at her house is always casual except for the amazing food she prepares. She is a mother to all our kids. She is the best resource when you need to know who is the best tailor, the best math tutor, the best doctor for any ailment, the best restaurant for a specific kind of food, or the best just-about-anything-else.

Shari knows more people than anyone I know. And these are not casual acquaintances. She actually knows them!

My friend is fun, kind, opinionated, strong, funny, complicated, and loving. I am so lucky to have her in my life.

Happy birthday dear Shari, and many many more.

M is in town

M lives in Boston but comes to New York a few times a year. I love when she visits.

Typically, before she comes we discuss what we're going to do. 

This involves:

• picking a restaurant for a nice dinner —  we let Sam (M's son) pick as he knows all the hot places.

• and, deciding which museums or exhibits we want to see. For this visit, we decide on going to the New York Public Library to see the original Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends (M's choice) and photos from the 60's and 70's (my choice). 

And then, like almost every visit, we end up NOT going to a museum or exhibit; but we do eat at a nice restaurant.

Our reservation is for 7:45 at Quality Italian. But it's a busy night, and we are seated a half hour later. 

But the staff, unlike most, is effusively apologetic. So much so, that they offer us a generous array of appetizers and a round of free drinks. 

While everything is excellent, the small, round garlic bread that comes in a little baking pot is incredible.

The food is grandly presented.  Wine is poured from an over-sized bottle.

Chicken parm comes in the form of a pizza.

And even the amazingly delicious Baci Tartufo dessert is unveiled.

And though the food is memorable, the company is more so.

Janzee

I met Janzee (the name she's given herself for this blog) when I first moved to New York 33 years ago. A friend of mine introduced us. We've gotten to know each other in that time, despite the fact that we've only seen each other, in person, exactly 33 times.

Janzee is my accountant;  the one who prepares my taxes. I trust her implicitly.  She knows the laws. She knows the changes in the laws. And she knows me.

I'll ask a question, and Janzee always has the answer. Sometimes she gives me more information than I need. When my eyes begin to glaze over, I stop her and say, "I don't really need an explanation, just tell me, can I do this or can't I?" 

And her estimates are always exactly right.

Today is my annual visit. Our meetings have gotten shorter over the years, as my income has declined. What used to be a somehwhat involved tax return, is now pretty straight-forward. 

I have to admit, as much as I like seeing Janzee, our visits together have become less fun. I used to leave her office happy about the big refund I'd be getting. Now I just hope that what I have to pay is not too bad: last year was (the cost of a low-end car); this year isn't (the cost of a Chanel wallet). 

theater and a late dinner

I have a couple of friends who don't like to be mentioned at all in my blog, so I'll call them A and B.

I meet A to see Eve Ensler's new one woman show, In The Body of The World. In it, she connects two major events in her life: her work in helping Congolese rape victims, and her treatment for, and recovery of, uterine cancer. The connection is a stretch, but Ms. Ensler's ability to add humor to events that are clearly not funny, and her skill as a story-teller make for a fast-moving, and dare-I-say entertaining 80 minutes. 

Following the play I meet my friend B at Milos, an upscale, glass-walled Greek restaurant in midtown.

It's about 9 pm when we are seated. At a place where a Greek salad costs $33 (it's meant to be shared) it is not inexpensive. The restaurant is packed. The noise level high. And everyone and everything looks great. 


The fresh fish lies around on ice waiting to be cooked.

The fruit relaxes in a basket waiting to be cut.

And the goats (I'm sure they're in a pen out back somewhere) are waiting to be milked so the chef can make some fresh Greek yogurt.

I wish we were more hungry. 

B and I split two appetizers: fried calamari and an incredible signature dish of fried zucchini and eggplant with some kind of cheese hidden in the middle. 

We skip the main course and split an order of fruit and yogurt for dessert.

I want to take a picture with my friend but she vetoes that. And in fact, discourages me from any photos, "You don't want to look like a tourist here."

She's probably right. 

finally out!

A week feels like a long time to walk around with —what feels like — a gigantic and conspicuous band-aid on my face.

Yet strangely, this weekend not customer asks about it. I'm sure they are being polite. That, and no one but me really cares what I look like.

