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 great 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.

if only

I'm running out to do an errand. Except I can't find my wallet. I look everywhere it could possibly be and come up empty.

Then I remember.

Exactly a year ago I lost (and later found) my wallet in a city trash bin (I had accidentally tossed it along with some newspapers).

It was then I decided to buy this credit-card sized tracker. 

I put it in my wallet and forgot about it. But when I couldn't find my wallet yesterday, I remembered that I had the tracker. And, it actually worked.

60th.  Between Third and Lexington.  Bloomingdales. The place I'd just been to return something.

Today I go to Bloomingdale's Lost and Found and yes, they have my wallet. I purposely only carry one credit card with me. That, and $55 in cash were all there. I love this small Fendi Sellaria wallet as it's the perfect size, with the credit card slots on the outside. 

Too bad they don't make it any more or I would have replaced this wallet long ago.

I am relieved, and then think, too bad Nancy doesn't have some kind of tracker on her.

I think I may be following her disappearance with more obsessiveness than most.

• I watch The Today Show every single weekday morning and love Savannah. She's smart and relatable. And true to their mantra, I feel a part of The Today Show's family.
• I religiously watch Dateline, 48 Hours, 20/20 and Law and Order, SVU.
• The books I read tend to be mysteries.
• And I recently lost my mom, though her leaving was expected and gentle.

If only tracking missing people were so easy. 

Like so many, my prayers are with Savannah and her family.

how much is too much?

 My son lives alone.

He works in an office where it's ok to work remote. 

In other words, if my son went missing it could go unnoticed.

That, to me, is reason enough to want to be in touch regularly.

It could be a call or a text. I just like knowing he's okay.

Years ago I read an awful story about a twenty-something year old kid who went to a bar near me. He was invited to join some girls who had an apartment in Queens. He went to their home, and through some bizarre confluence of events, he ended up shot and killed by one of their friends.

This story has haunted me ever since.

I don't worry when I call him and he doesn't pick up, as this is usual behavior. But if I text him with a simple yes/no question and he doesn't respond for 24 hours or more, I get concerned.

Yesterday he tells me, "I am under a lot of pressure right now." He always is. And he always then adds, "And you add to that pressure with your nagging questions."  Nagging questions like, "When do you think you can come by and pick up the T-shirts I bought you three weeks ago?" So he asks that I not call him for a while. Sure, I can do that.

Today he calls. Nothing important. We're talking and then he has to abruptly hang up. He calls me back five minutes later and by then I am on another call. Here is the transcription of the voice mail he leaves:

Hi. I was calling to tell you something but it seems you're not available now, so I don't know what's going on there. I'm a little bit worried. Please call me back as soon as you have a chance. I really really need to tell you something and I am getting concerned that you are not picking up, especially since I just spoke to you. All right. Please call. I love you. Bye.

He annoys me more than most, but somewhat compensates by making me laugh more than most as well.

a nice send-off

My mom would have loved it.

Her funeral, held this morning at Stanetsky Memorial Chapels in Canton Massachusetts, was more a celebration than a sad farewell.

The service was basically a series of eulogies given by those who knew and loved her most: her family. Everyone who could come, did. The East coast was well represented. Three of her grandchildren live far away, and still, Michael flew in from California, Jack from Colorado, and Sally from Barcelona. Even five of her seven great grandkids attended (the missing two are just too young). Her friends came up from the Cape and from other places in Massachusetts. Had the circumstances been different, it would have been an amazing party.

My mother was truly loved. So many funny stories were told about her.  Humor dominated the ten eulogies. My mom loved to laugh and did so often. 

The weather was beautiful. Freezing cold but cloudless and sunny. Even the short time we spent at my mom's graveside was touching, meaningful, and appropriately short.

And the Chinese restaurant we attended after would have been exactly where my mom would have wanted to go.  

In going through the many thoughtful notes I've been receiving, one was from a couple we had met only once, at my son's graduation from Cornell in 2015. My mom and I sat with them for maybe an hour or two. But in that short time, my mom made enough of an impression that now, almost eleven years later, I receive a nice note from them.

That's just the kind of person she was.

On seeing the note, my first thought was to pick up the phone and call her. She would have loved knowing.

Phyllis

My mom died today.

At 96, my mom lived life on her terms.  And decided to leave the same way.

