a night of celebration and friendship

Abbey, my brother-in-law, is celebrating 70 years in business, and I am invited to the event at his company's offices.

Hundreds of people are invited, mostly clients and friends. I wear heels because the occasion calls for it, and am quickly reminded that I shouldn't. Walking from the subway to the event is difficult. I wobble. I walk slowly. And my feet ache every step of the way. I think all future shoe purchases will have little elevation. How sad.

My hair looks frightening. I had the keratin treatment a week ago and my hair is still stick straight and flat (albeit healthy looking). To make things worse, I can't color my hair for two weeks after the keratin treatment. I wish I'd planned better.  It's now been four weeks since my hair was last colored, and the half inch white roots are bright and noticeable.

Hordes of people are at Abbey's offices when I arrive. I only know family members, and immediately find some. I am a much better conversationalist when my feet aren't killing me and my hair looks good. Odd how these factors affect my socializing ability. 

I am proud being related to Abbey, and his amazing mother Rita. At 93 years old, she still stands tall in heels and looks as she always does, elegant and poised.

After the event I meet M at Bowery Meats in the East Village. She is visiting from Boston and staying the night.

I have my third drink of the evening with M, which is three more than I usually have. Though I really don't need any alcoholic to feel relaxed around my very close friend. The food is excellent (we both get strip steak) as well as everything else about the evening.

But in typical M fashion, when I try to take a picture, this is the best I can get.

a brief visit home

"I might come home this weekend."

"When will you know?"

"I'm not sure; it depends on what's going on here."

In other words, I'll wait till the very last minute and then weigh my options and consider my choices and then go to the place where I think I'll have more fun.

So late Friday my son decides that this weekend it'll be Manhattan.

Alexander arrives sometime on Saturday while I'm at work.

I know he's reached New York when I get a text around 5: Let's do sushi tonight.

I don't make it home until 8:15.  My son and sushi are both waiting for me. My son is so happy to see me;  now he can finally eat. He greets me with: "I'm starving; I almost couldn't wait."

It's been six weeks since Alexander was last home. We talk often, but seeing him is obviously so much better. Even if it's only an hour over dinner and one episode of Law and Order: SVU. I'm happy to take what I can get.

Soon I'm in my room and Daniel is over. They leave just as I'm falling asleep. I'm long past the days of going out at eleven.

And that's about it for seeing my son this weekend. 

Alexander wakes me to let me know he's home safely. 

Sunday morning I see him briefly before leaving for work. He doesn't have time for breakfast.

Today I'm organizing some photos and come across this one of Alexander.  My son will be 24 in a few weeks. He's only two years younger than his father was when I first met him in 1989.  

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As Alexander gets older, the resemblance between father and son grows stronger.

Eric in 1993, age 29; Alexander age two months

I'm in there somewhere. I'm just not sure where.

a beautiful, but sad good-bye

I meet Allen and his wife Maddie around 8 this morning. We are driving up to Westchester for Carol's funeral at 10.

We arrive at 9:30, and already the very long road leading up to the synagogue is lined with cars. While Carol never liked being the center of attention, I think she would be happy seeing the large number of people who have come today.

There are no empty seats. In fact, video and audio equipment are brought in, so the 50 or so people who can't find standing space within the sanctuary (even including the balcony) can be part of the service.

The eulogies are all beautiful. They are filled with humor and warmth. Sadness and love. Her children and Michael (her husband) show remarkable strength. Carol was a thoughtful, giving person. Involved in the community. The synagogue. With her friends. And most importantly, her family. 

When Michael talks about Carol's natural instincts as a mother — how each child was mothered differently, depending on who they were and what they needed— it wasn't possible to remain dry-eyed. 

When Melanie, Carol's only daughter, says, "Every morning, my mom would come in my room to wake me up and say, 'Waking you is like unwrapping a present,' I think, what a beautiful thing to tell your child. And what a precious gift to give her.

Carol's two sons both speak of their closeness to her. It is unusual to see two young men speak of their mother with such admiration and profound and obvious love.

