pre-thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has always been our family's favorite holiday. 

Our first Thanksgiving on the Cape is in 1979. 

Our last one is 33 years later, in 2012. 

My dad died in early November 2013. By then, the New York contingency had grown substantially. So beginning that year, our Thanksgiving dinners moved from Massachusetts to New York. 

And that is where they've stayed since — all in NY, at various locations.

Last year was at Val and Abbey's (where it will be again in a few days).

My then 95-year-old mom, and Abbey's then-101-year old mom, made it as well.

But this year is different, since my mom is unable to make the trek to New York. 

Yesterday I get up early. Meet Val and Abbey in Rye. And arrive at Jean and Jim's in Falmouth by 1pm. 

Aside from the absence of young kids, it is still a lively celebration. Jean makes a great turkey-less meal (since turkey will be on everyone's plate in a few days).

Even though it's not with everyone (and nice that everyone has become so many), it's a nice way to celebrate, and be thankful for, family.

you know you're too busy when...

As I've previously said, 90% of my social life probably occurs between September and December. 

Gorgeous weather. Tons of new off-broadway plays. And so many screenings. Many with Q&A's. Some even with impressive receptions and great food. I'm a member of BAFTA and I have friends who are also members of SAG. So between us, we could be doing something every night. 

I get an email from Susan inviting me to a 7pm screening with a Q&A of a film I've never heard of, Sheepdog. (Yes, some screenings are for little-known films). I decline and remind her that we have a 1pm screening the same day, at 1pm. She writes back and tells me that she had responded that she couldn't go to that one. 

Hmm. I thought she said she could. So I go back through my texts and find this.

Then, about 24 hours later, I text Susan:

So not only do I totally forget just asking her, and her just saying she couldn't, Susan also forgets just being asked, and forgets, too, that her original answer (and still the correct one) was no. 

Being too busy with stuff you like doing? A problem I like having.

33

Room all set.

New clothes in place.

A baby nurse hired for the first week.

And time to adjust (I was on maternity leave from my job at CNBC, not knowing that I'd be let go before having the chance to return).

My mom and dad drive up from the Cape as soon as Eric calls with the news that they are grandparents to their fourth grandchild, a boy, like the other three.

I was a single mom, at a time when there weren't that many. Murphy Brown was one of the few I knew of.  

I thought I was ready. And I pretty much was. 

The first few weeks were the hardest, and then it was pretty easy until about kindergarten. 

That's when I started fearing more, and questioning my abilities as a single parent. 

But I never once had any regrets. Quite the opposite. I have always felt immensely lucky that I get to be Alexander's mother. 

Sure, there were times that were tough.

His epic tantrums over the smallest thing.

The hurts I couldn't fix.

A bad nanny who wouldn't leave my house until I had to call the police.

His early friendship with a young, wild, and beyond misbehaved best friend (who was a very bad influence and could often be cruel).

The challenging teen years.

A few college grades.

And his leaving NYC for a few years to live in Philadelphia, and then Austin. 

I think the thing I was least prepared for was all the worrying that goes along with being a parent. And the worst thing is that it never ends. It just gets bigger.

• Has he chosen a career path that will make him happy?
• Will he meet and marry someone he adores?
• Will he stay living in New York?
• Will he not get distracted when driving? (I worry about this all the time).
• Will he stay safe and be careful? The world (and this city) is full of potential dangers.

Tonight his grandmother (Diane to me, Lala to my son) and I take Alexander to Sempre Oggi to celebrate his birthday. We sit down and are handed menus. It is Alexander who notices the restaurant's thoughtful touch (I added the arrow).

I haven't seen Diane in a while as she now spends most of her time in the Hamptons, though she also lives here. It is truly a magical night. Great food, conversation, and total agreement on politics (which we just couldn't avoid). Diane is clearly the most liberal of us three. She and Alexander often disagree but not tonight. 

and the winner is...

I rarely write about politics but sometimes it's just too hard to ignore.

Zohran Mamdani will be the next mayor of NYC. 

I didn't vote for him for a myriad of reasons. It doesn't matter why, because here we are. For the next four years. With a young, inexperienced, democratic socialist (which I'm still not exactly sure what that all means).

