Tuesday, February 28, 2017

my uniform

In 1994 I gave my notice. I was a Gillette Brand Manager, and had just taken a job for a similar position at Lever Brothers in New York City. I was excited about the move. 

Someone in Gillette's creative department surprised me with an illustration. In it, she had me wearing her imagined NYC uniform. A fur coat (mine was a light-colored raccoon coat I had purchased at Filene's Basement). Heels. Sheer hose, regardless of weather. And never too far from Bloomingdales. 




Times have changed. Now of course, my retailer of choice is Saks. My raccoon coat has long since disappeared from my wardrobe. And I haven't worn sheer hose (or heels to casually walk the streets) in a million years. 

Now, it's black tights (or no hose at all if the weather permits). A Moncler coat (if it's winter). And, according to my colleague Bobby, Jimmy Choo short biker boots ("that's an UES white woman boot," he tells me).  I own a pair — not because they're stylish, but because the rubber treaded soles make them remarkably comfortable for a long day of walking on hardwood floors



When I go to work, my uniform there is a black skirt, with either a white or black top. That, despite a relaxed dress coat where "personal style" is encouraged and applauded.

And when my mom visits, she generally comes wearing her uniform. Black leggings, a longish black top with a white long-sleeved tee underneath. She fits right in.

I have many different versions of my one uniform.  And while the overall look might be the same, I know the difference. 

I think it's funny when people come in to shop and say, "I don't want black. I have so much of it already."

80% of my closet is black, and I never get sick of it. Black is slimming, easy to wear, pairs well with almost everything, and conveys sophisticated chic. Plus, it never ever goes out of style.

Unlike oversized raccoon coats.




Monday, February 27, 2017

virtual party

For as long as I can remember, I have never missed the Oscars. And it's most fun watching it with friends. 

But Sunday is a good stay-at-home night. And the Oscars always run late. And wouldn't it be nice to watch the show live with friends, and lounge in bed at the same time? And I'm working Sunday, so buying food, putting it out, showering and getting ready is not something I really want to do. So I invite some friends to watch the Oscars with me — virtually.

Everyone can get in their sweats. Not worry about makeup. Eat their own food. Leave when they want. And text live.

At 8:30 I start a thread with six friends. One friend checks out ten minutes later. I think she was "attending" another virtual party with her family. Stephanie is gone within the hour. Two of my friends stay on but say little. Shari and Susan are the most vocal. Like me, they have seen all (or at least most) of the nine nominated films. 

Most of the fashion is tame. Not many big losers, which is too bad. I think Emma Stone is the most stunning. She looks ethereal in her shimmering gold dress. And why can't men stick to a black tux (or navy) with a classic, well-tailored white shirt? I don't like ruffles on men. Or black shirts with black tuxes.  Or necklaces, like Pharell wears.

The wins are fairly predictable.  I'm probably the only one who thinks Viola's acceptance speech feels like a performance. Or that Casey Affleck really needs to trim that beard (even if it is for some future role). Or that Justin Timberlake should win something; he embodies perfection.

But the show is long and slow, and I am tired. I fall sleep at my own party 

I get up early this morning to watch the last hour. I don't check my texts or emails. I want to be surprised.

And of course I am. Very.

How many expected tasks does that poor accountant from PricewaterhouseC have to do? He (or she) is not on stage. No need to worry about public speaking, or even what to wear. This person doesn't have to present before a crowd of millions. Sure, they may be nervous handing an envelope to Warren Beatty, but other than that, I'm guessing they have little to be worried about. All they have to do is make sure the envelope they are giving to Mr. Beatty is the right one. How difficult can that be?

Well, a major mix-up makes for compelling TV. 

Too bad both Moonlight and La La Land couldn't have won. 

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

worth the wait

Last June (that's eight months ago), American Express released some seats to their platinum cardholders. Lucky for me that my friend Susan has one of those cards.



She gets us seats, third row, right next to the seats that cost almost $400. 


The play premiered at The Public Theater in February 2015. M, who hates theater, had heard about it and asked if we should go. But when she described it —a musical about America's founding fathers —she didn't have to add that it was three hours long. I didn't want to go even if it were a 90-minute single act. One, I generally don't like musicals, and two, a mostly-male cast about Alexander Hamilton and his friends? The guy on the ten dollar bill? No thank you.


That was then.


Today I meet Susan. The long lines to get in, and the enthusiastic theater-goers in that line, make it feel like Hamilton is opening today.





Our seats are a little close, but that's fine.





What isn't fine is the guy with the gigantic head who is sitting directly in front of me.





The musical opens and before a word is sung, the packed house is already cheering. It's as if everyone knows that this is going to be an extraordinary three hours of entertainment.


And they are right.

The play lives up to its hype and the three hours fly by. It's an ingenious concept, powerfully delivered, and exceptionally performed. I loved every single second.


Tuesday, February 21, 2017

stoned

Sometime in the early 70's I saw the Stones at Boston Garden. And yes, if I had to guess, I was probably stoned. I'm not sure if people even use that word anymore. I think the vernacular may have changed. It's been that long.


Robin and I get tickets a couple of weeks ago, and today we meet to see a multi-media exhibit on the Rolling Stones.





We are immediately welcomed in.




The exhibit is much larger than I thought it would be.

I love seeing actual handwritten entries by Keith Richards in a miniature-sized diary.

Learning about the influence that blues had on their work.