And Carol was, despite the cliche, the true love of Michael's life. He met her at Penn, fell in love, and then 11 years later (yup, it took a while), Carol returned that love. I honestly don't think any two people could be happier than those two were.

Mourners come from all over the country. I sit next to Carol's childhood friend who now lives in Boston. I see people I haven't seen in over fifteen years. One woman comes up and hugs me, addresses me by name. tells me how sorry she is, and even asks, "Did you drive up with Allen?" Neither Allen nor I have any idea who she is.

At the cemetery the rabbi says a brief prayer. And then the mourners use a shovel to throw dirt onto the casket. This is considered a last act of kindness one can do for a loved one — bury them. But the sound of the dirt hitting the casket sounds harsh. My friend should not be there.

Shiva begins immediately after the funeral. Michael's house is filled. But it is not dominated by sadness. People share stories about Carol. Her life is represented in part by the many people who have come to say good-bye. 

Carol is described today in many superlative terms. Woman of valor. Genuine. Generous. Unpretentious. Intelligent. Kind. Gracious. She was all these things.  And more. 

I will miss her big, welcoming smile. Her laugh. Her embracing hugs. And her friendship.

carol

Allen was my first friend when I moved to NY in January, 1985. 

He held the job I was taking at Lever Brothers, Brand Manager of Caress. Because I was single and age-appropriate, Allen made a point of introducing himself to me. Ostensibly he wanted to acclimate me to the world of beauty bars. His true motive was more social.

I came to NY with a job and no friends. But that didn't concern me. I knew NY would be my home soon enough.

Through Allen, I met my first group of friends. Allen had excellent taste in women, and when I met him, he seemed to know just about every available single female.

A month after moving here, Allen organized a weekend trip to Killington. I think it was on that trip that Carol, who was one of Allen's very close friends, soon became one of mine.

Carol, David, Abby and me

Carol's contagious laugh and general brightness, as well as her keen mind and sense of adventure, immediately drew me to her. 

That summer,  Carol and I were part of the same shared house in Westhampton that Allen again organized.









When I met Carol, she was a banker at Lehman Brothers. And while she was smart and ambitious, she was also laid back and fun. A year or two after we met, Carol bought a spectacular apartment on Gramercy Park, key and all.  

Soon after, Carol was sent to work in London. I visited her there, and together we bought twin wool coats for under $50 (I am wearing mine). 

And celebrated New Year's in Paris.

When Carol moved back to the states in 1988, she reconnected with her Penn boy friend, Michael, and soon they were living together. Carol never slept one night in her exquisite Gramercy apartment. 

In 1989 Carol and Michael were married, and soon after moved to Westchester. She was the first of my friends to have a baby. And eventually had three.

Carol was there when my mom surprised me with a 40th birthday party.

Terri, Alice, Carol and Jill

And she hosted a baby shower for me in 1992.

Lori and Carol

We stayed in touch, but saw each other infrequently. Maybe once a year. Some years more, some less. No reason. Just busy lives and a train ride vs a taxi ride away.

January 17, 2012 at Dovetail. Alice, Abby, Carol and me.

February, 11, 2014 at Cinema Café.  Me, Carol and Ellen.

Last October Carol and I met for lunch and a matinee (The Humans). She told me then that she had been diagnosed in June with an unkind cancer. But she looked beautiful. Age hadn't touched her. And as always, she was positive and optimistic.

She had recently been traveling with her family, and told me that in many ways she had never been happier. She was appreciating life more knowing how vulnerable it can be.

A couple of hours ago I get the news I'd been fearing. My dear friend is gone.

For the brief time Carol was here, she touched many lives, and made them all a little better. I know she did mine. 

a baby naming

Today is Chloe's baby naming. Or more precisely, it is the day Chloe is given her Hebrew name.

Adam picks me up at 9:30. While we should have had plenty of time to arrive on time, a closed exit (the exit being the one we need) and a relentless downpour contribute to a late arrival. But the rabbi waits for us.

It is a short, joyous ceremony and the star of the show doesn't disappoint. The paparazzi are out in full force.

Chloe is on her best behavior, and seems to enjoy the attention. She is very comfortable sitting in a big chair on the bimah. 