While it's always sad to lose someone, my mom was ready. She truly had all that she wanted. She lived her life with humor and passion, and had zero regrets. How many among us can say the same?

And as one of her final activities, she even got to see her beloved Patriots win the AFC Championship game. Something she has not seen happen in ten years.

Here's a portion of the obituary that will be posted soon.

Phyllis Familant (nee Pullman) was born in Boston and lived a fun-filled, exciting life before meeting her future husband, George, at age nineteen. To hear her tell it, those first nineteen years were packed with more adventures and boyfriends than most experience in a lifetime. She was a Boston-girl through and through and had the accent to prove it.

In 1949, Phyllis married George and moved to Brockton. By age 27, she had given birth to three daughters and had become totally immersed in the Brockton community. Her days were filled with endless activities; her Saturday nights were always busy (with their many friends); and Sunday dinners were spent with family at a Chinese restaurant in either Sharon, Randolph or Rockland.

After 30 years or so in Brockton, Phyllis and George built a house on the Cape, and perhaps her happiest times were spent there. 

She immediately made many new friends, as people were drawn to her. Phyllis’s infectious laugh and winning personality won over just about anyone she met. Her friend list spans generations.

Even as a teenager, Phyllis had the wisdom to pick the right guy. She and George were a dynamic and loving couple for over sixty-four years. Her children, their spouses, her grandchildren and great grandchildren were her greatest source of immeasurable happiness and pride.

We will miss her deeply. But I have no doubt that she is already making new friends.

unsteady allegiances

When I worked at Gillette in the early 80's. someone started a football pool.  By the end of the season, I pretty much knew the spreads between any two teams, though I never watched the games.

Even during the Brady-era, I never really followed football. Growing up in Massachusetts, and living in NY, I split my affections between the Giants and the Patriots. But even then, I only watched either team play if one (or both) were in the Super Bowl.

Then, a few years ago, for no apparent reason, I fall into a one-sided love affair with Parick Mahomes. I begin watching any game he is in. I see the Netflix show Quarterback when he is one of the QB's featured. And I even still love him after his wife comes out as a Trump supporter.

I become better schooled in the game. I am amazed by the responsibility and intelligence needed to be a good QB. But even with this new-found passion, any observations I may make come almost solely from the expert commentators, post-game interviews, or analyses made by the sports media.  I have no original thoughts.

Conversely, my son is kind of a football savant, though he rarely watches a game. Still, he seems to know every rule, every statistic, and every NFL player who ever played. He humors me when I make a comment, knowing that I am simply parroting some expert.

A few months ago, I mistakenly referred to Joe Burrow as Joe Burrows. Now when Alexander refers to any NFL player or coach, he either adds an S (if none exists) or subtracts an S (if there is one). So there is Bradys, Allens, Mahome, etc. I sometimes do the same.

Here's part of an exchange between us yesterday

While I still love Mahomes, I also now love Josh Allen. And seeing him assume all the blame in Saturday's loss to the Broncos in OT (even after a very questionable call that may have led to a Bills win) ..., well, it just made me love him even more.

He deserves a win. Seven consecutive seasons in the playoffs and not one Super Bowl appearance. I know there's no need to feel sorry for someone who is revered by his team, makes a trillion dollars a year, has a gorgeous-movie star wife, is about to have his first child, and is only 29. But still. Heartbreak is heartbreak.

Next year I will be rooting again for KC, but with the quiet hope that Josh Allen and the Bills make it to the Super Bowl and win.

Although ...

With Harbaugh at the helm, the Giants may be deserving of a bit of love too.

outrage

I am standing in the Express Lane at Morton Willimas with one bottle of ketchup. Two women are in front of me, each carrying a few items. 

A smug man (you can tell by the smirk on his face) is at the register. He is patiently waiting while the frustrated cashier fills out some form. It turns out that he has a tax-exempt status. This requires some long form to be completed.  He refuses the cashier's request to complete the form himself. All this to save what? A couple of dollars? 

The process takes about 10 minutes. Does he not know the definition of express?  Or— and far more likely — he just doesn’t care.

I am outraged by his behavior.

Well, that’s what I initially think. Until I begin mentally reviewing other things that are going on around me.

• A woman (Renee Good) is shot through her windshield and killed for trying to get away from an ICE officer. 

