new find at costco

My friend Z, who's been very cautious throughout this pandemic, buys a car. She's been wanting one, especially since public transportation is something she won't consider.

Today she takes her new car for its first ride — to Costco on 116th St. in Manhattan. 

Among other things, we buy toilet paper and paper towels (the Kirkland brand is as good as Bounty, I think), just in case there is another run on these items. 

I also buy a couple of items I've never bought before, but tried recently and liked: individual containers of Kirkland guacamole and individual containers of organic hummus.

I make coffee every day and love Peet's, but it is expensive. 

Today I see that Costco sells it for more than half the price than Peet's own site does (14.69 for two pounds vs. $16.95 for one pound). So what if these are coffee beans and I don't have a grinder? I can always buy one, I think. They're not all that expensive.

At checkout, I happen to mention my no-grinder situation to the cashier. "Oh, no problem.You can grind your beans right over there,"  she says, as she points to a large grinding machine —one much nicer than I would ever buy.

In a world lately devoid of any excitement, today I discover a tiny bit of some.

"I" of the storm

This morning Savannah Guthrie (whom I adore) is talking about the newest hurricane that threatens us. (As if we need any more threats). She refers to it as, " that storm that starts with an I."

Next Al Roker  (who is probably a nice man but whom I find annoying) comes on to talk about Isaias, pronounced Ees-ah-EE-ahs (according to the National Hurricane Center).

Why name a storm that no one can pronounce? 

Even Al Roker pronounces it incorrectly, as Ees-ah-ez.

What happened to names like Carol and Sandy and Arthur?

I was curious and did some quick research.

Hurricanes started receiving female names in 1953, and male names were added in '79.  The National Ocean Service says, "Storms are given short, distinctive names to avoid confusion and streamline communication."

How does naming a storm that no one can pronounce (and therefore remember) help communications?

And then tonight, on the evening news, Lester Holt (a surprisingly great replacement for Brian Williams) never once mentions the name of the impending storm. 

Instead, he relies totally on graphics to give this storm its name.

C'mon people at the National Hurricane Center. At least chose names that everyone can pronounce.

I'm sure this is one of those posts where people roll their eyes and think, "She has too much time on her hands."

Those people would be right.

my son's first, and mine too

I remember mine.

A brown (my least favorite color) 1978 (or maybe '77) Toyota Corolla. Its only features were AC and an automatic transmission. I think I paid $4,000 for it.

My son lives in Philadelphia. He took driver's ed in high school and got his license in 2011. I think the next time he drove was last year. He needed to for work.

Alexander's been renting cars, and wanting his own for a while. He did all the research and ended up buying a 2018, well-rated Honda Civic.

It arrives today and he's very excited, as he should be. 

He texts me pictures, showcasing his new baby from every angle. And then this.

Addendum:

After reading this post, my friend Gary emails me the following:

If you are now the grandmother, I sure hope (for your sake) that he doesn’t expect you to pay for the care of the baby :)

a ride on the #6

The last two weeks have been miserable. 

90 degrees plus, almost every day. It's oppressive to walk even one block.

Today I have a dermatologist appointment in midtown. I think of canceling but I did that already last week. My doctor is freezing off some pre-cancerous thing above my left eye so I really should go.

This morning I read an eye-opening article in The Atlantic about our unnecessary obsession with cleaning surfaces. It gives me the courage to finally take the subway.

I am wearing my highly protective but incredibly hot and uncomfortable N95 mask.

It's been four and a half months since I was last here, and I immediately notice the colorful new floor designs, every six feet.

The subway is pretty empty with mostly everyone wearing a mask. 

And even at Grand Central, most people there have their faces covered — with the notable exception of  these two police officers.

I don't think I've ever seen Grand Central this empty in the middle of the day.

It gives me comfort.

I walk a few blocks to my doctor's office and arrive dripping in sweat. And, I'm an hour early. But the office is empty, and the kind receptionist puts me in an air-conditioned exam room. 