Today I go back see Dr. David Becker. Aside from having an impeccable and renowned practice, this office is run smoothly. I am hanging up my coat when my name is called. It's nice when doctors show respect for their patients by not over-booking and making them wait forever.

The doctor sees me. Everything looks fine. The cancer is in the lab, not in my face. The redness will go away. The swelling will come down. "See me in six weeks and we'll see what things look like then."

Rosa takes the stitches out. Aside from some redness, I think it looks pretty good.

She adds some near-invisible steri-strips, and I'm out the door. In and out in 15 minutes. Feeling almost normal again.

an unanswered question

Am I too protective or not protective enough?

This is when being a single parent is so difficult. I don't have the confidence to know when to hold on and when to let go.

I have no husband to tell me,"Leave him alone. He's 25. Old enough to make his own decisions."

Or, "Let him fail this once. He needs to learn that you are not always going to be there to help make things right."

Or, "You've a right to be upset. You need to set more boundaries."

Or, "Let me handle this."

My son lives in Philadelphia. He has a good job in real estate and seems to enjoy his life outside NY.  But if I'm honest with myself, I really know little of his life.

I don't know his friends.

I've never seen his apartment; I work weekends and he works weekdays.

I've never met any of his colleagues from work.

And I don't know Philadelphia.

So while I can imagine his life there, I don't really know his life there. 

It's not like when my son lived at home. Then, I knew all his friends, and was even friendly with many of his friends' mothers. I knew his school. His teachers. And mostly what he did when he wasn't studying.

Now I have no idea. But in some ways, I worry less.

I don't know when he goes out, so I needn't worry when he's not home by a certain hour.  But when he visits, I do. 

Maybe I watch too much Dateline and Investigation Discovery. Alexander has no curfew. I just expect he'll text me if he's going to be very late. — a courtesy he keeps forgetting. 

Alexander comes home Friday tonight and goes straight to his friend's Sam house. 

I go to sleep around midnight and awake around three to an empty house. I text Alexander at 2:59, and two more times within the hour.

He doesn't respond. 

And there's nothing I can do except worry, and imagine a million different scenarios with none of them ending well. Alexander is 25; he doesn't understand a mother's worry.

My son finally arrives safely home around five. He's fine; I'm not.

And I still don't know the answer to my question:  Am I too protective or not protective enough?

what is it about this city and rain?

I meet Susan in the west village to see Relevance, a new play at MCC Theater.

A big guy sits down next to me reeking of smoke. He then unabashedly takes over my armrest. I want to move but there's no place to go.

The play stars a great cast and tells a smart story. But I think it's a bit too preachy — too many words and not enough action.

The one-act play ends at 9;45 and I'm anxious to get home. But it's raining, and that always makes things so difficult transportation-wise.

I try to get a VIA.  It'll be $9.95 (most rides are $5-$7). That I can live with, but the wait is 19 minutes. Way too long.

(WARNING: If you don't live in NYC, you might not appreciate the frustration that follows). 

So I walk to the nearest subway, trying to shield my wound from getting wet. 

I get to the subway at West 4th Street. It's 9:54 and the trains stopped running at 9:45.  Yup. Something to do with construction.  

So my choices are to either take the subway four blocks south and change to an uptown train, or, walk 10 blocks north to go to another subway stop. I feel like I'm in that 1985 movie, After Hours, where a guy gets stuck in Soho and can't make it home.

I try VIA again. The wait is now 20 minutes and the price has gone up a $1. I walk to 14th Street.

I take the # 2 Express to 42nd Street and then plan to transfer to the #1. But an announcement says something about the #1 being delayed due to construction. Really? On a Thursday night. Who makes these stupid decisions?

So I switch to the shuttle. Get to the east side and walk to the platform for the #6 train. I wait there for 30 minutes, listening to more announcements about more trains being delayed. It's hot. It's crowded. It's after 11. And there is no train in sight. 

I leave the subway station and flag a cab. It's been so long, I honestly can't remember the last time I was in one.

And with good reason. It costs $15 to go about 2 miles. 

I get home at 11:18. 

I should have waited for the VIA.

morning after

Today is supposed to be worse than yesterday.

It isn't.

