disappointing outcome

A few weeks ago a good friend calls me. She's sees something on her boarding school newsletter that she thinks might interest me. A son is looking for someone to help his mom stay organized.

The mom, I'll call Mrs. Q, is a recently retired film and TV executive. She lives only a few blocks away. Is in good health. And needs someone to help organize her busy life, as she no longer has a personal assistant to do that for her.

Mrs. Q doesn't think she needs anyone to help out. Her two sons disagree. They are tired of unjamming the printer.

I'm a great organizer.  Mrs. Q has Apple products but needs help using them. I love Apple. I'm a good teacher. We share similar backgrounds. She lives less than a 15-minute walk away.  The pay is fair. The hours flexible. I apply. 

The first Zoom call occurs in early June with one son. A second Zoom calls happens soon after with both sons. I start to get excited. It seems like a perfect match. 

The next and final step is to meet Mrs. Q. The first meeting in late June gets cancelled as she isn't feeling well. It's rescheduled for the following week. That too gets rescheduled. She is still not feeling well. A third meeting gets scheduled for next week.

Then I get an email. It thanks me for my time, but says, in part: "Things have changed since we last spoke. We need to find someone who can do medical management, which will probably not be interesting to you. "

Hmmmm. I think the mom just doesn't want anyone. Or maybe it's something else. But whatever it really is I'll likely never know.

I'm getting tired of trying to question that keeps me up at night, "Now what?"

an ironic lost and found

Having thought I left my wallet at Agata (a local grocer where I shop most days), I go in, just as they are about to close, and ask.

"I don't think anyone's turned in a wallet today. But I'll check," says the manager.

He opens a cash register (used only by managers) and says, "This is where it'd be if we had it."

As he's rummaging around, I see something that looks exactly like my keys.

I bought this for the express reason that it would be hard to misplace, and easy to see in my purse.

"I think that's mine," I say, pointing to the pink fluffy set of keys. I doubt anyone else would have a key ring like that. And now that I think of it, I haven't seen mine in a while (I have several different types).

So the manager hands me the keys, but concludes that my wallet is not in the drawer.

I get home, open the door with my "new" keys, and see my wallet nearby. 

What are the odds that I would go to a store looking for something I thought I'd lost (but hadn't), and return with something else that I had lost (and didn't know it)?

so so hot

I don't think I can remember ever experiencing such hot weather in this otherwise amazing "concrete jungle" I call home.

My apartment is surprisingly comfortable, even without turning the AC on (except of course for sleeping).

But outside it literally feels just like a sauna, even when the sun's no longer present.

So here's what I haven't been doing:

• Walking more than a couple of blocks.
• Doing anything that involves outside activity.
• Swimming in the nearby, big city pool for fear of what might be in the water.
• Taking long strolls along the Esplanade at night,
• Going anywhere outside my neighborhood.

And here's what I have been doing.

• Watching good (The Wrecking Crew) and bad (but fun to watch) TV (The Worst Neighbor Ever).
• Reading (highly recommend Mad Mabel by Sally Hepworth).
• Imperfectly organizing  my long-sleeved shirts (though I'm guessing this won't last long).

• Being on the phone more than normal.
• Posting things I rarely wear on Poshmark.
• Seeing my friend Robyn who lives next door to watch a fantastic doc from 2017, Clive Davis: The Soundtrack of Our Lives. Such an extraordinary man.
• Starting random conversations with strangers; I like the solidarity but liked it better when it was about The Knicks.
• Reading the daily NYT and completing four of its games: Wordl, Connections, Spelling Bee (to Genius level), and the Crossword (regular and mini), But this I always do. Hey, don't want to break any streaks!

I'll take sub-freezing weather any day over the heat!

incredible!!!

Even if you never watch basketball.

And even if you've never heard of Jalen Brunson.

And even if spectator sports is not your thing.

It doesn't matter.

It feels like every single person in NYC is caught up in the thrilling win of last night's game. Another come-from-behind victory to clinch the series against the San Antonio Spurs, and become the NBA Champions, for the first time since 1973.

I have lived in this city for over 40 years. 

I have watched the city unite after the horrific events of 9/11.

