near-perfect night

On our way to dinner at the Chart Room, we pass a surprising site.

"Stop,"  I tell my mom who is driving. "I want to take some pictures."

My mom is hesitant after my episode on the bus earlier this week. "Maybe you shouldn't," she advises. She doesn't want me to upset anyone. And though she doesn't say it, I'm guessing she's thinking, "Especially some crazy Trump supporters." I promise her that I won't provoke them. I exit the car to take a few photos.

My only comment to the man and woman manning this little campaign center is, "You don't see much of this on the Cape." They agree. 

Overall, my photo adventure goes smoothly. 

But just as I'm getting into the car, Zelia can't help herself. She yells out the window, "Trump is the swamp," in reference to Trump's campaign promise of draining the swamp. All I can think is, my poor mom — she's the one driving what must feel like the getaway car.

We get to the Chart Chart Room, and in response to COVID, there are many more tables set up outdoors. The restaurant has done a great job of separating everyone.

I get my usual: baked stuffed lobster. And it is, as usual, incredible.

As is the night sky...

perfect day

I feel like I've escaped into a new, freer world.

Zelia and I start the day with a 6-mile walk, partly along the beach, and partly along empty roads dotted with scenic summer houses. It's so much nicer, and easier, than walking in oppressive city heat, wearing a mask, all while trying to avoid cyclists and runners. Strangers here even smile and say hello (from a safe distance) as we pass them.

It's a perfect, blue-sky day, with a nice breeze. Sitting with people I love, reading a book I adore (Playing Nice by JP Delaney), with feet in the sand and an ocean view.

I get to the beach around 1;  my mom shows up an hour later with some woman in a floppy hat, big dark sunglasses, and a mask. I am sure she is a friend of my mom's that I'm supposed to remember from summers past and don't. When the woman isn't looking, I mouth to my mom, "Do I know her?" Turns out I do; it's Zelia.

The beach is really magnificent. I say hello to old friends I haven't seen since last summer. It's good to be back. And, my mom looks great, and seems genuinely happy that I am finally here. 

I am too.

I leave a little after four, to a view that is never boring, always changing, and grounds me in away that city sidewalks don't.

9-stop odyssey up to the cape

Around 9:30 or so Zelia and her stunning daughter V pick me up. Last week of summer, tests all taken, we are finally driving up to my mom's house on the Cape.

STOP #1

Zelia's stunning daughter V is not thrilled with her mom's driving.

"Why are you driving so slowly?"

"Why are you taking the Hutch to Greenwich when it's faster to stay on 95?"  

"Mom! You are too close to that guy in front of you!"

We pull over and V takes the wheel.

STOP #2

We drop V off at her boyfriend's house in Greenwich and return to I-95.

STOP#3

Zelia and I both need coffee. We stop at an off-road food court type place somewhere in Connecticut. Everyone is wearing a mask; the bathrooms are clean; and the indoor space is wide open.

We go to a Dunkin' Donuts, get our drinks, and are back in the car, back on the road, all within ten minutes.

My order of "coffee with just a tablespoon of half and half" somehow gets interpreted as "coffee with lots of half and half plus a tablespoon of sugar." It is undrinkable and I toss the entire cup.

STOP #4

We need gas; too bad we didn't think to get gas at our last stop where there was both a food court and a gas station.

STOPs #5 and #6

We've now been in the car about four hours, have just traveled through RI, and are hungry. We turn to YELP and find a cute-sounding place nearby. 

A few more exits and we are in Marion — a quaint New England seaside town. And for the first time in a year I see the Atlantic.

We get back in the car, drive another mile, and find Kate's. It's the perfect place for lunch. 

And because it's pretty empty, we are comfortable eating indoors. My first time having a meal in a restaurant in six months.

STOP #7

We want to bring my mom a pie, and I remember there's a great pie place in Marion. Or rather, there was a great pie place in Marion. So we go back to YELP and find an "artisanal bakery" about 10 miles away. We're in no hurry. It's an overcast, rainy day. So we follow Google maps and end up at a house with a bakery in the garage, and a sign that says it's open only by appointment. We leave not feeling like we missed out.

STOP #8

We pick up an apple pie at Crabapple's, not too far from my mom's.

FINAL STOP

We arrive around four — to my mom's bright smile and exuberance. It feels so good and so right to be here. It's been a long summer away.

the results are in

I decide to get a COVID test.  

Saturday, as it turns out, is a good day for testing at Metropolitan Hospital — a hospital I had previously never heard of.

I arrive, and only two other people are there to be tested. And, there are more than enough, appropriately-suited staff to help.