New York has become a city with a huge divide. The gulf between the uber rich and the rest of us keeps growing. Rents are making it unaffordable, especially for the young or those new to the city. My son got "very lucky" and through a friend of a friend found a tiny, fifth-floor walk-up on the Upper West Side. The one-closet apartment is nicely appointed in a great neighborhood, and is only a little over $3,000/month.

I love this city and like others, believe it might be the greatest city in the world. But it certainly has its problems, with affordability being high among them.

I do hope Mamdani is the change agent we need. That he is able to freeze rent-stabilized apartments. And that he finds a way to somehow get along with our childish, vindictive, and utterly embarrassing president.

I also hope that the major sweeps by Democrats is the impetus needed for the party to finally identify a strong and viable presidential candidate for the next national election. 

Pete Buttigieg or Josh Shapiro would be great options, but the country is probably not ready for a gay or Jewish President. Kamala? No. Who else then?

We live in a great country. But right now, its leader is harming its global image, and worse, he's harming the people who live here, every single day.

today in new york

The New York Marathon takes place on the first Sunday of November.

I live on East 79th Street, between York and First. The Marathon runs right by. It's an impressive, energetic race, through all five boroughs of the city.

My busy two-way street is closed to traffic, starting around 8am —that's long before any runners are even in sight. That means that I cannot cross First Avenue. And just about anything I would do would require that. This is non-negotiable. The police guard has their rules and won't budge. 

But there is an upside. Because this usually-trafficked street is closed, kids can now play on it without fear of cars, reckless bikers or careless delivery vehicles. 

I once missed a viewing party at a friend's house. She and her husband have a terrace overlooking the race. I couldn't cross the street to walk the two blocks to their apartment.

In 2018 I was working at Saks and almost didn't make it in. I couldn't cross the street to get to any subway or bus. And I wasn't about to walk as the job required me to be on my feet for 8 hours. That year I was lucky enough to flag down a police car and get a ride in the back seat, behind the bars.

This year I know better. 

Zelia is coming over to watch a movie, but not until late afternoon.  First Avenue should be crossable by then. 

Except it's not.

She calls me at 4. The best we can do is wave to each other.

But the cop standing next to me looks friendly. I tell him my friend is across the street. He says, "Okay. Call her and tell her she can cross. And act like you don't know me."

I call Zelia, and she complies. She weaves through the race and quickly makes it over. 

The movie we watch (Park Avenue) is awful, and we quit halfway through. But I do appreciate Z's effort to get here.

how is this even remotely okay?

It's a little after midnight.

I hear a very loud crash. It sounds like someone has picked up an empty large barrel and slammed it onto the street. 

Some crazy night wanderer I think.

But then it happens again. And again. And again.

I throw on my sneakers and a coat and go outside.

There I find a construction site in the middle of 79th and First. 

There is a bulldozer that is lifting slabs of concrete and dropping them onto the street. The sound is deafening. The workmen say they will be there all night.

How can it possibly be that someone at DOT thinks that keeping an entire neighborhood awake makes more sense than to close off traffic to a small section of 79th Street during the day?

I call 3-1-1, hoping I'm not the only one.

It takes a while to get someone. I register my complaint. I am told someone will respond within 14 days — such a comforting response. 

There are very things about New York that I don't like. This is one of them.

a new york slice

I meet my anonymous friend X (her preferred moniker, not mine) to see a screening of The Baltimorons, with a Q&A after with the filmmaker and one of the stars.

Though it takes less than 30 minutes to get to the West Village, it is world's away from my UES neighborhood. Young. Hip. Criss-crossed streets with actual names. Tons of people everywhere. Loads of history and equal amounts of charm.

We get to the theater early and it's about a quarter full. We take our seats, and soon after an older woman enters (she's alone) and takes the seat right next to X. One seat in from the aisle. A million empty seats in other places, and she opts for this one.  That's bad enough. But then she takes out her phone and begins playing a video (not on mute). How can people be so annoyingly stupid? We move to another row.

The movie is fun, the Q&A great. We decide on pizza for a quick bite after. But not just any pizza. L'Industrie Pizza on Christopher Street.

According to Google:

L'Industrie Pizzeria is popular due to its high-quality, unique ingredients and a slow-fermented, thin and crispy crust, which elevates it beyond typical New York-style pizza.