I'm almost disappointed when my doctor comes in a few minutes later.

The subway ride home is even emptier than the ride going. And the car is spotless.

My first subway ride in months, and I can honestly report that it was just fine. Still, I highly doubt it will become a regular thing.

My only complaint — and it's a small one — waiting in the sweltering heat for the train to arrive. 

But that, of course, has nothing to do with COVID.

almost normal

Susan and Jill come over for an impromptu dinner and movie on February 8. 

I had no idea then that I will next see them five and a half months later.

Yes, we text and talk all the time. Our friendships are strong. But still.

Tonight we are meeting for a dinner in Central Park.

It's 90 degrees. Were they both not athletic warriors, I probably would have suggested rescheduling. 

Jill walks five or more miles every day, even in scorching heat. And Susan thinks nothing of playing an afternoon game of tennis, whatever the temperature.

A couple of weeks ago we set this same plan. Both Jill and Susan were still up for meeting despite a forecast of major storms in the area. It wasn't until it actually did start to rain that they reluctantly agreed to call off our picnic.

So clearly, I'm the wimp of the group. And I'm not going to cancel because of a small thing like hot weather,

We are each bringing our own food. I make my favorite: Prosciutto Di San Daniele, sundried tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, avocado, and a little balsamic vinegar and honey mustard on a roll. I also bring some red grapes, water and a towel to sit on.

The mile walk is brutal. But by the time I arrive and see my friends, I feel guilty ever having thought about the heat.

The park is gorgeous at sunset. Quiet. And everyone is socially distanced. 

Susan brings wine, glasses, individual containers of guacamole, and some kind of can't-have-just-one rosemary crackers. We remove our masks.

We talk, eat. laugh, and spend over two hours doing what good friends do.

It feels so normal. So nice. Just like the kind of thing we did before, never quite really seeing the absolute beauty in the everyday.

thursday, friday, whatever

The number of COVID cases across the country continues to rise, now exceeding four million known cases, and almost 144,000 deaths.

Here in NYC the people I know are still vigilante.

Our President has absolutely no idea what to do, and continues to make at best, stupid blunders, and at worst, dangerous ones.

And the everydayness of our current lives persists.

This morning I order a couple of items from Orwashers, my go-to local bakery, including a braided challah bread.

A few minutes later I get a call from Lauren with a question regarding my order. 

"Hi, we don't have the challah bread you ordered today."

"Really, why not?" (I'm thinking, could they have sold out already? It's not even 10 o'clock.)

"Well, we only carry it on Friday." (Like the website says, she's probably thinking, but is too kind to point out.)

"Yes, so?" I respond.

"Well, today's not Friday."

"It isn't?" 

"No, today is Thursday."

And of course she is right.

I'm not even that embarrassed. 

In our current world, all days are pretty much the same.

a mom-call

My son very rarely calls just to talk. 

His preferred method of communication is texting. That way, the conversation can stay brief. 

And if I suggest Facetime? Forget it; he's just not interested.

So I'm surprised when my phone rings and it's a Facetime call from Alexander. I stop whatever important task I'm involved with (I think today's was searching for good glass air-tight containers) and begin the call.

"Hey, how's it going?" he says.

Almost all our calls begin like that. And the ones that don't begin with, "I can't talk right now," before I've even said a word. 

My son continues.

"Can you take a look and see if you think I've parked far enough away from this handicapped sign?"

Ah, I get it. This is a mom-call.

Next Alexander turns the camera away from himself.

I first see some green treetops.

Next I see a blue sign indicating that only Handicapped Parking is allowed.

And then I see a car parked near the curb, presumably the rental car my son is using.

None of these are in the same view. I see each separately.

I ask Alexander to back up and try again. 

This time I can see both his car and the sign, but it's difficult to judge the distance between the car and the sign. And even if I could, I have no idea what the minimum distance should be.

I tell Alexander this, and he responds,

"Well, I think it's fine. I'm parking here."