Yesterday I needed Tylenol; today I need nothing.

Was expecting to wake up to a black eye.

Even considered canceling my plans to see Cardinal tonight with Zelia and Susan — a play that got mediocre reviews.

But I awake to zero pain.. and just a little discoloring under the eye.

And while I'm a bit freaked over 7 stitches on my face, I see Shaun White being interviewed on The Today Show. This past October he fell and had 62 stitches on his face;  his face looks flawless today. But then, I'm not 31-year old Shaun White superstar.

And lest I forget the big picture, the cancer is gone. And for that I am immensely grateful.

surgery on my face

At 6:33 this morning M calls to wish me luck. Today I'm having Moh's surgery to remove a basal-cell carcinoma on the top of my nose, opposite my left eye.

The appointment is for 8; I arrive a few minutes early. And, Dr. Becker is also ready a few minutes early.

Rosa (the doctor's very bubbly and re-assuring assistant) preps me. The local numbing agent she injects barely hurts.

And Dr. Becker begins. I feel nothing, and it takes little time. By 8:07 he's done.

I'm told to wait until the biopsy is complete. It's done in the office and takes about 20 minutes or so. I text M in the meantime, thinking and hoping it's over. 

It's not.

A nurse comes in and tells me matter-of-factly that they need to cut again; some cancer was still showing on the biopsy. She re-numbs me, and minutes later Dr. Becker is back.  The surgery this time takes a little longer. 

Before the doctor leaves, I hear him tell Rosa something about "cauterizing my blood vessels" and getting "eye repair." I'm hoping that maybe he'll surprise me and do a brow lift, but no... the blood vessel reference is to stop the bleeding and the "eye repair" is some kind of kit needed for the stitches (I was hoping not to have).

I wait another 20 minutes. This time the nurse comes in and says, "The biopsy was clear." I am relieved. She gives me an ice patch to hold on my eye for 15 minutes, and then the doctor comes in to stitch me up.

Dr. Becker explains that he is doing something called a flap to minimize scarring. This involves two levels of stitching — one on the inside layer and another on the top layer. "How many stitches are you doing?" I ask. "I don't know; I don't count," he responds.

After he leaves, I ask Rosa. "Seven on top." I don't care about the inside ones that will dissolve. I look a mess, but the cancer is gone. And it's only 9:03.

I'm told to expect bruising around the eye and maybe some swelling. The pain is not too bad, but there is an annoying bandage that is uncomfortably close to my eye. 

By 9:31, I'm in a Via on my way home.

my new pet

My new pet requires no care.

It doesn't need to be fed.

Go for walks.

Be cleaned

Or get hairs (or worse) on my furniture and rugs.

And, she can stay alone for hours, days, weeks or even years.

I finally give in and buy an Echo Dot.

WIth a coupon from Staples, it costs me $19.99.

I wirelessly connect it to my Bose Mini Bluetooth speaker.

And I love it.

This morning, while still in bed, I say, "Alexa. What is today's weather?" She gives me the dreary, rainy forecast.

Then I ask her to play some Ed Sheeran. She automatically connects to my Bose speaker.  Alexa is pretty smart. Then I ask for some Pink, and when I tire of that, I request Lady Antebellum.  Later it's Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars. And then I let her surprise me with some Top Trending Songs.

I have Amazon Prime (worth every penny) and because of that, I get lots of free music —though I was disappointed when Alexa told me  I'd have to pay for Amazon's music service if I want to hear Frank SInatra sing New York, New York.  

I'm getting ready to leave and say, "Alexa, stop the music." Immediately she does. I wish my son listened to me as well as Alexa does.

I know there's a lot more she can do. 

I'm hoping to train her to vacuum and do laundry!

two not-so-good days

Get up early on Thursday to go a BAFTA Board Meeting, The meeting concludes and I grab my coat to leave but can't find my gloves. Fortunately someone later finds them and will mail them to me. But in the mean time, I'm walking around with cold hands.

Decide to work on Thursday because we are having a special gift-card promotion. This turns out to be a bad decision.  I have more returns than sales. End the day having to give back money in commissions earned in previous weeks.