I have seen the city act in solidarity at 7pm every night during the early days of Covid, cheering out their windows to thank essential workers.

But this is the first time I have ever seen the city come together for a joyous reason. 

I do not follow basketball.

I don't know the game beyond the very basics.

And before the playoffs, I couldn't name the coach or one player on the Knicks team

But the buildup to last night has been contagious.

People wearing Knicks shirts everywhere. Local news talking about the possibility of a win for weeks. The topic of basketball coming up in conversations where it never has before.

I even teared up after their win. It was hard not to. Watching Jalen Brunson hug his dad. Or Bruce Beck, a local sportscaster, getting emotional recalling the many games he watched the game with his dad. Or seeing big, muscular men release all their pent up emotions.

Oh and finally, it was nice to see a smile on the faces of Mike Brown and Jalen Brunson.

The absolute joy spreading through the city is electric. Seas of blue and orange everywhere.

And the unity, for such a happy reason this time, is just plain incredible.

https://www.instagram.com/reels/DZkUrf6yMZS/

4th and goal

Today is my fourth colonoscopy. And my last. 

The procedure is easy; the prep is not.

Yesterday:

Drank two small bottles of Clen-Piq; one around 1:45pm and the other six hours later.  With a coupon, I paid only $162, but was told by friends it was worth it. Hard to know. It wasn't too hard to drink but the cloyingly sweet cranberry-flavored mixture was barely tolerable.

In all, I drank 98 ounces of clear liquids only:

• 8 ounces: Lemon-Lime Gatorade

• 24 ounces: Ginger Ale

• 24 ounces: Chicken Broth

• 32 ounces: Water

I was up almost hourly throughout the night.

Today:

Walk a mile and take subway to a place in midtown.

I arrive early, but procedure starts exactly on time at 9:30 am.

By 10:30 I am told that everything is great. No issues. And that I never have to do this again. I guess that's good, but it's also kind of sad to be aged-out of a colonoscopy.

My son picks me up. 

He even accompanies me home (because he needs something from the apartment, not because I need his help). 

We have lunch (him pizza, me steamed dumplings) and watch an episode of The Sopranos (we finally only have 3 episodes left; we started the series years ago (him for the first time, me for the second).

Then I sleep for the rest of the afternoon.

Mission accomplished.

movin' on up

I've been seeing my internist (Stephanie Rein) for over 20 years. I like her very much and think she's a great diagnostician.

She tells me I'm part of the OG. "Old Gang," she says. But then modifies it to a more palatable, "Original Gang."

When I first started seeing Dr. Rein, she shared an office with one other doctor, in a low-frills basement on the Upper West Side. 

When I would call, it would take less than 30 seconds to reach a real person.

When I arrived for my appointment, the wait was never long. The office never busy.

When I needed an appointment, it was easy to get.

And I was usually in and out in under an hour,

A couple of years ago, Dr. Rein became part of a large group of medical professionals called Langone Women's Health.

She now works in a sleek, modern, multi-floor mid-town office. 

Today is my annual wellness check-up. 

I wait in a busy waiting area. All beautifully appointed and spacious.

But some of the people are really annoying. 

One older woman is talking on her phone with the speaker on. She's loud. The call is long and purely social. She's discussing the French Open, hardly a call that needs to be made.

Another woman appears to be dictating a very long story into her phone. I don't think she is even talking to anyone, It's like she's reading off a script.

And then some older guy is doing arm exercises while he waits.

Finally, my name is called.

The 20 minute or so appointment all goes well. I am asked to wait and someone will call me to take my blood. "It shouldn't be more than 15 minutes."

35-minutes later my name is called. (But only after I complain about the much-longer-than anticipated wait).

My blood is taken quickly and I'm done.

Before leaving, I ask to schedule my next year's annual appointment. This way I can avoid the million-prompt menu.

"Sometime in late May," I request.

The earliest we have is July 7th."

And two hours after arriving I'm done.

I love my doctor but sure miss her old basic place.

on being a minor true crime junkie

I am not one of those online crime-solvers. But the subject does fascinate me. 

I read a fair amount of fictional crime thrillers.

