fafo

My college boyfriend Bob, with whom I'm still in touch, tells me recently about an article in the WSJ describing an increasingly popular method of parenting. FAFO, or more specifically, F*ck Around and Find Out. In other words, actions have consequences.

As a single mom, I know I haven't been the sternest. And yes, second, third and fourth chances are more my nature than not. But now I am trying to adopt a more FAFO approach. I know it's a bit late, as my son is almost 33.

After living in Austin for over two years, Alexander decides to leave his job, and to come back East to think about his next steps. He ultimately decides that he loves New York (surprise, surprise) and gets a great job, then a great apartment in a brownstone on the UWS. 

People move out of 10,000 sq. foot houses in less time it takes for my son to move his stuff out of his room in my apartment.

One day, I take out all his things. Clothes he might want. Linens he might need. Blankets (so many from both his high school and college years). Old notebooks with stories he once wrote. Books he never read. Books he did read. And a million odds and ends. 

I am pretty neat and my apartment is pretty small. My son's room is easily seen from my living room. It's not a good look.

Alexander's new lease starts on July 1 and I generously give him until September 1 to move his stuff out. After that, I tell him, "Anything still in the room is mine to keep, give away or donate."

As the date approaches, he calls and begs for an extension which I give him: September10.

He tells me he'll "swing by" tonight, making this removal job sound like a five-minute task. He arrives late. Orders and buys dinner for both of us. Watches some Entourage reruns. And then  begins to sort through his stuff.  He makes good progress. But then decides he doesn't want to do it anymore and will have to come back another time to finish up.

I'm happy to have the room mostly back. And glad Alexander has reason to return in a few days. 

Addendum: Three days later, September 10

Mission accomplished. 

dinner with a friend

There's this expression about aging that is so true. Time speeds up as there are fewer novel experiences and more routines. So when I get a text from Terri saying she'll be in town, I hadn't realized (until I check my calendar) that it's been four years since I last saw her. We met in 1989 when we shared a summer house together in the Hamptons (the same summer I met my future son's father).

Terri used to live in Manhattan. Then got married, had a child, got divorced from someone who turned out to be a charming psychopath (though never killed anyone that we know of), and then because of her job moved to Orlando (about 15 years ago).

Terri is beautiful. Smart. Is more fit than most 25-year-olds. She is also fun. Adventurous. Interesting. And has more remarkable stories than anyone I know. Drama surrounds her.

We decide to do something a little different. I find a place on Google on the UWS (where we are meeting) that got good reviews on YELP for reflexology. I arrive early (around 5:30) and the place is questionable at best. I knew it would be no-frills, but this place is a few rungs below that. I think it's clean despite a stained carpet, but it is definitely on the margins.

By the time Terri shows up we have a plan. She can say she is not feeling well if she doesn't want to stay. She arrives and quickly announces that she's recovering from hand surgery (true) and that she feels slightly ill (not true). We leave. It was the bad odor that got to Terri (I can't smell it as I can't smell a lot of things due to, I think, I sinus issue).

And just like that, we begin talking and walking.  So much to say, despite my thinking my life is not worth repeating. We walk along Riverside Park and end up at Serafina. For the next three hours, we talk more. And laugh (the kind emanating from the belly). And don't reminisce. We have a ton of amazing shared adventures which we don't even mention. No need, as we both know they are there.  And besides, there is so much new stuff  still to share.

primo brands: pay attention!

I have a water cooler and have gotten water delivered for over twenty years.

First it was directly from Poland Spring. Then Ready Refresh (part of the same family owned by BlueTriton Brands) took over. All was good until recently when BlueTriton merged with Primo Brands. 

Now it's an utter sh*t show.

I'd never heard of Primo Brands until June, when I unexpectedly receive two, 5-gallon bottles of Poland Spring, along with two cases of the half liter size. It's a lot for my small apartment to handle, as I also have four empty, 5-gallon bottles that Primo did not pick-up as I had no clue they were even coming. Nothing in my account noted a delivery.