At least I got to see him on Facetime. 

random thoughts

I'm pretty much stuck in my apartment, with just an occasional trip outside to run errands. At 90 plus degrees, it's too hot to be walking around.

I write a blog because I enjoy writing. And even more, I am genuinely touched that others enjoy reading it.

But sometimes I have nothing to say. And when I re-read this at some point in the future, I'd like to know some of what I felt.

So, here are some random thoughts:

First, like everyone, I miss my pre-COVID life. Mostly, I miss the people in it. I haven't seen my mom since Thanksgiving. My son since December. And most of my friends since March or before.

I worry that I've become too internally-focussed. With all the time I've been spending inside my apartment, I notice too much I don't like.  I wish I could update my entire bathroom. That light fixture should be replaced. I'd love new kitchen cabinets. My refrigerator is too small, even for one. I'd love nice, clean baseboards and moldings. I wish I lived in a new place. As in, brand new.

This summer feels like a long, dull non-event. I do want to go up to the Cape but likely won't. I don't want to even be on the suspect list should anyone I'm close to get sick after I arrive. And there is nowhere for me to quarantine even if I wanted to, which I don't. There is no fear-free way to get up to the Cape, except maybe renting a car. But that's prohibitively expensive. But then I think, it's only one summer.

The news is relentlessly depressing. Until there is a proven vaccine, I fear our lives will be pretty much as they are today (or worse).

I wish my hair could grow faster so I can see if I like having silvery hair (with some kind of interesting high- or low- lights). Or, if silver hair just makes me look old. Then I won't do it, despite the liberating benefits of not seeing roots after two weeks. But I still need, at least, another six months of growing before deciding.

I think about the November election and can't imagine the world if, against all odds, Trump wins. That thought is too terrifying to consider.

Now would be a great time to have a car.

My involvement in BAFTA has waned, as the Screening Committee that I chair is now on hiatus. I miss the camaraderie. The involvement. Working with people I like and respect. The feeling of actually doing something. And of course, the screenings.

Right now (and I absolutely know this will change), there is nothing in the imminent future to look forward to.

But everyone I know is safe and healthy, so mostly (not exclusively) all these other things are just minor annoyances.

knives and other things

It's 2012.  I hear clanging on the street, similar to the sound made by an ice-cream truck. 

I look out my window and see a red-painted truck, with a sign that says something about knife-sharpening. I take out the one big knife I own and get it sharpened.

I haven't seen the truck since.

So on a quest for something different to do, I decide to get my knives sharpened.

My collection has grown since 2012 and now includes four: an 8-inch, 7-inch, 5-inch and 4-inch.

It's not really that I think my knives are dull (I don't use them enough to know). But my friend Zelia recently asked about sharpening hers, so that's how I got the idea.

I find a hardware store near me. I have no idea what the going price is to sharpen a knife, but $1.75 per inch sounds high. That would have been about $42 to sharpen my 4 knives.

I try the hardware store I typically go to (on 75th and First). They tell me it'll be $22. I leave my knives and they do a great job, I think. Though truly, I don't know.

Today I get a text from a friend. 

A knife sharpening truck?

And now a shredding truck?

It makes me wonder what other kinds of trucks I've been missing out on.

5.8 miles

I haven't written in a while because I haven't done anything worth writing about.

Everyday has become pretty much the same as the day before. Lately, it's only the vivid, detailed dreams I have after falling asleep that afford me any real excitement.

Today I hear that 42 states have shown increased cases of the coronavirus. Instead of fears easing, they are rising. It appears to be only a matter of time before things turn bad again everywhere.

But I am getting  bored living in my bubble of one.

And so  I make a resolution: 

Do at least one thing today that I didn't do yesterday.

The weather complies for a long walk. It is low 80's and sunny. I end up on a 5.8 mile walk through Central Park — mostly without the encumbrance of a mask. It's easy to maintain an acceptable social distance with few people in sight.