And I'm a loyal viewer of Dateline and Law & Order SVU, and other like shows and movies.

So when I hear there's a pop-up exhibit in NY called Inside the Mind of a Serial Killer, I know I want to go. 

I am kind of embarrassed that this appeals to me, but the good reviews in reputable media outlets slightly lessen the ick-factor.

When I mention the exhibit to Robin, she shocks me by saying she'd like to go too. So a couple of weeks ago we buy timed tickets for today. We meet at 11 near Union Square, on a ridiculously hot, 88-degree day.

Were it not for the sign on this nondescript building, the exhibit would be easy to miss. 

The inside, though, is well-lit with unsettling headlines everywhere.

Photography is encouraged.

The first large room we enter focuses on how techniques for catching serial killers has evolved over the years. No DNA. No ring cameras. No easy recording or phone devices, etc.  

Parts of the room are a bit kitschy, but it doesn't detract from our experience.

We leave this room and find ourselves entering what-feels-like an endless number of other rooms, each focusing on a different murderer. A lot of care and creativity went into the writing and recreations. 

The last part involves wearing VR headsets to "try and solve a mystery." Having never tried VR before, I found it fascinating.

Overall, the exhibit is both disturbing and informative, and worth the two plus hours we spend there. 

Living in a big city somehow feels safer to me than being on a farm in the middle of nowhere.

But wherever I find my self, I always always make sure all the doors are locked.

belated Mother's Day brunch

Alexander and I celebrate Mother's Day today, a week after its official date.

I google "best pancakes in NY" and The Clinton St. Baking Company is at the top of every list. Also is mention of the fact that the restaurant doesn't take reservations for Sunday brunch and the line is always long.

Undeterred, that's the place I chose.

We are meeting at 11. I exit the subway on the lower east side and ask somewhere where Clinton Street is. "Are you looking for that breakfast place?" the stranger asks. I answer yes, and he knows exactly where it is, though he's never been. "The wait's ridiculous."

I arrive on time and see Alexander has arrived before me.

He greets me with, "It's a one and half to two hours wait. Where else can we go? We're not staying here."

I leave it up to him to find an alternative because, after all, this is our Mother's Day brunch. Alexander does a quick google search and finds a Nordic-inspired eatery in the East Village called Smør, with "a 4.6 rating." He calls, and if we can get there within 15 minutes (we can) and be out within an hour (we can) we are encouraged to come.

It's packed outside, which is a good sign. The place is tiny, busy, and looks great.

We get a very small table in the front (I have to sneak photos of him; he does not like posing).

Though he's fine behind the camera.

The food is great. Not exactly the pancakes I imagined (no maple syrup even) but still very good.

what's the right answer?

Every Tuesday, since last September, I've been going to OsteoStrong. It's a free benefit I get from my insurance. 

According to its website, 

OsteoStrong® works ... to promote skeletal strength which impacts the entire body in many ways using a process known as Osteogenic Loading.

Translated this means: I only need to go once a week for a few minutes and this should stimulate bone density.

The place I go to on Park Avenue is staffed by a competent and friendly group of young women. The best part, for me anyway, is that it takes about 7-8 minutes to use all four machines. I wish all exercise programs could be done this quickly.

There are certain triggers to pass, and I am accompanied to each machine by a staff member who oversees my positioning. And after each session I am emailed a report showing how I did.

I am not sure if this is effective or not, but there is no downside in doing it. And it makes me feel as if I am doing something good for my bones.

Today I go. The very helpful staff appears to be in their mid-20's or so.

I arrive early and must wait a few minutes.

I finish reading today's paper and ask, "Does anyone want to read this before I throw it out?"

"I haven't read a paper in years," says one of the young trainers. "Is it any good?"

Is it any good?

I am not  sure how to respond, as I don't understand the question.

Does she mean, "Is The New York Times a good paper?"

Or maybe she means, "Is reading a real paper actually better than reading a digital one?"

Could she mean, "Can I really trust what the paper reports?"

But I think she means, "Is the news any good?"