While I'm there, I am told that if I want, I can also have the antibody test. Though I doubt I have any anti-bodies, I decide to get the test anyway. It's a simple blood test with results that day.

After all the intake forms are completed, I'm shown into a small curtained-off room. The slightly uncomfortable-but -quick nasal swab (both nostrils) and blood test are completed in minutes.  

A few hours later, I get the results from the antibody test. Negative.

The COVID results take longer.

In the meantime, my friend Zelia goes yesterday;  she gets her results today. I got tested two days before Zelia (same place) and am still waiting.

I call to follow up. I am re-connected three times until I finally reach some guy who is clearly working from home. I hear his kids in the background clearer than I hear him;  I think he may be home and underwater.

Basically, he knows nothing more than I know and it's a waste of a call.

I hang up, and an hour later I get an email with my results (totally unrelated to my phone call).

As expected, but still good to hear — negative.

Looking like I may visit my mom after all. She, by the way, also tested negative.

drama on the M-15, or when saying nothing is by-far the best option

 I decide to take a bus to the lower east side.

It's a long bus ride but I wear my N95 and feel protected.

Even still, I'm not comfortable seeing two women in the back who are using the bus as a traveling restaurant. And one appears to be an essential worker; she should know better.

But it's the bus ride home that turns nasty.

I see this guy, talking loudly on his phone. 

Across the aisle from him is a policeman.

"Officer," I say. "Shouldn't he be wearing a mask?  I mean, it is the law."

He responds, "He has one on."

So I point out the obvious, "Yes, but it's around his chin."

The policeman than — almost apologetically — says to the guy, "Hey, this lady (and points to me) wants you to put your mask on." 

The helpful officer exits at the next stop and the passenger's mask comes right off.

Soon after, this woman and her child get on the bus. I'm blurring their faces and tattoos for reasons that will soon become obvious.

I ask the woman to put her mask on. She ignores me. I take her picture.

"Hey, bitch," she says in high volume. "Did you just take my picture?"

"No, " I lie.

"Well if you did, I'll come and break your f*c*ing phone."

I am sending the picture to Alexander when suddenly she grabs the phone out of my hands and throws it across the floor of the bus.

Then she starts screaming, "This bitch just took my f*c*king picture." 

Now that first dude joins on. "She's crazy (meaning me), man. She should be arrested. But you can be sure that even if she is she'll get off."

For the record, I've committed no crime... taking someone's photo without their permission is not illegal. Stupid, maybe, but not illegal.

I grab my phone off the floor, while the two of them are screaming about me.

Then some riders try to calm the woman down. She has no interest in being calmed down. 

I say nothing throughout this shouting session.

The bus stops and I get off, fearful she might follow me. She doesn't.

I am fine but shaken and call my son.

I get zero sympathy.

"Are you crazy?" he asks.

"First of all, you should treat everyone on the bus as if they all have COVID. You definitely don't want to do anything to provoke them. And what do you think is going to happen? They'll appreciate your telling them to put their mask on? You think they don't know? THEY DON'T CARE!"

He's right.

Four good lessons learned:

• Don't tell anyone to put a mask on.  Just move.
• Some people don't care what's right for the public good, and who am I to convince them otherwise?
• Avoid public transportation.
• And don't expect help from the police when it comes to COVID-19.

Plus one more:

This mother can still get great advice from her young and sometimes-wise 27-year old son!

a touch of country on the upper east side

Every Saturday morning a Farmer's Market arrives in my neighborhood.

Different vendors sell everything from duck, to flowers, to vegetables, to fish, to butter, eggs, and cheese, to baked goods and fresh apple cider.

Since COVID, the organizers have done a great job of keeping all the shoppers socially distanced. There are multiple lines, each marked with chalk indicators, so it's clear where to stand.  

Everyone is masked and polite. (Unlike the bus I was on later today where an unmasked passenger sat with his similarly clad girlfriend.  When I pointed out that the law requires masks on busses, he smiled and gave me a thumbs up — a polite f**k you.)

I meet my friend Zelia. We easily find each other, even with our mostly covered faces. 

We buy our usual: a half dozen ears of white corn; a box of small tomatoes, a half-pound of dry scallops, and six ounces of tuna—sushi quality.

It's nice to be able to do this only three blocks from home. 

And the reward is a well-priced, simply cooked dinner.

Addendum:

Scallops are so simple to cook: Dry thoroughly. Remove the muscles. Coat with a little flour. Season well with salt and pepper. Cook for 2 minutes one side in grapeseed oil, flip and cook another minute and add butter and lemon.

As for corn: place it unshucked, in the microwave for two minutes. It's so easy to peel this way, and it comes out cooked perfectly. And not one single pot or dish to clean afterward. 

