Odd things against the backdrop of a sad day for our nation

In New York City, it is overcast and raining.  Not just a sprinkle but the bone-chilling, clothes-drenching kind of day that can make a person melancholy.  That is fitting for the anniversary of September 11, 2001.

I got my son off to school this morning.  6am-9am are not my “prime time” hours.  Let’s just say that for the first two mornings, I returned to the house after drop-off, to sleep a little, shower and get to the office.  Given the cost of the various taxis, this is not a sustainable practice even for the “AM challenged” like me.  Luckily, his other mom comes home tonight from a business trip.  She likes mornings, G-d bless her. 

But today I was meeting a friend at a coffee shop at 8:30am, so I had to be showered and dressed BEFORE drop-off.  This required success-oriented self-coaching last night.  Today I could not hit the snooze button.  I had to be fully groomed and ready with breakfast, packed lunch and washed, dressed and fed child.  After a successful drop-off (phew) off I went in the whipping wind and drastically cooler temperatures to meet my friend.

Neither of us had been to this coffee shop, which turned out to be a 1950s style, singing coffee shop.  The servers (the genderless version of waitress or waiter because “waitron” sounds like a machine) sing. At 8:30AM.  Think about that.  Most people don’t want to hear another’s voice until the crack of 10:15AM, but these servers are belting out songs at 8:30AM.  

Some servers/singers are good, some not so much.  The guy who sang Paul Simon’s “Call me, Al” should have had the microphone ripped out of his hands.  At the risk of being redundant, it is 8:30am, and he is crooning in full voice WITH microphone in a cavernous space where there are few customers.  My friend and I, as 40-and-overs, asked another server to turn down the volume of anything, the senseless movie playing in the background, the background music or the singer.  The response was, “well, we are singing servers.”  How nice for you, really; how unlucky for us.  This is when I wished I had a hearing aid to turn off.

My friend and I called on our powers of concentration and focused.  We giggled about things, talk business some, and talk family (the latter is always bittersweet).  At one point, all the noise — oops, I mean music and singing — stopped and I realized was yelling over the din.  So, I guess I did get the experience of what it must be like to have a hearing aid.

Apparently, one goes to the place for the entertainment and not for the food.  Which makes a person wonder how this place survives the recession.

But it was a great place to have coffee because it created a bloggable moment.  And the guy who sang, “Call me, Al” really should look for another line of work.

What 40andover women talk/email about

Did you ever wonder if you know someone who left the bathroom unclean after using? 

One of my dear college friends, let’s call her WF1 (wonderful friend 1) recounted the following story:

“I have an embarrassing story about the bathroom —  I was at a Sunday School meeting at someone’s house.  I needed to use the bathroom, but someone else went in ahead of me.  When she was done, I went in.  I took one look at the seat and [there was pee on it].  I was annoyed, wiped down the seat, washed my hands, and then refused to sit on the toilet.  Well, I used the toilet roll bar to steady myself, and the whole thing fell to the ground and broke!  When I came out, I just used the line my kids use and gave the innocent face “woops, sorry’.” 

How do you eat at that person’s house, let her kids touch anything in your house, shake hands?  EEeeeeewwww.

 

Do you ever wonder about the no standing sign in the toilet?

Then, some days later, WF1 saw a sign in the toilet that said “No standing on toilets.”  WF1 was confused mightily and consulted the group.

So, another dear college friend (let’s call her WF2), enlightened us:  “The ‘no standing’ on the toilet sign is probably aimed at people from countries where they use ‘non-Western’ toilets.  [There is no place to sit and one squats.]  So maybe they stand on the toilet.  I wonder if you can see their heads over the top of the stall divider?  I think standing on the toilet can damage it because they aren’t designed to take a person’s full weight. I discussed this with my husband who was perplexed by footprints on a toilet seat at work.”

I can understand being perplexed by our toilets.  A bidet still scares me.  Originally I thought it was either the most bizarre urinal ever or a place to wash your feet.  Why wouldn’t a person just take a shower?

