I am back at the government offices for SCRIE, the NYC department that can freeze your rent after age 62 if you can prove your income is low enough.
I apply in April, and assume an easy approval, as I meet all the criteria.
Yesterday, after five months, I get a letter saying my application is denied. Why? Because "we did not receive the requested information or documents from you after three pending notices were mailed." The letter then describes the appeal process.
Huh? I sent them everything.
So I return to their offices today (for the third time; something I shouldn't have had to do even once), and learn this:
- The last document I send is on July 31.
- SCRIE receives it around August 3, but has a backlog of mail.
- It takes SCRIE from August 3 to September 5 to enter my new document into their system.
- My application is denied on September 2.
Because it takes SCRIE a month to log my information into its system, I am denied. They have my document in their office for four weeks but never quite get around to reading it. And because of this, I am sent a letter of denial. Oh, but if I want, I can go through a cumbersome and lengthy appeal process!
This is when I have my near nervous breakdown.I feel like I'm in a Kafka novel.
But the woman helping me, a lovely Ms. Hayes, acknowledges the absurdity of the situation. She makes some calls, and manages to get my case status changed from "denied" to "under review."
But the reason its under review is no longer for not having the documents requested. No! Now they have a brand new reason. Ms. Hayes is told that SCRIE never received yet another document that was never asked for. Ever! She sees the horror in my eyes, and tells me I can email it to her and she'll walk it through the system.
I walk outside, look up and see the majestic Freedom Tower.
Today is nine-eleven. The weather is sunny and beautiful, just like it was 14 years ago.
It kind of puts things in perspective. My problem is hardly a problem at all.
Exactly two years ago I had my first body scrub using a Groupon. I thought it was so amazing that I bought three more for $50 each, including tax. I can't believe it took me so long to return.
It is even better than I remember it, and definitely worth a trip to Tribeca.
Today I am assigned Tina —a tiny Korean woman with, as it turns out, a lot of strength.
Tribeca Spa of Tranquility is clean and efficient. I check in, and am directed to a small room. There I undress, put my things in a locker, and walk out in a pair of disposable panties (quite unattractive) under a wrap-around towel.
The first stop is a steam room. After a few very hot minutes, I am freed by Tina. We enter another room, similar to a massage room — long table, low lights, soft music — except the cover on the table is plastic, and there is a shower, hose, and big bucket of water nearby.
I lie down on the table and Tina covers my eyes with a warm facecloth. It adds some mystery to the experience as I can no longer see anything.
Next I feel big buckets of warm water being dumped all over my body. It feels great. Tina then rubs some kind of liquid soap everywhere, and begins her hard work.
Tina is basically a scrubwoman, though instead of scrubbing floors, she's scrubbing skin. She uses some kind of mitt that feels like a loofah, and scrubs every inch of my body many times over. In between, she dumps the warm pails of water over me.
It is not exactly a relaxing experience, but it is a satisfying one. Dead skin falls away. Places I can't get to are scrubbed smooth. The tops of my feet are erased of all patchy skin. My back is scrubbed and scrubbed. I even smell cucumber slices all over my face, "to make it smoother and whiter," Tina says.
In the end, I'm standing naked as Tina showers me off, and sends me to the sauna to dry.
I am squeaky clean. Literally. I rub my skin and hear it squeak.
I walk out into the gritty streets of lower Manhattan, knowing my impossibly clean body won't last. I need to take the subway home.
No, not summer. I'm never sad to see summer end, especially knowing that autumn follows.
I make a steak dinner, fig, goat cheese and tomato salad, and sliced roasted potatoes.
It's a special night, though one that we've been kind of dreading. Alexander and I have reached the 62nd episode of Breaking Bad, our last one.
Many others have written about this show far more eloquently and intelligently than I can. And admittedly I am late to the party; the series ended in September 2013. But honestly, I've never seen anything on television that comes close to being as good as this.
The brilliant writing remarkably got stronger with each season. Alexander and I were captivated from the start. Like the famous line in Jerry Maguire, "You had me at hello." Well, Mr. White had us from scene one of the pilot, before the credits even rolled.