Seeing a recreation of the early (and disgustingly dirty) flat they shared before their fame. I guess Mick, Keith and Brian didn't care too much about cleanliness.





Viewing hideous —yet memorable — costumes from the 70's.

And learning about the creation of their iconic logo.





But the best part, of course, is the music. A short 3-D concert. A segment narrated by Scorcese on the Stones' films. And a chance to adjust the vocals, backup singers, and instrumentation on a few songs.


The protracted section on the actual guitars used is not as interesting. All I got from that is that the guitars are personal, expensive, and lovingly acquired.


But I'd like to heard more of Mick's voice (both in narrative and song). I miss not knowing more of who they were then and who they are now. Didn't Bill Wyman, at 47, have sex with a 13 year old and then marry her? Hasn't Keith Richards been married forever to model Patti Hansen, and now lives a quiet life in Connecticut? And didn't Mick Jagger just welcome his 8th child? And what about poor Brian Jones who died of an overdose?


The exhibit misses on communicating the band's personal stories. How'd they get to where they are, and what affect has that had on their lives and their families? At heart, I'm most interested in the Stones as people and the incredible library of music they've created.


It takes me and Robin two and a half hours to get through the exhibit. It is absolutely worth seeing. Even if it doesn't tell the colorful off-stage stories of these fantastically talented guys.

Monday, February 20, 2017

girls day in

Recently Saks was selling beautiful cashmere sweaters by Alberta Ferretti.

If I had to guess, I'd bet that this one was the least popular. Not for its colors, but for its day.  Who would claim Monday as their favorite day? Who, that is, besides me.



I love Mondays.

I generally work Friday, Saturday and Sunday, so Monday begins a four-day stretch of not working. It's generally my catch-up day. You know, phone calls. Emails. Errands.  Fixing those small troublesome things that need to be fixed. And just generally getting stuff done. It's probably a lot like everyone else's Sunday.

But today I can't do much because I have no computer. My new computer, bought in late January, doesn't hold its battery charge. Apple replaces it today, but I ask them (and they agree) to migrate all my data. If I don't have to deal with that, I'd rather not. I leave the Apple Store around 11:45, feeling both liberated and naked.

I email a few friends and ask if anyone is free to watch a movie. Surprisingly, three friends are.

By 2pm, Shari, Robyn and Stephanie are all here. The coffee table is filled with junk food. We watch The Light Between Oceans. The movie has a slow start, is beautifully shot, and poses moral questions that are difficult to answer, despite knowing what the right responses should be.

It's a perfect way to spend an afternoon. Hanging with close friends. Eating good comfort food. Watching a film worthy of discussion. And not worrying about hair or makeup.

Wednesday, February 15, 2017

good decision

A friend and I were scheduled to see Jitney a few weeks ago. Neither one of us had any interest in the play; It came with our subscription package to Manhattan Theater Club (MTC).

My friend cancelled outright; I rescheduled for a matinee today.


I wake up and decide to cancel. 


I call MTC.


Tim, a never-met friend who works in the subscription office, tells me the play is  fantastic and I'd be crazy to miss it. I consider rescheduling again, but know that if I don't feel like going today, I won't feel like going a week from today. I tell Tim I'll think about it and hang up — and then argue with myself the rest of the morning.


I really don't feel like going into midtown. 

I know this is a ridiculous argument. It's easy enough to get there. And it's not like it's raining or snowing.

I haven't loved any other August Wilson play that I've seen. In fact, I fell asleep during the recent movie-version of Fences.

But he is an important playwright.

I don't like dialogue-driven plays. I hated Conor McPherson's The Weir, for example, and that won all sorts of big awards.

But the reviews on this production of Jitney have been universally excellent.

I just went to a play last night.

So what, people visit NY just to see  good theater. And besides, it's not like I'm sacrificing other plans.

I don't really want to go.

But I feel guilty not going.  

It's two and a half hours long.

I can always leave at intermission if I hate it.

Finally, around one, I decide to go. I grab a yogurt, throw on some makeup, and leave. The play starts at two. I just make it.

Everyone seated around me is decades older than I am and short. I have a perfect, unobstructed view seat, just five rows from the stage.

By the time the riveting first act ends, I'm totally hooked. 

Thank-you Tim; I'm glad I listened.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

a play in two days

I meet Susan at Westville.

We are having dinner before seeing a new play called Yen by Anna Jordan. That was last Tuesday.

Westville is my favorite go-too place for a casual, inexpensive dinner. It's a nondescript whole-in-the-wall I discovered years ago. The food is outstanding, the menu long and varied, and the prices gentle. It's unfortunate that the desserts are as good as they are as we always end up getting one.

Our seats are first row. We are practically in the squalid apartment watching porn with the two teen boys when the play opens. It's a brutal first act. 

Should we stay for act two?  I don't know. The play did start to get more interesting in the last scene before intermission. But it's so dark and depressing. These are not the kind of people I want to spend time with. And you just know the ending is not going to be a happy one. Not that I need a happy ending. It's just all so dismal. We leave.

My Via picks me up in literally two minutes.

I get home and then read the reviews. Now I wish I'd stayed. 

I call MCC theater the next day and get another ticket for tonight.

I'm glad I went, but should have stayed the first time around. The second act, far more powerful than the first, costs me an extra $15, another Via, and three more hours of time. 

Tomorrow I'm supposed to see Jitney. A two and a half hour play by August Wilson. Lots of dialogue and little action is my guess from the reviews.

I'm thinking of skipping both acts.