pre-seder at penn station

I am sitting in the waiting area of Penn Station. Alexander is meeting me here, and he's just around the corner, about three minutes away. 

I hold the seat next to me in anticipation of my son's imminent arrival. An older woman approaches me and asks if she can sit in the empty seat next to me. I tell her I am holding it for my son, as he is almost here. Without complaint, she takes a seat nearby as there are many open seats.

The woman next to the empty seat — in her early 70's I'd guess — says to me, "That was pretty rude of you!"

There are many single seats around; there are no two seats together.  She then adds, "This is the reason I hate coming to New York." The implication is clear. I am another inconsiderate New Yorker.

I am going to my sister's in Long Island for a big family Seder, and I choose not to engage her. It's a holiday. Be pleasant, I tell myself. Today is not a day for petty arguments.

Alexander arrives and soon the woman leaves. A 50-ish businessman takes her seat.

I ask Alexander what he thinks of the just-released Mueller Report. "I don't have an informed opinion," he tells me. "I haven't read it yet." As if anyone I know has actually read it!

From nowhere, the guy next to my son says, "Mind if I join in?"

This being New York, and my son being inclined to never listen to me, I say yes, glad to have an assumed ally.

The man begins.

"Well, first of all, we all know that Hillary was behind it. She set the President up and prompted this whole ridiculous investigation."

From there, it gets worse. 

He goes on to praise Trump. Admonish all Democrats. And criticize the findings in the Mueller Report. His delivery is calm and non-confrontational; his rhetoric is absurd and offensive. 

But my son seems to be enjoying it all. Not because he agrees with this man, but because he knows my attempt at having an ally has failed miserably.

Finally we need to leave to catch our train. I am grateful for any reason to exit.

Our abbreviated Passover Seder is great. Jack's the photographer tonight and sends me a few photos.

michael, jason and adam 

two uncles with their adorable niece

Adam and Rachel

18 in all, and not one Trump supporter among us.

I'm assuming the political preference of the one-year-old and three-year-old who keep us laughing throughout the evening.

such a New York thing

So there's this play I want to see.  It's called The Lehman Trilogy and it's gotten rave reviews, has a short run, and is an impossible ticket to get.

The show is sold out, except for a few $450 seats through American Express. I would never!

Last week I'm talking to a friend who told me how much she loved the show. 

I can't believe you got tickets? How much did you pay? I ask.

Just $127 each. I used a line sitter.

A what? 

A line sitter.

What's that?

It's a person who stands in line for a fee.

A few years ago my friend found this guy Will on Craig's List. He has a partner Jack. I text them. Within minutes we have a deal.

Apparently the show offers rush seats for $45 at every performance. And Will has people who will get there in the wee hours of the morning to assure a first-place position in the rush-seat line. Last week we talk, and I confirm I'd like two tickets, at $127 each, for Tuesday night, April 16.

At 11:18 last night my phone rings. 

"Hi, this is Holly," the person announces. "I'm sorry for calling so late, but....."

Holly is the actual person who will be waiting in line. She engages me in a conversation that is far beyond what's needed. I've already agreed on date and price. The only thing I need to know is where to meet Holly to get the tickets and pay. That information she doesn't have yet.

Today I speak to Holly a few more times and we arrange to meet in front of a restaurant on 78th and York. She wants to know what I'll be wearing so she can find me. Huh?! It's not like we're looking for each other at Grand Central. I'm pretty confident we'll find each other in mid-afternoon on an upper east side street corner. Still, Holly wants to know how I'll be dressed just in case.

I find Holly easily. We are of course the only two people in front of the restaurant.

I pay her and get the tickets.

Tonight Zelia and I go. I've never attended a play (or anything else) at the Park Avenue Armory. It's a huge space (one city block long) in a historic building. 

Our seats (as expected) are in the very top row. The sound is excellent, but the actors on stage resemble teeny tiny shapeless people. 

The three and a half hour play is worth seeing, but I can't say I loved it. The three male leads are all superb, and the staging is brilliant. The first two acts focus on the history of Lehman Brothers and the three brothers who created it. But the third act feels rushed, and doesn't give any stage time to the company's demise.

So I leave with some new knowledge of a once powerful Wall Street investment bank. But more importantly, I now know Will.

a belated birthday celebration

Brooke and I both have birthdays in March. And tonight, seven mutual friends take us to dinner at La Pecora Bianca — a "stylish, market-driven" Italian restaurant, as accurately described on their website. (It's not easy finding a date where everyone is free; that's why the late celebration).