I call. It takes about 35 minutes now to reach someone in the Philippines.  In the past, I would always reach someone in Massachusetts within a couple of minutes. Anyway, I reach Mae and she tells me to keep the water and I won't be charged.

In late August, I order three, 5-gallon bottles for two reasons. 

1. Primo charges a ridiculous $13.99 for delivery (though mine is waived this time) so I over-order to reduce my number of deliveries.
2. I need to get rid of the six empty five-gallon bottles I have stuffed in closets.

This time I am delivered only two bottles — not the three I ordered.

I call back. This time it takes 40 minutes to reach someone.  A new delivery is scheduled for a few days later to have the third, missing bottle delivered. I am told I won't be charged.

The five-gallon bottle is delivered as anticipated. But so is a case of Saratoga water in glass bottles and a cleaning kit for a cooler that doesn't even work with my model. I am charged $56.91.

I call again. And again. And again. Each time I'm on hold between 35-45 minutes.  Twice I am disconnected. 

When I finally do reach someone, I get apologies and promises.  I am told to keep the water. I am given future waivers on the delivery fee. And I am told the charge will be removed.

It's been three days. The charge of $56.91 still sits on my Amex. No reversal has yet appeared. 

But I do have plenty of water.

* With more in the fridge and cooler.

escape from manhattan

My list of favorites on my phone is a short one. Zelia is on it.

We met twenty years ago when our sons were new students at Horace Mann. Despite a deep friendship, we are more different than similar. Originally from Brazil, Zelia now lives nearby on the Upper East Side.

• Where Zelia reads financial news' stories, I gravitate to murders and pop culture. 

• She can go out and in one afternoon purchase a sofa, two chairs, and maybe even a rug.  It has taken me two years to find the exact right coffee table. And then another two to find the right dining chairs.

• We see a film and she might ask, "Who's he?" referring to some A-lister.

• She owns one lipstick and has no need to own more.

• And, she has zero interest in fashion. 

One day we are talking and Zelia tells me she bought a house in Fairfield county.

She does some renovating and within a couple of months, Zelia decides she is going to live in Connecticut full time. I am happy for her and disappointed for me. She'll now live over two hours away.

Recently I visit her for a few days. 

The house is beautiful and big. It's in a wooded area where there is a two-acre requirement for each house. It couldn't possibly be more unlike New York.

The first morning Zelia suggests we go for a walk in her neighborhood. I throw on my usual walking outfit: Lululemon top and bottom. Zelia puts on hers:

"For the gnats," she says. 

The next few days are great. And very relaxing. We go to the nearby private beach which Zelia had originally reported as being horrible; "There's no sand." But when I see the beach, I see lots of beautiful sand. I then have to educate her on the concept of tides, which she knows nothing about. "We don't have tides in Brazil," she says. (This from a very smart women, PHD in economics even).

When we are not at the beach or reading by her pool, we are cooking on her grill, visiting the local shops, meeting her interesting neighbors, or having one of the best meals I've ever had (some lobster Thai thing at her golf club).

And we laugh a ton. Humor is one of the great things we do have in common.

two kinds of people

When my son was applying to colleges, one school asked a great question.

"There are two kinds of people in the world. What are they?"

So this would be my answer: those who care and those who don't.

NOT CARING

I'm meeting Susan for an early dinner near Lincoln Center when a car pulls over to the sidewalk, near where I am standing. A woman gets out of the car with a bag of trash in her hand. A plastic bottle noticeably falls to the ground as she is exiting the car. I watch as she walks to a nearby trash can and tosses her stuff. She then walks back to the car, steps over the bottle she'd dropped, and gets into the car. Unbelievable! I can't help myself. "Aren't you going to pick that up?" I ask. And before the woman has a chance to say anything, the male driver leans over and says, "No. She did that on purpose," obviously being sarcastic. I am left speechless.