• Within hours of the incident, and before any investigation, a cowboy-hatted-puppy-killer immediately announces that this was "an act of domestic terrorism" and that Good's car was "weaponized" against law enforcement, when clearly, she was just trying to get away. 

• And then DOJ pushes for a criminal investigation of the actions of Renee Good's wife. All this, while at the same time DOJ is excluding Minnesota state officials from being involved in the investigation to determine whether the shooting itself was lawful.

• Foreign-looking or speaking people are indiscriminately targeted, dragged from their homes or schools, detained or worse. This goes against every value this great country stands for. Even Joe Rogan, initially a strong Trump supporter and one of the world’s biggest podcasters, recently said, “Are we really going to be the Gestapo? ‘Where’s your papers?’ Is that what we’ve come to?”

• Our US president announces he is acting president of Venezuela.

• And threatens to take over Greenland, a NATO country.

• Now the DOJ is accusing Jerome Powell, chair of the Federal Reserve, of allegedly lying to congress about costs related to Federal Reserve headquarters. No need spell out the connection of the dots here.

• The White House says it's an "appropriate response" when the President of the US flips his middle finger when asked a question he doesn't like.

Okay, I guess a guy taking advantage of the Express Line at the grocery store isn't outrageous, just annoying.

Outrage belongs as a descriptor of the many things our President and his staff are doing. I've listed a few examples, but sadly there are many more. With new ones being added every single day.

a perk I didn't know I had

In March of this year, two good friends tell me about Renew Active. It's a benefit of having AARP United as my supplemental insurance for Medicare.

Among other things, Renew Active includes a free membership to Life Time, a chain of US health clubs that would otherwise cost over $300/month. There are several in the city. 

I join last March. 

I have never been consistent with going to the gym. And, I don't like classes. But my friends convince me that water aerobics is a lot of fun and great exercise.

First I need to get the right gear. I buy two inexpensive chlorine-resistant bathing suits. 

Then a great little gym bag from Vooray (in black). 

I've now run out of excuses. 

I go to my first class in mid-August.  

The pool has a gorgeous skylight. The instructor is great. And the amenities (all Kiehl products) are perfect.

I go for about a month and then stop.

No reason. 

As I said, I have never been good at organized classes.

But the club is great, and I need to go. If I don't, I risk having my membership revoked. 

So today I go to a strengthening class. Like the swim class, this is part of the ARORA program — that is, "it's designed for active older adults." At least that sounds better than saying seniors.
I arrive early and am taken under the wing of a very fit woman.

Andrea gets me a mat. A balance ball. And chooses my weights. 1-3 pounds. "Start with the lightest ones first."

Then she gets her 15-20 pound weights. The difference is comical.

The class begins at exactly 11.

I do okay on the balance ball. I don't like the aerobic movements. And my knee starts to hurt before we even get to the weights. 

I walk out. It's 11:08.

I spend the next hour on the recovery floor (as if I need any recovery). That's where the fantastic mega-massage chairs are. 

I need to find a better reason to go.

Joining a fitness club for the massage chairs is not a good strategy.

second opinion

Finally, after waiting three months, I see the highly recommended Dr. Jose Rodriguez for a second opinion on my left knee. He's at Hospital for Special Surgery (which is only a few blocks from where I live).

After filling out about 80 thousand pages (or so it feels) of information online (you really need my religion? or the dates of my recent vaccines?), I am ready for my appointment.

I have a standing (as in upright), full body x-ray, and then more specific x-rays on my knee. Neither is the least bit uncomfortable. Why can't there be mammogram machines like these?

After a short wait, Molly (the PA) sees me first. She asks a few questions, reviews my x-rays, presses on both knees, and checks my mobility. Her conclusion is: you don't need surgery now.

Then Dr. Rodriguez comes in. He exams me too and agrees with Molly. He says at some point I probably will need surgery, but not now.

Even though my x-rays show bone-on-bone, and significant arthritis, no activities I now do are impeded by my knee.  Plus, I am not in a lot of pain (it's sporadic and never beyond a level 5, or so).  Dr. Rodriguez does not think that I would experience a substantial enough improvement to justify a full knee replacement now.

I walk home relieved. 

Maybe by the time I am ready, researchers will have perfected some new technology. 