We are seated at a semi-round table against the wall. Perfect for people-watching, though we are too busy with our own conversations to pay attention. I love getting together with such a big group of great women, but it's hard to have one common conversation; the restaurant is too loud and the table too big. Instead, we mostly catch up individually with those closest to us — in proximity, not friendship. 

The food is great, though the service is spotty. Drink orders are taken only after we've all been seated for awhile and ask. One person's pasta dish arrives at least five minutes after everyone else has gotten theirs. And one order comes drenched in oil and needs to be replaced. But these are minor blips in an otherwise spotless night.

The food is excellent and the portions generous. We order a few appetizers for the table. My favorites are the tuna tartare and fried zucchini. We finish every last bite. For dessert, we get a large bowl of tiramisu for the table, replete with two candles. 

Brooke and I are careful to remove each one before blowing them out, having just seen Mitt Romney do this to avoid spreading germs.

Tonight there is no drama. Not even any spirited political disagreements. Despite the different parties we may align with, we all share the same disgust for our current POTUS.

All nine of us are ex-Horace Mann moms. We all have at least one son. Some of our kids are still in touch, others not. But I am so grateful that us moms have stayed connected. There are now nine of us who regularly share birthdays together. And now eight of us play canasta together weekly.

If we could only convince the glamorous Brooke to take up this old-Jewish-lady-game, we'd have all nine (though I don't see that happening any time soon). 

how did this happen?

I am about to leave work and notice my glasses. 

How did the arms get so messed up? I have no idea. 

But then, I have no idea about a lot of things.  For example...

In October 2017 I replaced a butter knife when I noticed I had only seven, instead of the eight place settings I had bought years prior. How do you lose a butter knife? I never take them out of the house. So I have no idea.

The other day, I am putting on a pair of shoes I haven't worn in a while. I feel something in the toe area. I take the shoe off and find a butter knife with scraps of food on it. Huh?!

How did a dirty knife make its way into my shoe? The only explanation I can come up with is that I am losing my mind and I put it there. 

But a good friend offers her explanation. 

"Maybe you had people over for dinner, and someone dropped a knife. And maybe you had your shoes off and the knife landed in one of them. And maybe you put the shoes back in the closet after dinner and didn't wear them for a while." 

I decide to go with that explanation — not because I necessarily believe it, but because it's better than the one I came up with.

So, back to my glasses.

I am going to throw them out, but decide to write to Eyebobs instead. I explain the situation and get this response:

Thank you for contacting us!  Now just sit tight.  Our irreverent and slightly jaded customer service team will respond to your request within 1 business day – pinky swear!

Bob (state-of-the-art eyebob wearing email robot)

Okay, so its one of those cutesie companies. But I do love their readers that come in a million great styles and strengths.

Anyway, they do respond and quickly resolve my problem.

I get a free label. Send in my glasses. And a few days later they are returned.

I love when companies offer both a great product and great customer service.

Thank you robot Bob.

design show

Exactly five years ago M comes to town and we go to the Architectural Digest Design Show. Today we go again.

My hope is to find the perfect coffee table that is small enough, 42 inches by 27 (and affordable enough) to go with my sofa. And to find a perfect rug that can be made big enough (16'8 in by 12) and not cost (as my mom would say) a fortune.

I meet M at 10:45. The show, at one of the Piers on 12th street, is already busy. We had pre-bought tickets and getting in and finding M is quick.

We start at the back and I immediately see these colorful hand-blown bottles from a company called Vetro Vera and fall in love. M tells me that my apartment is looking too clinical with all the beiges and soft greys. 

Next, I see a booth from a company called Snowe. I wouldn't have thought that my purchase today would be a terry slate/bluish grey bathrobe, but at $79 I can't resist. 




We then spend time at MINI OYOY, a designer of unique baby and kid items. M ends up buying a tooth fairy pillow, wooden blocks with a portable tracked rug, and a few other precious items. 

This is not what we thought we'd be getting at a home show, but we are both pleased with our purchases.

I see a coffee table I like.  It's beautifully crafted by a Minnesota company called Woodsport. The owner can make this round coffee table into an oval shape in the size I need. I am definitely thinking about it. His work is exquisite. 

I also fall in love with an orange lucite vase from LePage New York. M and I spend a fair amount of time finding the optimum flower arrangement. I am about to buy it, until I'm told the final price. At slightly over $1,000 it's too much.

We see some beautiful alpaca throws by Alicia Adams Alpaca, but end up buying none.

I have no luck finding a rug. Everything I want is stratospherically priced.

