another birthday celebration

It's Z's birthday. For many many years now, a group of us (all ex-Horace Mann moms) have been getting together to celebrate.

We are a high spirited, hold-no-punches, energetic group. Tonight there are five of us.

The restaurant we've chosen, San Babila, is new and has gotten rave reviews.

Twenty-two minutes after being seated, and we still haven't seen our server. The restaurant is loud, tables are filled, and not much food has been served.

The hostess finally comes over to take our drink orders we think. But no. She's there to take away our drink menus as the restaurant apparently doesn't have enough.

This is not good. We leave.

We go a block away to A La Turka, an aptly named Turkish restaurant. The ambiance is great, and we get a table near a wall of open windows.

The service is fine, as is the food, but there are a few minor (though surprising) peculiarities.

Our drinks come and Ellen has ordered some kind of cocktail. It comes in a small tumbler, and is filled with about one inch of alcohol. Really! And, it's $24. So ridiculously overpriced. It basically looks like what remains after ice has melted in a small glass.

As an appetizer, we order the Turkish thin-crust pizza which we heard was excellent (and it is). We ask for it to be cut into five pieces. "I'm sorry, we can only cut it into fours," our waiter says. When questioned, he repeats his answer and is adamant. Four pieces. No negotiating. The pizza arrives and could easily have been cut into eight small slices. Why it couldn't be cut into five is a mystery, answered only by, they don't want to.

When we go to pay, we throw in four credit cards. This time our waiter says, "I'm sorry but we can't take more than three." Another strange rule. This restaurant seems to have many of them.

But hey, the food is good, and the company better.

We've known each other a long time. Our conversations are always animated.  Often argumentative (our politics are not all the same but getting closer).  And most of all fun.

Happy birthday Z, and many many more.

96

I leave my home around 8am on Thursday morning to meet my sister and brother-in-law in Stamford. We are driving up to the Cape. The weather is not welcoming. 

Midway through the drive the skies open and torrential rain falls. It is barely possible to see. Road conditions are awful.

But as soon as we cross over the bridge, the weather changes. It is now borderline nice.

It's after 3pm when we arrive at Atria to see my mom. She looks good and is happy to see us all. The place where she now lives is very nice. Clean. Bright. And while filled with mostly people over 90, everyone is well-dressed, friendly, pleasant, and importantly, active and aware. 

I think my mom has adjusted well to her new home. The house she lived in for over 40 years went on sale September 17. There was an open house last weekend. We got four good offers; accepted one. It sold quickly which thrills everyone.

Today is my mom's 96th birthday. My two sisters, their husbands and I celebrate my mom at Flying Bridge Restaurant. It is a perfect fall day, and we eat on the outdoor terrace overlooking sailboats and water. 

I order the lobster roll (big but not tasty). 

But it isn't about the food.

We are here for my mom. 96 years old.

Happy birthday mom. You are well-loved.

not just any flowers

I read on Instagram and then later see on TV, Cj Hendry's Flower Market in Rockefeller Center for this weekend only. On display (and for sale) are not your usual flowers. They are fake.  And not just any kind of fake. But plush fake. 

Despite the line on Friday being over three hours long, I decide to go the next morning.

Armed with my phone (including today's Bee), my Kindle, a mug of coffee (which I later decide not to drink as I can't risk leaving the line), and a sweater, I leave home around 9:15 and am in line a half hour later.

It's a beautiful cool fall day. Perfect weather for waiting in a long line. 

The market is in the Rock Center Plaza, between Fifth and Sixth on 49th. I get in line on 51st Street, between Fifth and Sixth. It's long, but my line-neighbors are nice, and I've come prepared.

I get closer to the front about 2 1/4 hours later. Some guy on the sidewalk is ranting about how stupid we all are to spend hours in line to buy fake flowers. He's actually pretty articulate, but aggressive in his tone. The guy behind me stupidly gets into a verbal altercation with him, which clearly he won't win. And soon the police are summoned and I somehow end up being questioned about this guy's behavior.

I tell the officer that the ranting-sidewalk-guy is not harming anyone and not saying anything too offensive; he's just really annoying. The ranting-guy thanks me, and now I have a new friend, and not one that I particularly want.

And then...

When I'm within ten minutes of the entrance, I notice two women behind me who weren't there before. In fact, I hadn't see them anywhere in line. I say something to them, and they are nasty and dismissive, telling me to mind my own business. Soon a security guard comes over and tells me the same thing. They must be friends with the security guard who let them cut the line. No one else says anything so I stop. In retrospect, I should have stopped myself before I said anything. I need to be more careful.

In any case, I eventually get to the front of the line and have fun picking my flowers.