My guess is that within a couple of years. she'll be reading Hebrew better than Alexander does now. Her adoring parents are at her side.

Jeannie and Jim have driven up for the day, along with my mom and Jack.

After the ceremony, all the guests drive back to Chloe's grandparents' house. There, we indulge in a feast of food and conversation. It's nice to talk to the adults, but the real focus  is of course around the glorious one-year old.

Babies and puppies. Grown adults are reduced to mush around either. On the floor. Shoes off. We ooh and aah as little Chloe plays with some toy requiring a plastic hammer. "Look how smart she is. She knows how to pound."  We watch her deftly crawl after the three little dogs who want nothing to do with her. "She crawls so fast, doesn't she?" We laugh when she feeds the dog a biscuit, but only once. "She doesn't like the way the dog grabbed the biscuit out of her hand. She's not going to try that again!" Every action, small or large, is followed by an adult observation. 

Babies really are little wonders. It's impossible not to adore them. And Chloe Anabel is no exception. She really is one precious little girl, who will no doubt grow up to become one exceptional woman.

lost items

I could probably fill a closet with all the items I've lost over the years.

I still mourn the pale yellow Calvin Klein raincoat I left on a plane over 30 years ago. Its simple lines and luxurious fabric would make it still stylish today, I'm sure.

I've lost keys. Lots of them. But who doesn't lose keys?

Umbrellas.

Gloves. So many gloves. I am still holding a single cashmere fingerless glove hoping its mate will somehow show up. It's been two years.

And glasses. Those are easy to lose. 

Especially sunglasses, for some reason. And usually the expensive ones. 

I've left sweaters at theaters. 

Wallets in cabs. 

Scarves.

Credit cards and debit cards. Not stolen, lost.

Metrocards.

Socks in the wash.

I once even lost a portion of a bracelet. Not the whole bracelet. Just a portion.

Earrings of course.

Oh, and good pens. Now my favorite pens stay at home where they are safe. Although even in my own house I can lose things that never again surface.

But until today I've never lost pillow cases.

I don't even understand how that's possible.

It's not like I take my pillow cases with me and they fall out of my purse.

Or I forget and leave them in my seat at the movies.

Or bring them to a friend's house and neglect to bring them home.

I now have a set of white Matouk sheets minus the pillow cases that go with them.

I 'spose I can re-buy the cases. 

Or maybe they'll show up. 

Just like that fingerless glove I am still waiting to appear.

my son and football

Aside from a few key quarterbacks, I know nothing about football.  I barely understand the game.

My son loves it. He knows the stats on all the players. Understands the nuances of the game. And can discuss it for hours, given the right audience.

Alexander played football in high school. I was happy that he didn't play defense.

He made it through Horace Mann without injury and then decides to join the sprint football team at Cornell. I'm not thrilled, but there isn't much I can do about it.

But then Alexander gets a shoulder injury and has to quit. I'm not happy about the injury (unrelated to football, by the way), but am relieved that I have one less thing to worry about during my son's college years.

Now that my son has graduated, and fortunately has not joined any local football teams, he's become a rather rabid fantasy football manager (or is it owner, I don't even know).

My son, who doesn't text me often, now seeks my advice.

And since some communication is better than none, I play along, even googling top fantasy football picks.  Though of course I have no idea who these players are, and my son knows that beyond Tom Brady, the Peyton Brothers, and Russell Wilson, it'd be difficult for me to name even three more NFL players.

But after a few back and forths I miss him and just want to talk.

I ask him to call and he does.

I have no illusions that if I were asking Alexander to call and discuss his recent Uber bill he wouldn't. 

Or why I keep getting phone overages on ATT's data usage.

Or if he were going to go to work on Rosh Hashanah.

Or when he's coming home next.

But for football he calls.

I remind him that he'll be 24 in November.  He needs to start making his own decisions.  I will always be there for him.  But at times like this (choosing fantasy football picks), he'll just have to assess his options, weigh the consequences of each, and use his own judgment.

I hope his fantasy football team does well. Even without my contributions. But more importantly, I hope I still hear from him.