M is back

When M comes to town, she brings vacation with her.

I spend the morning cleaning my apartment and working.  Honestly, I have never worked this hard for no money.  I stop by the office and bring my impossibly uncomfortable single pair of Louboutins that I got as a birthday gift three years ago.  I feel great in them, though my feet would disagree.

M arrives around 4.  I help her unpack her car.  We begin with one suitcase on rollers.  Then a garment bag with three things hanging.  A tote full of sheets and a pillow (she’s kind enough to bring her own bedding as I have no washer and dryer).  Another suitcase filled with shoes.  And finally, a box with some sheets I bought for Alexander’s room but was delivered to her.  I say to the doorman, “So, based on all this stuff, how long do you think my friend is staying?”  “Not long, “ he replies.  “I’d guess about a week.”  “Two nights,” I respond.  But should there be a major weather event, M’s brought enough to comfortably stay a month.

M is the perfect guest.  Fun to be with, independent, neat, and happy doing her stuff while I do mine.  We hang around my apartment for a couple of hours, then go to dinner at Restaurant  83 ½.

It’s a friendly, local restaurant. When my mom was visiting a month ago, we had dinner here, and it was fantastic.  As an entrée, I order the duck again, and it’s just as good as last time.  M hates animals that fly, and I have to promise her the duck (even though it doesn’t fly) will come featherless and not be shaped as a bird.  The kitchen keeps my promise.

M orders the branzino, after getting assurance from the waiter that it will come headless, tail-less boneless and skinless.  Unfortunately, the kitchen does not comply this time.  M’s branzino comes covered in a silvery skin; she cannot look at it, let alone eat it; she sends it back and gets a disappointing salad instead.

On the walk home I don’t see a reason to ask M if she liked the restaurant.  But I do say, “I thought the burrata and tomato salad was great.”  “Ya, well, that would be impossible to screw up.  They just buy those ingredients from somewhere else.”

the reservation

I think it’s crazy but I do understand— the difficulty in getting, for example,  a reservation at some hot new restaurant.  Take Carbone.  An Italian restaurant in the West Village. You need to make a reservation one month in advance, and even then, try getting through.  Impossible.

A few years ago at the Horace Mann annual benefit, someone paid $500 for a reservation to Rao’s in Harlem.  That was $500 for the reservation, not the dinner.

But a mediocre, 3-star hotel?  One year in advance? With a room charge of  $500/night (before taxes) with a three-night minimum?  And a recent YELP review that read:

I was overly (sic) charged for my room and also found disgusting stains on the sheets.  The front desk attendants were rude and the GM took weeks to respond about the issue with me (sic) being over charged.

Ridiculous.

I am trying to find a hotel room in a place that is nowhere near anything exotic or luxurious or historical.  Just some gorges and lakes.  Yup.  I’m trying to make a reservation in Ithaca for Alexander’s graduation (still hard to believe) from Cornell next May.

Being compulsively organized, I even put together an excel spreadsheet to keep track of my conversations and teary conversations.  “What do you mean the lottery (yes, lottery) is already over? It’s more than a year out!” 

When Alexander was a freshman, I thought I’d call early and stay at the Statler, the beautiful on campus hotel for his graduation.  So this March I call.  That's when I'm told that the hotel takes no reservations for graduation.  All its rooms are promised to the President, dignitaries, the Board, and other important people.  I am not one of these important people.

That leaves only six hotels anywhere near campus.  Two of these four I can eliminate as both have been booked for months (maybe years).  So now I'm down to four.  I call this morning and add my name to two hotel lotteries.  In June, I can call the remaining two hotels and try for those lotteries.   And if I don’t win any lotteries, I hear there are some nice parks in Ithaca.

So here’s my advice.  Book a hotel for your child’s graduation, as soon as they begin freshman classes. And then, keep your fingers crossed that your reservation is held.

I met someone

No, not that kind of someone, but someone just as good.

Robyn stops by this morning and we go for manicures.  I uncharacteristically choose a springy lavender color.  Robyn asks, “Don’t you think you should go with something more conservative?”  She knows I’m meeting Julie today at an Open House.  “No, I think it’ll be all right,” I tell her. I know Julie has style and won’t be put off by someone wearing a non-traditional nail color.

The Open House is for a pre-war, high-ceilinged two-bedroom, potentially three, on the westside. Julie is a top broker, professional but accessible, kind, generous, and a good teacher.  I listen to her talk to those who come.  She is clearly knowledgeable and never pushy.  She lets the client lead without ever losing control.   She is charming and respectful. She’s the kind of broker I’d like to one day be.

And, I notice, she is wearing powder-blue nail polish.  Perfect.

a spring jacket

Last summer I was with someone whose closet is filled with Chanel, Michael Kors, Prada and Dolce & Gabbana.  She was wearing white jeans and what looked like a short Chanel jacket.  She looked, as she always does, perfect.

I had to know.  Was her jacket Chanel?  So I asked her, and she told me she had gotten it at Zara’s, a store I had never shopped in.  I spent some time looking for the jacket both instore and online, but couldn’t find it.

Today I am on my way to see Casa Valentina, the new Harvey Fierstein play.  I pass Zara and stop In to check this year’s selection of Chanelesque jackets. I find one. It’s off white with a brown checkered lining and ¾ length sleeves, and it fits perfectly. Plus, it costs less than the ticket to the play I’m seeing. I buy it without remorse.

all dressed up and nowhere to go

I am meeting Sofia to look at an apartment. She is going to prep me for the Sunday Open House I have volunteered to do.  The apartment is a studio rental in midtown. 

We are meeting at 11:45.  I plan on leaving at 11.  I dress conservatively and professionally.  A dark Jil Sander pantsuit.  Black patent leather heels.  And pearls.  I feel like an imposter. The last time I wore a suit to work was eight years ago, and I haven’t worn pearls in ages.  I had no idea so much fashion-planning was involved in real estate.

As I’m leaving, I get an email from Sofia.  “Can we make it 11:30?”  So now I’m rushing.  On the way to the bus stop I get another email and learn that Sofia has asked another agent — one with experience — to also help at the Open House.  I think two people are one person too many, and call Sofia to decline.

I go into the office, having changed into a grey pencil skirt, black slinky top, and the same stylishly uncomfortable patent leather high heels. I feel very grown up in the shoes, despite my inability to walk more than a few steps in them.

I introduce myself to one of the firm’s most successful brokers, and ask her if I can help with anything.  She asks what I am doing on Sunday and I tell her I have no plans. She is doing an open house on a $1.1 million dollar pre-war two bedroom on the westside and is happy to let me help.  She looks at me and without my asking says, “You are dressed perfectly.  The only thing I might suggest is to wear more comfortable shoes.”