I can rotate them throughout the year to make different bouquets.

But was it worth three hours in line peppered with some NY drama?  Some may disagree, but I think it was. 

What's three-hours of time for flowers that can last a lifetime?

for sale

The Cape is a fixture in my life. 

As a child, we would vacation there for two weeks every summer.

When I was in my teens, my parents got a trailer. I remember that the shower was on the ceiling of the tiny bathroom. So basically, when you took a shower, the whole bathroom got rained on.

Then, in 1978, my parents built a home in Wild Harbor Estates in North Falmouth.

It started out as a summer home, but within a few years, my parents moved there full-time. By then I was no longer living at home, but still spent tons of time visiting. 

The home was built in a gated community that has access to a beautiful, private beach. People there drive golf carts to get to/from the beach.

I can't count the number of Thanksgivings spent there. My dad carving the turkey, always.

And so many summers.

Today the house went on sale. 

SInce this home is not being replaced, it's sad. Memories will of course be kept, but so many of the things that contribute to those memories will soon be gone.

I already feel the loss. 

midnight caller

As a child, I would get scared at bedtime.

I had to look under my bed and my sister's bed to make sure no rattlesnakes were hiding. And in the bedroom closet too ... ya know, just to be sure. Oh, and we lived in a city 20 miles south of Boston, where crime was low and snakes of any kind were non-existent.

If I were home with my sister, babysitting our younger sister, I couldn't fall asleep until I saw my parent's car pull in the driveway. 

I am very far from being a young teen, and I still cannot easily sleep in a house — and especially a house where I'd be alone. I would be up all night, hearing every sound and imagining those sounds attached to a bad-intentioned intruder.

Reading In Cold Blood at a young age kind of ruined it for me. And today, I likely watch too much Dateline. Listen to too many Casefile true-crime podcasts. And read too many thrillers. I know it's not rational, but I cannot sleep alone in a house.

So for the past 40 years, I have only lived in doormen buildings. 

Until recently, our night doorman was a kindly, non-aggressive man who would pose zero threat to anyone. And, because he worked 11pm to 7am, he mostly slept. 

Still, I would always sleep soundly just knowing he was there.

Last night I am in bed watching TV. It's about midnight. I vaguely hear my doorbell. Maybe it's the TV. I mute it.  But then I hear it distinctly,  a light rapping at my door. And then the doorbell again.

Now I am scared. No one ever comes by and knocks on my door. And certainly not at this late hour.

I call out asking who's there. I hear a familiar voice in response. "It's me. Open up."

It's my son. 

Locked out of his apartment on the westside. Absent a phone, wallet, ID, and credit card. The door locked behind him as he briefly went out in his hallway. He lives in a brownstone; there is no doorman.

not saying no

I read a recent article in the NYT about the joy of saying yes, or something like that. It's easy for me to pass on things. Doesn't sound interesting. I'd rather stay in. Too far to travel to by subway. Starts too early. Ends too late.  Or a million other non-excuses. So I am trying harder to say yes more often than no.

Robin calls a couple of days ago with an offer to see something at Park Armory. It has a weird name, Monkey Off my Back or Cat's Meow. Neither of us have heard anything about it. "But my friend saw it last night and thought it was amazing," Robin adds. I say yes. Amazing is a good endorsement, even though I don't know and don't ask who the friend is. The Armory is on the eastside, an easy walk. I have no plans for Friday. The Armory wouldn't put on something unworthy. And it's two hours with no intermission (which I like).

Something similar happened this summer. Robin calls. She has inexpensive tickets to some play in the East Village called The Animals Speak. And even better, there is a "documentary" screening before the play called The Fairest, by the same writer/director/actor who is in the play. Both have something to do with Walt Disney. And both sound interesting.

We get to the late afternoon screening and the ticket taker is also the writer/director. This should have told us something.

And, we are the only ones at the screening. We sit in the same small theater as the writer/director, so there is no leaving. We would be noticed. The Fairest is not a documentary about the women in Disney's paint department and how poorly they were treated. Instead, it is a fictional account replete with Snow White's ghost, meaningless romances and poor acting. In other words, dreadful. 

We grab dinner nearby.

Then go back to see the play. We are not the only ones in the audience this time (the theater is packed).  The play (starring and written by the same writer/director) is better, but still far from good.

All this to say, saying yes to Monkey Off My Back could be a huge mistake.

And it is.

A combination of fashion and dance. No story. Almost no dialogue. Bizarre costumes and models. Impossible to understand, which may well be the point. 

Two hours and no intermission. Finally, 90 minutes in, we see people leaving and join in. We exit with relief into the cool night air.

Reviews are great. Perhaps it's just too edgy and esoteric for us. 

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.