So I confidently answer YES and hand her The Arts and Science sections only. 

today it's red hook

Susan and I chose Red Hook as our monthly NYC neighborhood adventure. (Jill can't join us as she's participating in a 17-mile walk across five Manhattan bridges). 

Traipsing around Red Hook is a lot easier. I have never been, and picture this section of Brooklyn as a quaint village with a seaside vibe. 

Except it doesn't really feel that way.

It's not very pretty. And feels more industrial than quaint.

The stores range from small, cool artisanal shops to unappealing vintage places where the clothes and plates and things look like they could have come from someone's style-less home.

We walk to the waterfront where Lady Liberty can be seen from afar. 

We browse a small gallery where two artists have created impressive collages from paper.

We spend a fair amount of time at Apotheke, an interesting fragrance studio with many eclectic, unrelated items.

We love some of the leather totes and small pouches at a leather shop called Polt Atölye. Like many of the stores here, the work is done on the premises.

We wish we could afford the gorgeous cabinetry of Leicht, a high-end German kitchen brand that has a storefront on Van Brunt.

We go to Red Hook's well-known key lime pie shop, but use restraint and buy nothing.

And we are amused by this sign on Fro Bakehouse (which isn't open). 

We visit the Pinball Museum and meet one of its friendly owners (in the red shirt).

And then finally, we drive a short distance to what ends up being our favorite stop of the day.

Located on a side street in an industrial-looking area...

we find what we have come for — Raaka Chocolate Factory.

Along with another couple who are there, we are encouraged by the very nice, knowledgeable and no-pressure sales guy to sample the many many bowls of chocolate bits. 

The chocolates (mostly dark) have unusual names like Sugar Cookie, Rose Saffron, Maple & Nibs, and Earl Grey, to name just a few. They are vegan, relatively healthy as far as chocolates go, and are exceptionally good. 

This time I show little restraint.

on being ridiculous

I am meeting a couple of friends in the West Village for an early dinner, and a play after.

Nearby is a place called Benji's Buns. The only thing they sell are cinnamon buns of different varieties. They are expensive, large and good, not amazing (as I later will conclude). 

Each bun is packed in an eco-unfriendly styrofoam box.

The server asks, "Would you like a bag to put that in?" 

"Sure," I reply, as I don't want the container to open and spread gunk inside my tote.

I use my card, sign the bill, and leave. Later, I receive the receipt.

I expect to pay the unseemly price of $10.50 for a single bun.

I do not expect to pay 15 cents for a single-use small paper bag.

But then I think how ridiculous I am being.

I pay $10.50 for a just-okay cinnamon bun that anywhere else on this planet would cost half that, and then get annoyed that I have to pay 15 cents for a single-use paper bag. 

I look forward to my next trip to the Cape. The West Falmouth Market has better cinnamon buns for about $4. And, they don't charge for brown bags.

reminders of phyllis

I think of my mom many times a day. She died in January at age 96 after a long, good life. So I cannot say these thoughts make me sad. Quite the opposite, actually.

Like today, I am talking to my friend M and mention my upcoming "collin-oscopy."  She corrects my pronunciation and I smile, thinking of my mom's often incorrect articulations.

Another example. A few weeks ago I'm talking to someone and mention that I love the white Albuquerque tuna by Catch Fresh. Warm thoughts of my mom immediately come to mind.

Last week Jill and I see a new play called The Balusters. 

The play is great. It's a satirical look at an elite group of one-percenters who represent the Board of a neighborhood conclave. Their petty arguments about dog poop disposal and the right type of balusters remind me of a story.

It was 1978 when my parents built a second home in a small, gated community on the Cape called Wild Harbor. It's a home they grew to love, and where they made many lifelong friends.

My parents so enjoyed their time there, that after a few years they sold their primary house in Brockton and moved to the Cape permanently. 

My father was always building things. He was exceptionally creative and could make or fix just about anything. He decided that a small white fence separating his lawn from the street would be nice.

I can't remember if he did all the work himself or if he hired someone. But it took some time for the fence to be completed. The chair of the Wild Harbor Association would often drive by in his golf cart, offering up a smile and neighborly wave.

Soon after the fence was finished, my dad got a letter from the Association informing him that he had to remove the fence as it violated neighborhood guidelines. It had something to do with split rail fences (either they were required for all fences or prohibited; my mom would have recalled).