Not that I'm the best cook —far from it — I'm just doing it more.

the city: good and bad

Today Mayor de Blasio announces a .24 percent positivity test rate for COVID-19 — a rate that once hit 71 percent.

That would be incredible for any city, but particularly one that was so devastated in March and April.

With a .24% positivity rate, I am genuinely amazed to see most people still wearing masks as they go about their lives.  And outside it is not even a requirement.

But inside it is. And stores are getting sloppy in their definitions of what "wearing a mask" means.

In Duane Reade today I see at least two employees wearing masks with their noses exposed.

And we all know that those masks with the valves on them do nothing to protect others; it only protects the wearer.

At Agata I see a man with a paper towel scotch-taped to the sides of his face, right below his ears. When I point this out to a store employee, she responds, "Oh that's okay. At least he's wearing a mask."

I fear for the immediate future of NYC.

Crime is increasing —through July, shootings were up 72% vs. last year.

People are exiting the city in droves— my building is filled with vacancies.

Stores are closing everywhere.

I see this sign today as I pass my next-door nail salon. They had opened back up just a month ago. 

 

The city will be cutting crucial services as major budget cuts are needed.

More restaurants will close when eating outside is no longer an option.

Theater —both on and off-Broadway— doesn't exist right now.

And will there even be a screening season?

I know more people on unemployment today than at any time in the past.

Who knows what the fall will bring, but I fear we are in for a very bumpy ride.

a day away

Robin calls this morning.

"Hey, let's drive up to Rockland County State Park. There's a gorgeous lake up there; we can walk around it and then have lunch. It's beautiful. And no one is there during the week."

It takes no convincing. I haven't seen Robin in months, and I don't think I've been out of the city since Thanksgiving. 

Last time Robin and I went on a road trip together it was up to Westchester. We were absolutely sure that a similar trip would be repeated soon. That was over four years ago.

Robin picks me up around eleven, and an hour later we are in the country. Or so it feels.

Big trees. Lots of green. A gorgeous lake. And geese everywhere. 

We walk around the three-and-a-half mile lake. It's both calming and quiet — the perfect venue for catching up. We walk freely without masks, as there are few other people.

After our walk we scout out a well-situated picnic bench for lunch. How nice it will be to sit with a view so different from the one I usually see.

But within seconds of unwrapping our sandwiches, we are joined by a swarm of bees. Soon our lunch-by -the-lake becomes lunch-in-the-car-by-the- restrooms.

After our scenic lunch, we take advantage of our city-escape and drive to Connecticut to a totally empty BJ's.

Then on to Stew Leonard's, the best place to buy food out of Manhattan.

Everyone in the parking lot seems to be maskless. Connecticut appears to be more lax than NY. We contemplate not going in, but fortunately masks are required in the store.

By five, we are heading back to the city.

And by seven, I am eating my prized purchase of the day.  It may be a little heavy on the mayo, but it's still outrageously good.

teaching my mom how to text

After years of pleading by her kids and grandkids, my mom finally gets an iPhone.

Now she can participate in our group family texts.

"You'll be amazed at how easy it is," we all tell her. 

Before getting the phone, my mom looks for some assurance. 

"I just want to make sure that  this new phone will let me do all the things I'm able to do with my current phone (an old Samsung)."

I wonder what complicated apps she could possibly be referring to.

"Like what?" I ask.

"LIke call people and answer the phone."

"Yes, mom, you'll be able to do that. And it'll be so much easier you'll wonder what took so long."

My sister Jean sends a group text with the big announcement.

My mom responds with some Facetime icon thing I've never before seen in a text. 

Maybe this won't be so easy.

I call my mom with the intention of introducing her to the simple task of texting.

"Mom, respond to the text you just got. Maybe write something like, happy to finally join in."

After ten minutes of my mother doing something —I'm not sure what — she says, "I'm typing and none of the letters are showing up."

"What do you mean they're not showing up?"

"I'm telling you, I keep hitting on the letter H and nothing shows up."

We try a few things. Nothing works.

In frustration she finally says, "I keep using the pen and hitting the letter H and nothing happens."

"What pen?" I try hard not to shout.

"The one I use on my iPad." 

She's referring to the stylus she uses on her iPad that is not compatible with her iPhone.

We move past this and she successfully types the message.

"Did you get it?" she asks.

"No, did you send it?

"How do I do that?"

"See the blue arrow facing up at the end of the message?

"No, mine doesn't have that."

It takes a bit to convince her she does have that. 

Then I think we need to practice before she moves up to the level of group text.

I suggest starting a new thread, with just the two of us on it, and explain what a thread is. 