The cinematography is magnificent. All the characters — even the minor ones — are beautifully drawn and multi-layered. Our allegiances shifted as we watched the characters grow and change.The moral issues they confront and how decisions are made make this show — this entire series — entirely engaging. Nothing is predicable. The characters — all spectacularly acted — evolve over five seasons.
Each of the 62 episodes begins with a cold open of about 3 to 7 minutes. That open can pertain to things in the past, the current, or even the future, and the future of not necessarily the episode you are watching, but the future of something that will happen many episodes later. There is no waste. Everything eventually ties together. It may take several episodes, or even an entire season, but there are no loose ends. Even the credits and titled episodes are cleverly executed.
I resisted watching this show for a long time, as I had no interest in the topic — a chemistry teacher who is diagnosed with cancer and becomes a meth cooker to leave money for his family when he dies. Yes, the show is about drugs and crime and violence and morality. But at its heart, the show is about family. And that's what makes it so compellingly watchable.
The last episode ends, and Alexander admits, "Okay, it's as good as 24. Maybe better." We go back to watch the beginning of The Pilot, the very first episode of Season One. Just to see, one more time, how far Walter has fallen.
I'm talking to Zelia and she says, "I'm going to Costco today, wanna come?" I rarely resist a trip to Costco.
I put together a short list:
Most of the things on it are for Alexander, who seems to eat constantly and remains thin nonetheless.
I hate big-chain grocery stores, and rarely go in them (Whole Foods being the exception). But there's something about Costco that appeals to me. I don't know if it's the wide open aisles, the large range of offerings, or the fact that TV's, winter coats, and furniture are sold along side tunafish.
Zelia and I never go to Costco on a weekend. But it's a holiday, and we figure the city's pretty much empty. We figure wrong. We get to Costco and find most of New York City, despite perfect beach weather. The wide aisles seem narrow with so many wielding those mammoth carts.
My short list of ten items quickly grows. The rack of lamb I got last time was great. I pick up two packages. The blueberries and pluots look delicious. I remember that we're out of crackers and low on the frozen shrimp scampi. Now that I've been shopping at Costco for a few years, I know what to buy, and it always gets eaten.
The check out line is surprisingly fast. We are in and out in under an hour. But why is it— every single time —
I can never ever escape Costco for under $200? Even with a short list of under ten items.
My mom is in my room at 8, reminding me of our departure time this morning. The airport (more like a big landing strip, according to Alexander) is an hour away in moderate traffic. My mom likes to get to where she's going with plenty of time to spare.
We negotiate the leaving time, factoring in a stop to pick up cinnamon rolls at Dana's and two cranberry loaves at the Maison Villatte in downtown Falmouth. "No later than 9:45, and I want everything in the car by then." We have about three minutes to spare, and my mom and Alexander reluctantly pose for one last photo. The latter because she's already getting nervous about the time; the former because he's sick of posing for me.
It's been a great week, but I'm sure my mom is anxious to have her house and schedule back. We get to the airport at 11:20. Plenty of time for our 1:09 flight.
The flight is quick. The subway ride from the airport is hot and crowded.
We get home, unpack, pick up sushi, and watch Breaking Bad.
I bring home a temporary souvenir from my days away from the city. Three gigantic bites on my right forearm. One on my left thigh. And two mean ones on my right inner thigh. I guess that's the price for for good country living.
Yes, I know, summer officially ends on Labor Day, next Monday. But for me, today is the last day of summer. Alexander and I leave the Cape tomorrow.
It's been a week of perfect weather, and today is no exception, though a little too hot.
It's low tide. There's a light breeze. And the temperature is high. Perfect conditions for floating. And the calm waters make it possible to read at the same time.
We spend a couple of hours lazily floating in the warm Cape Cod waters. It's nice to spend uninterrupted time with my son.
Around four, we decide to leave.
I could say that Alexander is sad to see summer end, but his scowl reflects an impatience for my picture-taking.
We drive back to my mom's. Unload the golf cart. Put away the chairs. Throw away the trash. Hang up the towels. And say good-bye to summer.
