A few weeks ago I ask Alexander if he'll be home for Mother's Day. His response?
"I have to come home the following weekend anyway so would it be okay if I came home then instead?"
"Sure," I respond. "Or how about mid-June? Just pick a date that's most convenient for you."
He does the right thing and comes home.
I work on Saturday so we meet afterwards. Alexander chooses the restaurant. A little Italian place called Finestra on the UES.
My son is waiting for me when I arrive. At first he was worried (he later tells me) because all the patrons there were so old. Maybe they were finishing up from their early bird dinners. I arrive, near eight, and by then, the small restuarant is filled with people of all ages.
The food is great. We both order the same fattening meal: shrimp parm with a side of spaghetti. During our relaxed conversation, Alexander casually says, "I really need to see a doctor. My right shoulder keeps poping out, even when I sleep." I have no idea how long this has been going on for, but he injured his shoulder in 2009. His busy life doesn't allow time to watch a one minute youtube video I recently sent him, so I shouldn't be surprised that he hasn't found time to have his shoulder examined.
Today, Mother's Day, Alexander meets me at work to shop, something he loathes doing. But I wish all my customers were like my son. He's quick, decisive, knows what he wants, and it would never occur to him to return anything.
Despite having to work, it's a nice Mother's Day.
I consider myself lucky for a lot of reasons. And being mom to Alexander is top on my list.
This week I don't:
- Accept an invitation to watch the royal wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle starting at six in the morning. That I could do (if I weren't working on Saturday), but female attendees at this private party are encouraged to wear hats with fascinators. Now that would be a challenge.
- Go to a screening of a new Showtime series called The Fourth Estate, an upcoming documentary series about The New York Times in the Trump era, and the challenges its reporters face in covering a president who undermines them. The show is followed by a Q&A with Leslie Stahl.
- Attend a private screening of On Chesil Beach with an after-party.
Instead, I:
- See Lobby Hero with Zelia.
- Finish one book and begin another (neither worthy of a recommendation).
- Spend about seven hours (no exaggeration) with Apple and someone in Saks tech support trying to get my work emails to come through my home computer like they have been for the past two and a half years but now suddenly don't. Four days and hours of conversation. The result? No solution and none on the way.
- Do some clienteling (yes, that's a real word). Contact about 150 customers and hear back from two.
- And buy some groceries (multiple times).
My life would be so much more interesting if I only did more of what I don't do. And my guess is, I'm not alone.
My sister and M have a mutual friend. I'll call her Jan.
A couple of months ago Jan is skiing in Colorado. Feeling great. A few weeks after coming home, she doesn't feel well, goes to the ER, and gets diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. It's devastating news. Totally unexpected.
But this isn't about the battle Jan is now fighting. It's about two people she barely knows, and the humanity and kindness they extend to her, just because.
Jan has been a customer of Saks (in Boston) for many years, and has worked with the same salesperson for most of that time. Jan decides to return a recently purchased dress and pair of shoes after getting her diagnosis. The desire for more clothing has been supplanted with more important desires. So Jan mails the clothing back to her salesperson at Saks, with a note explaining the reason for the return.
A few weeks later Jan gets a package in the mail. She opens it to find the clothing she had returned. My first thought, when M is telling me the story, is, "Oh, no, I can't believe the salesperson would return the items because it was over 30 days." But no, that's not the story M is telling.
The salesperson includes a note with the clothing, telling Jan how sorry she is to hear the news ... and then goes on to say that she would like Jan to keep the items, as she knows Jan loved them enough to purchase them. "And don't worry, you won't be charged. I will credit your account in the full amount."
And then yesterday, M is with Jan at the Apple store and they are getting watches. They are being helped by a big strapping guy who looks like an NFL running back. In the course of the purchase, it comes up that because of Jan's recent diagnosis, she now has to keep track of her heartbeat, and that's one of the reasons for getting the Apple watch.
But Jan would love one of the very-cool mesh bands that costs about $200. M decides to surprise her and give it to her as a gift. When the salesperson is ringing up M, she says, "And don't forget to charge Jan's mesh band on my purchase." He looks at her and says, "Nope. I'm including the band for her as a gift." This, from a complete stranger!
Though I risk sounding sappy, these stories really do reinforce my belief that people are generally kind and compassionate.
I hate this weather.
Two days ago it was damp and biting cold. The uncomfortable kind that pierces through all layers. Nothing protects you from this kind of weather. It's not the brisk cold of winter that can be protected by warm clothing — my favorite.
Today is almost 85. What happened to spring? I walk a couple of blocks and feel sweaty and exhausted. I am meeting Susan to see Carousel.