"Oh, I get it," she responds.

I send her a new text.

"I didn't get it." 

She's still on the old thread.

I  now need to explain the home button, at the bottom of the actual phone, not the screen. That's a small challenge.

And then where to find the message icon. And that the 1 means she has a new message.

I am exhausted.

In fairness though, as I walk my mom through the many steps, I realize there is a lot to explain if you've never texted before and you've never had an iPhone and you happen to be almost 91.

We continue with our first lesson. 

She seems to be getting the hang of it, but her typing is very very slow, so I tell her about dictation.

I explain the little microphone icon to the left of the space bar.

"Oh. Ok, I get it."

And then she sends me these two texts.

I try again.

"Oh, now I understand."

I wait, but see no text bubble. 

Then my mom says, "Did you get it?"

"No, did you send it?"

"I don't know. I don't even see it."

"Did you hit the mic icon before speaking?"

"Oh I see. You press the microphone first."

I love that my mom has an interest in learning new things.

And I adore laughing with her.

Lesson two is set for next week. 

We both need some time to recover.

Addendum

My mom, being a good student, practices her lessons from yesterday on Sunday.

First, she writes to me plus 7 others ( She still needs work on what a thread is).

We'll next need to teach her about tik tok, and how to get there! And she can teach me how to add a loud sound effect, whatever that is!

high school hair

So on a frizz-i-less note...

I have always had untamed hair. And not the kind that looks particularly good, unless some effort is applied.

In high school, that effort required going down to my parent's finished basement where my mom had her ironing board set up. This was easier and more effective than sleeping on gigantic, hard-plastic pink rollers.

I would heat up the iron, drape my long dark hair across the ironing board, and then iron it. Mostly I did a decent job, although a few times I remember burning some strands. Ah well, a little bit of collateral damage isn't too bad.

Back then, I loved that long straight look.

It would be nice to have naturally straight hair. Or, beautiful wavy hair. Or, even tight ringlets. 

But my hair has none of the above qualities. In other words, just washing my hair and letting it dry has never resulted in a good look. (Excluding the times I've used keratin or cezanne or some other straightening-type process).

A few years ago, when I was at Saks, I helped an Israeli customer who had invented a straightening brush called DAFNI. I bought it.  Put it in a closet. And then forgot about it.

During one of my COVID organizing days, I came across it, and decided to use it. 

I'm impressed.

I wash my hair and let it dry naturally. Pretty scary.

Then I comb through with this brush. It takes me 6 minutes.

Maybe not perfect, but so much better and with such little effort. 

If I were actually going anywhere, I'd maybe spend a few minutes longer and see if the extra effort results in a more finished look. And maybe, too, add a bit of make-up that has gone unused for months.

 But for now,  I'm happy.

not sorry to be gone

I left Saks last November after four years.

I took with me:

• Some good friendships.
• Memories of mostly great customers.
• The thrill of a big sale.
• A closet full of gorgeous, high-end designer clothes, some still unworn.
• And an appreciation for how difficult it is to work as a retail sales associate.

Saks closed on March 18. 

On June 24 it re-opened.

Some associates went back from being furloughed. Others didn't.

The stores have been empty.

Tourists are gone from NYC. 

No one is getting dressed for any major socializing. 

And shopping is no longer a destination sport. 

Sales are way down. Store traffic is non-existent. 

And yet sales associates still get paid the same way: 100% commission with 100% returns deducted. It is difficult, near-impossible, to make a livable wage.

Last week I was told that Saks is laying off thousands of employees throughout the country.

A friend of mine — a hard and dedicated worker — is one of them. She was called last week and told, "We are severing ties with you." 

In my opinion, this is a company without a conscience. 

And not because of the layoffs. Those I understand. 

But because of everything else.

In my four years there, I met some smart, committed people. But I never felt that the people at the top showed any concern or appreciation for those most important — the salespeople who are the face of Saks.

I've worked for many companies over the years. And Saks is the only one that made me feel dispensable. It is a company that puts no value on the back-breaking work of its sales associates.

There is much not to miss. Like for instance:

Having to sort, hang and return the clothes disrespectfully left behind in dressing rooms.

Staying late for customers who end up buying nothing. The store closes at 7 on Sundays.

Getting a surprise return of $4,000 and then realizing I'll earn next to nothing for the week.

Being written-up and reprimanded because I didn't know there was a policy against writing about customers; I had posted something nice about Joe Biden who, by the way, was even posing for selfies that day.

Getting little support.

Being tempted to spend money on expensive clothes, shoes, or, in this case, a pair of Marco Bicego earrings.

I am glad to be gone. I would have been let go anyway — I am told that all part-timers were.