There are vendors for appliances, sliding doors, floors, tiles, garden designs, and everything else you can think of for a home. 

By two, we have seen most of the show, and are hungry and ready to leave. We cab over to The Harvard Club where M is staying. With just a few minutes till closing, we are allowed into the dining room, which is serving a buffet lunch for another ten minutes.

We load up on salads, lamb, vegetables, and desserts. The quite, reserved atmosphere is conducive to a relaxed, un-rushed meal.

Whenever M visits, I feel like I'm on vacation.  It's always effortless fun. 

long day, great night

M is here for the weekend. I love when she visits. 

I work on Friday and plan to meet her and her family for dinner. The day begins miserably. Another $8,000 in returns.

I need to clear about $9,000 in sales just to be paid minimum wage. That's what I earned last week, and that's what I'll earn this week if I'm lucky. It's this about the job that I hate. Work really really hard and think you're doing well, only to be surprised when you find out that a couple of customers have returned everything they recently (or, in many cases, not so recently) purchased. It's the only job I know of where you can unknowingly, and with zero control, lose money unexpectedly.

And when it's slow, the day just drags. Today is one of those days. But at least there's dinner with M and her family at eight. Her son Sam who, among his many great traits, knows all the great restaurants in the city and how to order for large groups.  He's chosen Il Gattopardo, an excellent Italian restaurant not far from work, in a charming townhouse.

Around seven, I have $2100 in. That's pretty dreadful. Especially against all the returns I have. I'm thinking of going down to make-up to maybe have the beauty experts hide my exhaustion. But then I start helping two customers.

And a little over an hour later, I've added $8,000 to my daily total. And it's this about the job —the unexpected big sales from appreciative customers — that I love.

I'm thrilled, but now running very late. It's eight, and I still have to: prepare six items for shipping, clean out two dressing rooms that are filled with clothes, and return the tried-on pieces to the right areas.

I get to the restaurant 45 minutes late, but definitely with no regrets.

M and her family are already seated. In front of my chair is a covered plate, hiding a full-meal's worth of appetizers including prosciutto, octopus, burrata cheese, tomatoes, and little meatballs. And if that's not enough, we also order a salad of cucumbers and tomatoes for the table, along with two different pasta dishes. All this before we even order our main courses.

Everyone gets something different.  I choose the branzino;  it is simply prepared, fresh, gigantic, and  excellent. 

We have a quiet table in the back of the restaurant and next to us is a loud, boisterous, and pretty obnoxious group of adults. The f-word frequently punctuates their conversation, and at one point, it looks like one of the guys is having a seizure. He starts jerking around in his seat and making inarticulate guttural noises. It's scary, until they all start laughing. 

We order desserts, all of which are great (my favorite being the warm zabaione with fresh mixed berries). We are surprised by an extra dessert, sent over by our neighbors as way of an apology. 

Before leaving, the waiter takes a group photo, and my friend asks not to be shown (though I have no idea why; she looks great).







We finally say our good-byes after eleven.

recognition

In school, I was pretty much an all A student.  Not because I am so smart — more because I am competitive.

When subjectivity is erased from the equation, and quantifiable measurement is used as the criterion, I usually am at the top. That's why I am good at sales, and like it. The numbers speak for themselves.

I've always been vocal, and that has gotten me in trouble. I believe in the fairness of things, even though I recognize that life isn't fair. 

I get angry and speak my mind when, for example, the side of the floor where I work does not get go-back support and the other side does.

Or when I shouldn't be penalized for a return credit because a price-tag is mis-marked.

I know these are small, inconsequential things.  And still, they rile me.

I honestly believe that if I were a person convicted of a crime I didn't commit, I'd probably find a way to kill myself. The injustice of it all would make living unbearable.

I hate performance reviews — always have. I like constructive criticism, but since I am more critical of myself than anyone else could possibly be of me, I don't want another voice telling me something I already know. Or worse, something I don't agree with.

At work, for instance, I know what I'm good at. Selling. I actually love working with the customers, most of whom are grateful, respectful and pleasant. I love styling people. And finding things for them that they wouldn't have otherwise found. When I complain about the job (mostly that the pay is not at all commiserate with the enormous physicality of the job) and friends ask, "Why do you stay," I always answer: Because I really do like the selling part of my job; it's just everything else I don't like.

Today, I am going through emails, and see this, sent from my boss's boss's boss.

At once I feel like a pre-schooler getting that gold star. 

And though I might be a bit embarrassed to admit it, it makes me just a little bit proud.