I go to the bus stop, put my metrocard into the machine to pre-pay, and no little white pass pops out. It's supposed to. It's my only proof of payment. And if you're caught without that little white pass there's a $200 fine.
But what are the chances?
Select Bus Service started in the city 10 years ago and I've only been on a bus ONCE when I was checked. And besides, I am only going four blocks before I have to switch to the subway.
One block into my trip the doors open, and sure enough, two Transit Police Inspectors (or some such title) board the bus, while one guards the door. They are asking everyone to show their white slips of paper to prove they've paid.
Now I'm getting nervous.
Everyone seems to have their white slips to show. I'm expecting a battle. Why should the inspectors believe me?
When it's my turn to show my pass I speak with confidence I don't really have. Polite. Not aggressive.
"The machine I used didn't spit out a proof of payment."
"Where was the machine?"
"79th and First."
"Okay. Thanks. We are aware that it's broken; it's been reported."
NY at its finest!
I don't really care that it's been broken for months. At least this inspector knew.
Next time I'll use the machine next to the broken one. Now I know.
Oh and Carousel? Loved It. The music is gorgeous, and the leads incredible. Definitely worthy of its near 3-hour run-time.
Finally!
Customers can now order from me directly when they are shopping on Saks.com.
Just bookmark, and go to this link:
This gives you access to the entire Saks site, but any shopping you do online will be credited to me.
So, if you could pass this link on to everyone you know who shops (or could possibly shop) at Saks, I would be immensely grateful.
Save it.
Tweet it.
Post it on Facebook.
Email it to friends.
Share it with anyone and everyone.
And a million, trillion thanks.
I have lived in Manhattan for over 30 years.
I pride myself on knowing the city well. Even the subway system isn't a mystery to me. But still, after all these years, whenever I go downtown (West Village and Greenwich Village specifically), I have no idea how to get anywhere.
I'll exit the subway, look around, and then have to ask someone (usually more than one) how to get to Bleeker, or MacDougal, or some other unnumbered street. This happens to me tonight. Again.
I am going to see Harry Clarke...
the play I was supposed to see with Stephanie but missed when I had that Verizon fiasco a few weeks ago.
I stop someone on the street to ask where some named street is and she smiles and says, "Sorry. Can't help help you. I'm a tourist too."
I want to tell her that no, I'm not a tourist. I live her. I know the city. This is my home. I just get lost in this neighborhood. But I just smile and thank her anyway.
I don't like being taken for a tourist!
I arrive at the theater solo. It's another thing I love about NY. Being anonymous is fine. I am not uncomfortable sitting in a theater with no one I know sitting next to me.
Billy Crudup is spectacular. He assumes many different characters and is believable in all of them. The story is not as strong as the acting, but it's still a great 90-minutes of theater.
I first book a trip on Megabus to Philadelphia on March 16, my birthday. But Alexander and I both have a lot going on so I reschedule to the following Wednesday.
Then Wednesday comes and we have an unexpected (ultimately disappointing) snowstorm, so this trip also gets canceled.
Trip number three is then re-scheduled for April 11. The text I get the morning of April 10 ends with,
So today is my fourth planned trip to spend the day with my son. And it's a success.
I arrive around 1 and get off at the wrong station. But soon Alexander arrives, and we are off on our Philadelphia adventure.
Our first stop is CVS (to get band-aids for my foot blister, already).
We then grab a quick lunch at one of Alexander's go-to places.
The next stop is Alexander's apartment. He's been living in this one-bedroom for almost a year. It's in a good location, near the Penn campus. Other than that, there is nothing good I can say about it. He promises to move when his lease ends in August.
We then decide to walk the city and experience some of its history. I'm impressed with Alexander's knowledge. Not of the city's history, but of the streets and subway system.
We spend about an hour learning about the Liberty Bell, its famed crack, and its symbolism.
I can't remember the last time I've spent an entire day, alone with my son. And he really makes an effort, not even denying me the privilege of trying out my iPhone 8's camera abilities.
We walk some more (over 20,000 steps in all), talking about subjects we never have time to really explore.
Dinner is at Parc Restaurant, overlooking Rittenhouse Square.
When we finish eating, a plate of miniature cookies are brought to the table with a candle in them. Since my trip to Philadelphia was originally supposed to be in celebration of my birthday, Alexander told the restaurant it was my birthday when he made the reservation.
I'm on a 7pm bus home, packed with memories of a day well-spent, with the one person I love most in the world.
Six uninterrupted hours with my son. No arguments.— even when touching on some serious subjects. A little bit of new knowledge (both personal and historical). And many laughs.
It's a perfect day!