After returning home from the play and remembering this story, I wanted to call my mom and reminisce. My dad did end up taking the fence down. And this story became more humorous in its many re-tellings. 

It's those small things that happen almost daily that most make me think of my mom. 

an unexpected acknowledgement

I am picking up Robin from a doctor's office, after her endoscopy.

She finishes and we are ready to leave, but we sit for a few minutes and talk. Not about anything important. Just normal banter between two good friends.

I even mention the annoying older women sitting near me who finds it necessary to stream something on her phone and watch it, volume up. I almost say something but don't.  My son would be proud.

After twenty minutes or so of casual conversation, a man approaches us. He's around our age. Good looking. Well-dressed. There with his wife.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," he begins.

"I felt like I have a front row seat to a good piece of theater. It's a pleasure to listen to you two. Are you a comedian?" he asks Robin. 

She is flattered but responds negatively.

Then he turns to me and says, "And yes, I agree that people should not force others to listen to anything on their phones."

It's nice when a stranger validates what you already know. My friends are interesting, even when they talk about nothing.

Before leaving, we notice the women with the high-volume phone has turned it down.

another part of town

It's a gorgeous spring day.  I have not one thing planned. It only costs $3 round trip via subway. And because I have never been. I decide to go to Williamsburg. It's known for its vibrant art scene, diverse food options, and historic waterfront area.

I take the subway and exit at Marcy Street. I am clearly in the wrong part of town. There is nothing pretty or artistic here.

Instead, I see signs everywhere in Hebrew, and mostly Hasidic populate the streets.

Feeling like the tourist that I am, I ask a non-Hasidic construction guy where the trendier part of town is. He directs me to another section of Bedford Street, about a mile away.

I get there and am a little underwhelmed. There are stores and restaurants. Young people. Buildings (some old, some new). Nothing remarkable. I still think I am missing the best part of town. 

So I stop to eat instead.  I find an inviting little place called Weekends Cafe. I am its only customer.

I order tacos. Anticipating one to be the size of a mini-appetizer, I order two. 

I am so wrong. Each taco is surprisingly huge. And, amazingly good.

Now full, I've lost my interest in sight-seeing.

I walk over the Williamsburg Bridge back to Manhattan. It's not a beautiful bridge, but some of the views are.

Five miles later I'm home. 

Still full from lunch, I eat an apple with honey for dinner around 9:30. 

getting to know my city

"Once a month, let's pick a neighborhood of the city (there are more than 350) that we are not familiar with, and explore it."

Jill comes up with this idea and Susan and I quickly embrace it.

Almost all my time is spent in Manhattan. Jill lives in Brooklyn so I sometimes venture there. But rarely, if ever, do I have reason to go to in any other NYC borough (of which there are five).

So today Jill and I (Susan is out of town) meet at Jill's selection for April, Jackson Heights in Queens.

Neither of us have ever been, despite it being a short subway ride away.

Weather is perfect. Getting there is easy.

We meet at the Roosevelt Avenue/74th street subway station. It takes a bit to find each other, but eventually we do.

Jackson Heights is known for being one of the most, if not the most, diverse neighborhoods in NYC. It is popular, too, for its many cuisines.

While we soon notice that we are the only white people, no one notices us. We just blend in, like everyone else.

The streets are busy. The many crowded stores are open. We see no people sleeping outside. And no one asking for money.

We aimlessly walk around. Spend time in a local park. See tons of uninteresting looking apartment buildings. And eventually grab lunch at Taco Veloz, an authentic Mexican street food eatery.

The food is inexpensive and excellent.

We order at the counter; there is no seating.

Nearby we find some steps in front of an apartment building. We plop down there to enjoy our lunch. As people enter or leave the building, no one seems bothered that we are using their steps as our makeshift restaurant.

I've known Jill forever. Maybe 40 years. And still, sitting on a stoop in Queens, I learn things about her I never knew. 

7 miles. Ever-varied, but always interesting conversations. And a new neighborhood.

I adore both the city and my friend. I can count on both to offer endless surprises.