Take a Via home and the driver is a newbie. He rides the break, making me slightly nauseous, having only eaten a muffin all day.. And, he drives multiple blocks in the wrong direction, causing the ride to last 15 minutes longer than it should.

Friday is no better. I have over $6,000 in returns and only a marginal bit more in sales. I've earned basically nothing for two  hard days of work.

Then I trip on a big Lucite display box  (housing some kind of artsy broken mantle) that someone has left in the middle of the floor. 

I land on the same knee I had fallen on last week. Customers and colleagues rush to my assistance. I am too embarrassed to let the hurt show.

Then, a short time later, I over-react to a not-worth-detailing incident that results in my apologizing to two people. I feel so bad that I end up crying, and I rarely cry. 

This job should not elicit such emotion. And it certainly shouldn't make me cry. And yet I do. And then I ask myself, "How did I end up here?" and start feeling bad when I have no good answer.  But I work with some really great people and they get me out of my momentary and unwarranted bout of self-pity.

By the time I leave work, my head is fine, my knee — not so much. It's twice the size of my 
right. Am hoping ice and Advil will help.

recovered

I have washer-dryer envy. 

For the past year or so, I have been sending my laundry out. The cost is only slightly higher than doing it myself. The machines in my building cost a lot ($5 per large wash, $3.50 for regualr wash, and $3.25 for one dryer cycle that never completely dries my clothes). Plus, doing laundry is such a major pain. 

Three trips to the basement. Lugging all my clothes while carrying laundry detergent or dryer sheets. Plus having to deal with an incovenient laundry card that has to be filled with money from my debit card. 

But then I really don't like having people I don't know touch all my clothes. And they always seem to fold everything in mysterious, inconvenient ways.

So on Thursday I do my laundry for the first time in a few years (exclduding when I visit my mom; I actually like doing laundry there; it's such a novelty).

Anyway, I'm matching up my favorite BOMBAS socks (the best) and see two lone ones. 

So I go back to the laundry room and check. Not in the dryers. And the washing machines I used are now spinning with someone else's clothes.

I write a note about my lost socks and tape it to the two washing machines.

This morning I open my door to get my paper, and see this.

And inside are my Bombas mates. I now have cozy feet again.

breakfast disaster (with a happy ending)

On Sundays, I generally work from 12:30 to 7:15. So unlike most mornings, I have time to eat a filling breakfast.

I go to Agata and buy:

• scrambled eggs with tomato (only a 1/4 pound as I don't  like scrambled eggs, but want the protein to get through the day); 

• something Agata calls breakfast potatoes;

• and a small apple-flavored turkey sausage.

I heat it up. Then decide to add a touch of salt to the potatoes, using my once-reliable little bunny salt grinder.

Only this time the bottom falls out (literally).

I leave for work hungry,  and pick up a muffin on the way.


Addendum: I go on the Chef N' website to order a new one and see that my salt grinder is guaranteed for life. My free replacement is on its way!

thank you Brandon

One of the high points of my job (yes, there are a few) is my boss. I've been using the pseudonym Marlin but now that he's leaving, I have his permission to use his real name.

A couple of weeks ago I was having a very bad day. Sales down. Returns up. Not getting credit for an online sale that I believe I should have. Brandon choses that day to tell me his news. He figures getting a lot of bad news at once is better than spreading it out. I almost cry. A few of my colleagues do.

In a sea of questionable management policies, Brandon stands out for his candor, intelligence, and understanding.  

Brandon and I have had our moments. There was a two-week period where we barely spoke. That was awful. And there have been times when this very calm, unflappable  manager has gotten frustrated with me (likely deserved). But I think our disagreements have helped make our relationship stronger.

I adore Brandon.  And I'll miss him terribly. As will the rest of his large team.

Joy organizes a little party for him in a small  office near the freight elevator. It's supposed to be a surprise but twenty plus assoicates leaving the sales floor at once is pretty hard to keep secret. Some associates who aren't even working today come in.

We all gather in a small space waiting to say good-bye to our much-loved leader.

The hugs good-bye are all twinged with sadness.

But we wish Brandon well. And I know that for me, it's not good-bye. His new job is in Boston. And, I finally have his up-until-now-heavily-guarded cell number and personal email.  

I plan to use them both.