I end up here.

Here is the Conservatory Gardens, a magical place just feet away from iconic 5th Avenue.

I find the most perfect place to sit and read for a while. At 70% in, I am totally enjoying The Last Flight by Julie Clark. 

This small slice of heaven is quiet, and inhabited only by me. Plus, there is the added benefit of sprinklers to keep away the heat.

I get home feeling that if I do nothing else today, at least I've done something.

a hair cut... finally

On February 16th  I get my hair cut.

Almost five months later I get the next one.

Having my hair long and straggly hasn't been much of a concern since:

• I'm not going anywhere;
• I'm one of many having out-of-control hair; and
• I mostly wear my hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Hair salons opened here on June 22. I am happy that the small, unassuming Blu Bocker survived its three-month closing.

I am a little nervous. But this salon is being very careful.

Masks are required. I wear an N-95 to be extra safe. 

My temperature is taken when I arrive.

I am required to wash my hands. And in case I'm not sure how, a small sign details the process.

And seats at the hair-wash section are spaced well apart.

There is only one other customer at the salon when I arrive, but he is almost done.  And soon, it's only me. 

The shower-like separators are not needed.

The head massage I've missed is amazing. 

And Kato does a great job with the cut. My hair just feels healthier.

I leave feeling almost normal. 

And then I'm quickly reminded how not-normal things are.

I pass new barriers being erected outside a restaurant. There is no indoor dining allowed. But this way, people can dine outside, on busy, two-way York Avenue, next to city traffic.

I don't think dining al fresco was quite envisioned this way. 

in the beginning

A week or two in, I remember some of my friends saying how much more relaxed they felt — less pressured — despite the raging, unpredictable virus and financial uncertainty that was spreading outside our homes. 

There was something almost comforting about being required to stay at home. 

We all hunkered down and started cooking. Or cleaning. Or organizing. Or catching up on all those streaming TV shows we may have missed. Or those books we wanted to read and never quite got around to. 

But it's now been over three months since NY initially shut down. Today Phase 3 begins. And while indoor dining is still not allowed, spas and nail salons can open. 

Still, everyday life hasn't changed very much since this all started.

This weekend I finished an online course offered by Johns Hopkins. I am now certified to become a contact tracer.

Aside from that, I did very little over the holiday weekend.

It's too hot to go out for a walk. And even plans to get together with friends is limited to outside. And if it rains... well, there is no back-up plan. Plan B is simply to re-schedule.

Life has become incredibly dull. All this sameness is not much fun.

Despite the city's slow and careful re-opening, my behavior, and those of my friends, has changed little.

We still wear masks and socially distance. 

We still don't visit in each others' homes. 

We still don't casually shop in stores. 

And we still don't participate in restaurant outdoor-dining. 

Yes, I am more relaxed with the packages and groceries that enter my house.

Yes, I will soon get a much-needed haircut. It's been five months and my raggedy hair desperately needs it.

Yes, I have visited my dermatologist, because I had to.

And yes, I might even get a manicure so my cuticles can be brought under control.

But overall, the virus is still out there. And until there is an effective treatment and a vaccine, not much has really changed.

trip to midtown

It's been a while since I've been out of my neighborhood.

But today, I have an appointment with my dermatologist, Rhonda Pomerantz. I've been seeing her for over 16 years, and can't imagine anyone better. She's smart. Personable. And responsive. If she weren't my doctor, we'd probably be friends.

To avoid making a decision on public transportation, I decide to walk. It's about 2.5 miles each way. Normally, that's a nice walk. But not in hot, humid weather. I am such a winter person. 

Central Park is beautiful and not too busy.

I haven't been anywhere near 5th Avenue since March. The streets are quiet. though it's only 10am and it is, after all,  summer. 

There is comfort in seeing familiar landmarks — a reminder that some things remain unchanged.

But not everything.

Poor Atlas. Our world must be getting harder to hold up.

But at least he's wearing a mask.