There are promising clinical trials now being conducted that involve injectable gels that can lead to advanced cartilage regeneration. A shot would certainly be preferable to a scalpel.
If I can wait (which I can), I am happy to. By the time I need a new knee, maybe there will be a much better, less invasive, and less painful way to get one.

a brief history of this past year

Today being the last day of 2025, it would feel strange to write about anything other than it being the last day of 2025.

This has been a fairly uneventful year, as most years are recently. 

I miss being young, when the unexpected is not a rare occurrence.  Now I need to create new adventures, and without much money (and fear of running out), that is hard to do.
 
That's not to say that I'm unhappy. I'm not. But there is too much routine in my life and not enough spontaneous joy.

Aside from starting to blog again in late August, there have been only three major changes for me this year, all of which I've mentioned.

I lose my job on the last day of February at 4pm, on a Friday.  Within 30 minutes, my company account is shut down. I can no longer access anything. And a man appears at my apartment door to collect my computer. I feel immense relief coupled with immense fear. I am offered a paltry severance. But I no longer have that pit in my stomach every Sunday night. And every weekday morning. When I started, on September 12, 2022, the stock was trading at $9.89. Today it's valued at $.075 (decimal placement is correct). 

My mom is admitted to Falmouth Hospital on May 2 with pneumonia.   She recovers, but it is a scary month. Her new home, beginning in July, is Atria, a nice assisted living facility. Of course it's not the same. My mom never complains. Has made many new friends. But has lost much of her mobility. Both her home and car have been sold. Her life is very different than it was just a year ago. But she's safe, well cared for, and much-loved.

And finally, it is great to have my son living in NYC. I wish I saw him more, and didn't have to beg for each visit. He's still figuring out how to balance work and play. And because I fit into neither category ... well seeing me is not a high priority. I understand except when I don't.

Life overall is good. I'm healthy. Have great friends. Feel closer to my sisters. And still live in the world's greatest city.

I just need more unexpectedly great surprises.

Wishing you all a most magnificent 2026.

 

a few random, inconsequential thoughts

Here are some things that fill my head lately — some fleetingly, others not. Is it worth $10 for a cinnamon bun? 

Even one that is supposed to be the best of the best? One that is sold from a store whose sole products are multiple variations of this one item?

Hmmm. It is excellent. But probably not much better than the ones sold at West Falmouth Market for half the price. Then again, West Falmouth Market is almost 300 miles from me.

There should be a hair-height limit for people who attend theater. If you're tall, hey, then you're tall. But if you choose to wear a hairstyle that blocks the view of those behind you, well that just shouldn't be allowed. My view yesterday is totally blocked. Fortunately I can change my seat.

I'm reading and loving The Correspondent. It just bothers me that the main character, who is my age, sounds like none of my friends, and projects herself as being ancient. I know that objectively I can be described as an old lady.  I don't identify that way and find the descriptor loathsome, even if true. And though I hate to admit it, aging is something a think about every single day.

I am amazed at how well this product works on removing dry blood on fabrics. (As I said, these thoughts are random).

I've seen about 50 movies since October to prepare for BAFTA voting. My two favorites are: One Battle After Another and Marty Supreme.

I feel immensely lucky to have smart, fun, female friends. They enrich my life in ways too numerous to count. They astound me with their generosity, insights, and willingness to listen, to play, to advise, to recommend, and to make me laugh.

I do sometimes wish I had one or two male playmates that were local. The few male friends I have (and cherish) all live many states away.

I walk around the city and know that I absolutely love it here. I never take for granted that I get to call New York City my home.

While I don't see my son nearly as much as I'd like, knowing he lives here is comforting. He's experiencing the city in ways he never has before, and discovering, really for the first time, its greatness. 

Today we get together for lunch, totally unplanned. I am later meeting a friend to see a show in Times Square. Alexander picks a small, casual place on 51st and Fifth, across from St. Patrick's. 

After lunch, we exit onto Fifth Avenue. Walking is near impossible as the streets and sidewalks are jammed with pedestrians.

I say, "Let's head west to get out of this mess." He responds, "Well, this mess is so much better than that mess (referring of course to the crowd-quality on Fifth Avenue vs the one a few blocks over on Eighth). 

He makes me laugh even when he's barely trying.