CARING

I am walking along the beautiful esplanade on the East side. I get in about 30 miles/week, and typically do the same route. 

On one particular morning, I am going back and forth between a small stretch, as rain looks likely and I don't want to be caught in it.

After a few up-and-backs over the same walkway, a young girl stops me.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

I'm not at all sure why she is asking, but I nod in the affirmative, remove my airpods and ask, "Why, do I not look all right?"

"Oh no," she replies. "You look fine, but I saw you walking back and forth a few times and just wanted to make sure you were okay."

I'm guessing that from her perspective, she's seeing grey hair, older woman, mindless pacing, must be dementia.

Yikes. I appreciate the caring, but it makes me wonder (well, actually know) that how I look is not how I think I look. Or feel.

I'm back

I have gotten some really nice emails/texts from people saying they miss my blog. First, thank you.

In the past almost-two years, there have been many times I've wanted to write, but three things have stopped me:

• I don't want to offend anyone I know and care about, and inevitably I seem to.   
• Many of the things I'd really like to write about I can't.
• And I don't want to be judged for writing, which I know I will be. My life is not full, and in many ways not all that meaningful. By often writing trivial stuff, I fear some people will then characterize me as trivial. 

But then I think, writing takes only a few minutes out of the day, so it's not like I'm forfeiting a ton of time doing it. Plus, I really enjoy the process (and love your comments). And writing about un-important things doesn't (I hope) mean they define me.

In brief, here is a summary of my recent past.

I no longer have a full-time job. I became un-employed on February 28 of this year. Now if only I could write about my last job experience! it could be a stand-alone blog (or even book) that I think would be wildly entertaining — as long as you're not living it. In short, in my many years of working, for many different companies and people, I have never experienced anything quite like this. I'm sure there was a reason why, for the first time in my career, I was asked to sign an NDA.

Last September we celebrated my mom's 95th birthday on the Cape. It was a great event, despite my having COVID at the time (second time) and not yet knowing it.

But a lot has changed since then. My mom was hospitalized in May with pneumonia and then went to rehab. She is now much better but needs more help then she did a year ago. In July, she moved into a great assisted-living facility called Atria — it's in Falmouth, where she has lived for the past 40-plus years, and where my sister Jean also lives. A good friend of my mom's recently moved in as well. It's a beautiful place, and my mom is doing well there, already attracting new friends with her engaging personality. Atria's daily schedule reads like a summer-camp for adults.

My son has thankfully abandoned Austin Texas (after almost two-and-a-half years of living there) and now has a great apartment on the Upper West Side (more about that later). He finally, on his own, decided that NYC is a great place for a single guy to live. 

So that is basically it.

For today.

so about those 2023 photos (quick update)

When you have a problem with a company, write to the CEO. That person is going to care a whole lot more than some person who is likely working across the world and has no interest in solving your problem; they are happy to just check off some proverbial box.

So I find the name of the Mimeo CEO. And my investigative friend Robin finds his email address. 

I write at 9:24 pm on January 1. At 12:15 am on January 2 (less than three hours later), he responds. It's a very nice note, showing genuine concern. He tells me that his GM for the Photo Business will be in touch.

By 9 this morning that person calls.

We have a grerat conversation. He promises he'll be meeting with his tech team today to address the problem. We talk for awhile, and I tell him of a couple of things they should think about doing and he is appreciative. So much so, that he asks me if I would like to be part of their User Advisory Board. Whatever that is, I enthusiastically say yes.

Minutes after hanging up, he sends me a code so the book I'll be buying will be free.

Soon the CEO again follows up and in part writes,

... we appreciate your feedback and we will do our best to learn from it to become a better company.  I know that you had the choice to delete our app and move on in frustration, and instead, you took the time to reach out.  Thank You!

it doesn't get much better than that. If only all companies were this responsive! How does that song go, "What a wonderful world it would be."