The line (as expected) is long. And we're at least four decades older than anyone we see.

The place is packed inside too, while people await their orders.

Fortunately, X notices that the cute little place next door is filled with people eating from L'Industrie-labeled boxes. We ask if we can bring our pizza over, as L'Industrie has no tables. "Sure," is the response. "You just have to order drinks here." It's a nice symbiotic relationship, and works well for everyone. Even if two diet cokes cost $16.

The line goes fast and within twenty minutes or so I'm back next door where X is holding a table. 

So is it worth it? We both agree; it's a resounding yes.

short, funny true story

My friend Q is over (she does not want to be identified).

But I can say this of her. She is smart and tech-savvy. Extremely capable. She worked for many many years in television as a graphic designer.

I say all this only to make the point that Q is an intelligent, aware, NY-born person.

She's in my bedroom where I'm showing her something. She says something like, "You always have the most-up-to-date tech toys."

Then she looks at my desk and points to something and asks, "What is this?"

I follow her finger.

I think she's joking. She's not.

"Is this something to raise and lower your bed?" she asks.

Here is where she's pointing.

halloween in the city

As a child, I was always a hobo for Halloween. That's what we called it.

It was an easy disguise to construct — just some oversized clothes and a few facial smudge marks. The idea was to mimic someone more like Red Skelton's Freddie the Freeloader than someone homeless — a concept I didn't yet know. And one that seemed not to exist back then (though I'm sure it did).

Mrs. Kane, who lived in the last house on Brewster Road, would dress up each year in some imaginative outfit. She was the only one in the neighborhood who did anything special. The houses were all unadorned, except for maybe a carved (or plain) pumpkin on the top of the outside stairs.

But unlike my small Massachusetts neighborhood, I was surprised to notice how different my one is here. These I saw on a recent walk, just a few blocks from my home; some of these characters even move and light up:

And if I had to guess, I won't be seeing any hobos on Halloween night.

a simple pleasure

This should be an ordinary, uneventful thing, but so far it hasn't been.

When my son first moved back to the New York, my hope was to see him weekly (or at the least, every other week). Doesn't matter where; I'm flexible with both time and place. I envisioned brunches and dinners all over the city. Some home-cooked meals even. A weekly tradition that we both looked forward to (okay, maybe that's more a fantasy than an envisionment).

He moves into his own place in July, and since then, I've seen him not often enough in my opinion, and too much in his (I'm guessing). 

Last night I text my son and suggest brunch. To my surprise, it takes just a couple of quick back and forths and we finalize a plan.

We meet at Sarabeth's Kitchen on Central Park South, across from the park. It's a perfect fall day. Crisp air. Sun out. Great for doing anything.

 

As long as I stay far away from any of the questions I know he views as nagging ones, we have a great time together. 

He is really loving NYC. It's fun to hear him talk about it from the perspective of a young adult. Although he grew up here, his experiences now are more like someone who is seeing the city for the first time.

Maybe today is the start of a new beginning. 

I am now back to envisioning weekly get-togethers and hoping it's not a fantasy.

bad knee news

I walk 30 miles/week. So I should be in great shape from my knees down. 

But I'm not.

My left knee is perpetually swollen and often aches. 

It doesn't inhibit anything I do, but it frequently hurts when I'm doing nothing, especially at night.

So I finally schedule an appointment with a recommended orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Roshan Shah. I see him in June. He takes a bunch of x-rays and then schedules me for an MRI. My second visit, earlier this month, is to review the results.

"The MRI was very surprising compared to the X-Rays," he begins.

"Much better?" I ask hopefully.

"No, much worse."

Ugh.

He then points out how I have no ACL (which I knew), a big blob of something that might be synovium, my medial something separating from something else, and a host of other things I don't fully understand. But I do understand his conclusion:  knee replacement surgery (he suggests knee-resurfacing), sooner rather than later. 

"It's not going to improve on its own. And it's better to get the surgery when you are young and healthy,"  he says. I love that he uses the word young, but what he means, of course, is that today is the youngest I'll ever be.

I really like this doctor who has gotten great reviews. But he does his surgery at Columbia Presbyterian which is very far from me (166th St. on the westside). 