It's hard to know today what the future of Saks will be. 

I only know that it won't include me.

the covid excuse

I'm talking to a friend.

She tells me that she ordered a book for her mom on eBay. After several weeks pass and she still hasn't received it, she contacts the seller. She gets a response blaming the delay on COVID. My friend cancels the order.

A charge appears on my Amex bill for a $6.52 purchase at Bed, Bath and Beyond. I did not make this purchase. I call, and after 60 minutes on hold I give up. So I write, and then receive this response:

Thank you for connecting with us.  In our effort to provide live responses, we are focusing our resources on our telephone and chat options. We are not actively monitoring or responding to emails, temporarily.

Another COVID casualty: zero Custom Service.

And then there's this. 

I buy a cleaning disinfectant called Microban at a small local store. 

After reading reviews, I see that it contains some toxic ingredients that I'd rather not have in my house. Even the instructions make it sound lethal.

The next day I go back, receipt in hand, to return it.

"I'm sorry, we don't take any cleaning supplies back," the cashier tells me.

"What? Why? I just bought it yesterday."

"Because of COVID," the cashier says. 

"What does COVID have to do with it? I can return clothes. I can return food. Why can't I return an unopened bottle of a disinfectant spray?"

"I don't know; it's just our policy."  

It must be a secret policy because there are no store signs indicating this.

The manager is in the back of the store. He overhears the conversation and jumps in.

 "Just take it back and don't argue with her."

Is his willingness because he thinks I'm right?

Doubt it.

I think it's more to do with his thinking I'm a pain in the butt and he'd rather I just leave his store.

COVID is a valid excuse for concern in many situations.

• Opening schools.
• Dining at a restaurant indoors.
• Going anywhere that's crowded.
• Getting a facial or massage or even a manicure.
• Sharing food.
• Using public transportation.
• Entertaining at home.

But returning an unopened disinfectant is just not one of them.

rita

Not very long ago Rita renewed the lease on her car.

For most people that's not a noteworthy event. But for Rita it is.

Today she turns 97.

Rita is my sister's mother-in-law, Abbey and Jill's mother. And, she is exactly the kind of mother —or mother-in-law — that anyone should be lucky enough to have.

Rita is stylish — she has always exemplified an understated elegance.

She is engaging. Approachable. And sincerely interested in other people's stories.

For years, Rita would leave her Long Island home after Thanksgiving (never before) and be back in time to celebrate Passover.

Graduations. Holidays. Lacrosse Games. 

Birthdays, weddings, births, namings and brisses.

Whatever the occasion, Rita is always present. 

Her beauty extends beyond the physical. Rita is kind and loving, warm and fun.

And with all the gifts she has, her most precious one is of course her large and growing family.

Today Rita celebrates at Jill's with her two children, five grandchildren and their wives or significant others, and her five great-grandchildren, soon-to-be six. 

Her enthusiasm and joyous spirit are contagious.

We all love you Rita.

Happy 97th!

a room with no view

Living in an apartment in Manhattan has its drawbacks.

For instance, you can't control the view.

Today I hear the not totally unfamiliar —but still alarming — sound of workmen dropping big metal sheets outside my window.

The last time this happened was a few years ago. The end result was a sidewalk shed outside my window that blocked my ability to see the street.  It was supposed to last no more than six months. Instead, it lasted fifteen months, ending in May 2016. 

The city requires buildings to re-point every ten years. And to protect pedestrians from falling debris, they must build a very ugly sidewalk shed. 

So why is this happening again only four years later?

Well it turns out that the building next door needs to be re-pointed,  And, as required by law, the sidewalk shed has to end 20-feet past where the work is being done. And that 20-feet includes my front and side living room windows.

I have no argument; it's the law.

But I do try and befriend Mario, one of the workers I spot. 

Seeing me in tears, Mario agrees to use chicken wire near my windows vs. the heavy, opaque wooden boards that are used everywhere else. This way, I can at least see some of the street.

Also by law, Mario and his crew are required to post three signs:  one facing West, one facing North, and one facing East. The northward facing sign is the view I'm now stuck with every time I look out my living room window. Which, by the way, is all the time.

I try begging with Mario to move the sign. But again..."Sorry, we can't. It's the law. The city requires a clearly posted sign in every direction." 

My friends post photos of their beautiful views in the Hamptons.  The Cape.  Colorado.  And California. They overlook white-capped waves on the Atlantic ocean.  Expansive vineyards.  Infinity pools. Or just a couple of Adirondack chairs in a quiet backyard.

While I may envy their views, surely no one is envying mine.

Just one more reason to hate the summer of 2020.