I will get a second opinion, though I am pretty certain it won't be much different.

Doctor number two is Jose Rodriguez at Hospital for Special Surgery. He too, comes highly recommended.  And his office is just a few blocks away.

Getting an appointment is not easy. I sent him my records and am then able to get a first appointment for early January. 

I'm already thinking about the things I'll need, and how I will do this with no one living with me to help.

Many others have survived this, and I'm sure I will too. 

It's just not something I want to do.

two nights of off-broadway

When asked, some people say, "I'm thrilled I finally made it into your blog."

Others say, "Let me see any pictures first," as they only want good ones posted (totally understandable).

Then there is, "Sure, I don't care."  John is an example of this category.

Some say, "You can post about me but I want to see it first."

But then there are those who say, "Don't write about me. I don't want people knowing anything about what I'm doing."

These people are ok with my changing their identities.

All this to say, a good friend of mine (I'll call Q) is visiting NY.

Q hates theater but does go when she is in NY, even though:  

• The seats are always uncomfortable. 
• I don't want any audience participation if there's a chance I could be picked. 
• The plays are generally too long. 
• The topic sounds boring. 
• Getting there is difficult (Traffic in NY is often bad and Q doesn't take public transportation).

I convince her to see a downtown, one-woman show called The Least Problematic Woman In the World with Dylan Mulvaney. Robin decides to join us last minute. 

This colorful show begins with a series of unfunny jokes, but soon transforms into a heartfelt mini memoire of a very talented and beautiful trans women who is sometimes gay. What a complicated life she lives.

Tonight we venture out to see The Pitch. This is in a small synagogue that has been converted into a theater. This drab, uncolorful stage sets the tone for the play.

Act 1 begins with a guy scratching his balls. This is followed by a slew of F-words and a description of a clogged toilet. The next scene shows a financially strapped father who has recently lost his wife to cancer. I am not enjoying this.

I don't need a play to be funny; I actually prefer a good drama. But I find this play uncomfortable and not in a good way.

Grateful for the intermission, we have no idea how Act 2 begins (or for that matter, how it ends).

an unexpectedly wild night

In typical John fashion, he calls around 8:30 to tell me he's in NY. He lives in Minneapolis, has a wife and three kids. I haven't seen him in over 20 years, plus he never phones.

"I'm here at the Four Seasons finishing dinner. Meet me," he begins.

"When?" I ask.

"Now. Like right now."

Within an hour, I've taken a shower, washed my hair, put on makeup, and walked over to The Mark.

And it's like I saw him yesterday. Really. His absolute craziness, humor, and edginess have always appealed to me. He's also brash, arrogant, and irreverent. Qualities to which he'll easily and proudly admit.

We first met in 1981. We were both working in Boston at Gillette; I was seven years older, worked in Marketing, and he in Finance. We ended up in a passionate, highly volatile relationship. I loved/hated him for years, and he played me for the same amount of time. 

When things were good there was nothing better, and when they weren't, they really really weren't. 

My idea for the night is a couple of hours at a quiet bar catching up on life. But that's not what happens. 

I arrive at The Mark around 9:45.

We walk into the hotel's bar soon after hugging hello.  Immediately we see a very pretty twenty-something woman posing for a photo on a nearby sofa. Without saying a word, John jumps into the shot. 

She's with an attractive group of young women, all dressed in evening attire, having just come from a ballet gala at Lincoln Center.  I don't remember if they invite us to join them, or if John just assumes we will. We spend the next 90 minutes or so with them and they are all great (and very welcoming).

On John's suggestion, we call Alexander and he arrives an hour or so later. John and Alexander have spoken over the years, but the last time they saw each other my son was about six. 

The last part of the night we spend outside. The engaging and beautiful Scheele joins us for a while, but mostly it's just John, me and Alexander.

Toward the end of the night, John brings up Aristotle's three different levels of friendship. He concludes that we are in the highest group. The least superficial one. The one based on true appreciation of the other. And the one that is the most long-lasting. He's right.

Totally unplanned and filled with outrageous moments and plenty of laughs, it is a spontaneous, memorable night. Just the kind I'd expect from John.

Age has not diminished his bad boy behavior.