 

Blogcation Day 8

Last night I noticed as I parked the rental car that the outer casing of the driver’s side rear view mirror was missing.  Oh, great, I thought.  Did some aggressive Escalade driver nicked me in an East Hampton parking lot? Or was it some Hummer dude (because one’s driveway is technically off-road driving) who couldn’t fit his tank into four parking spaces and tapped my ultra-safe, unpretentious and family-like Volvo sedan?  I was still a little wrecked about it even though I realized that buying all of that rental insurance paid off big time.  That, and the GPS and the EZ Pass are all worth it, because family vacation drives are epic enough without the added excitement of not knowing where to go or scrounging for cash and change at the toll booth.  I am sure Suze Orman would say that these are unnecessary add-ons that cost me money which, if properly invested, would pay for my son’s education.  Well, I will figure out another way.

We went back out to Long Island to visit with friends who are just wonderful people.  Our son swam in the pool, while the adults just kept eating and talking (someone was always watching him and poised to save him).  Seriously, there was food to feed an army, which worked out well because people actually dropped by.  In New York City, if someone dropped by unannounced, the person would be labeled a stalker and a restraining order issued.

I had to stop eating because, well, I didn’t wear loose enough clothing.  Our son didn’t want to leave — why would he, when he got to swim, explore the nooks and crannies of a big house, and he was lovingly plied with cupcakes and given huge goody bag (big like a serious Halloween trick or treating night score) from the “candy drawer”.

We didn’t stay long enough (I was concerned about the Sunday afternoon traffic back into the city) and we love seeing them.   And it was nice that we had the rental car so we did not to have to ask them to schlep to us in the City. (One of these days, I will recount the crazy story about how we met this couple and what we have lived through together — but no names and not now.)

I was very apologetic and self-conscious about checking my blackberry for texts from potential sitters for our son and constant phone messages from the owner of our beach house rental.  My partner said she would speak to the owner and I was scared for the guy.  She will put an end to his hysteria — either with (i) a charming and gentle touch or (ii) a verbal dressing-down that would be grammatically correct with poly-syllabic words for which he would need the OED (Oxford English Dictionary — when we were dating, my partner had to tell me what the acronym meant and she didn’t break it off — see, she DOES suffer some fools).  All depends on his approach.   Be afraid.

We just finished a rousing game of FDF (Fresh Direct Football).  I stand in the foyer and throw the unbreakables to my son in the pantry who then runs them to my partner in the kitchen.  No spillage and no bruised fruit (although I am worried about the orange bell pepper).

Our son is now reading his encyclopedia of trains (a gift from our friends some months ago).  Recently, he said to me, “I am not angry at you, [Mom], but I just get very frustrated that you don’t remember the names and types of trains.”  Oh, sweetie, if only I could remember most things I once knew.  If only I were young with a sponge-like brain.  If we were really smart, we would take you to the gambling tables and you would win because you would remember all the card that were played.  Then I would need a faster car than the Volvo family sedan because I would have to out-run child protective services agents.

Careful what you say . . . .

My partner and I had a wonderful dinner date with a wonderful couple last night.  They are hysterically funny and great storytellers.  I have tried but I can’t capture the essence of the true, and truly hilarious, stories.  So, I won’t.  Thank you, friends.  And I will protect your identities if I am able to capture a bloggable moment from our dinner.

The husband of the couple did advise me how not to make my blog controversial.   Ooooops.  Too late.  But then I always leap before I look.

2FortySomethingChicksinVegas

I have asked two of my college friends to blog about their weekend in Vegas in two weeks.  Their “handle” is “2FortySomethingChicksinVegas”.

The rest of us college friends will live the trip vicariously and then remember all of the events as if we were there.  That’s how we all live such rich, varied lives — we have each other’s memories.

So, when the entries get a little racy and drunken-sounding, those are my beloved friends slurgging — blogging while drinking.

I can’t wait.  And, I’m afraid.  Very afraid.

My college friends; my sisters

I have been thinking about my college friends a lot lately.  Most of us have known each other since 1981.  Email has kept us current — sometimes to the minute — in each other’s lives.  We have all had to lean hard on one another and, in turn, be the supporting ones.  We laugh, we cry, we built a website (www.ifsarahcanbevp.com) and had t-shirts made celebrating our friendships.

For many years, I was dealing with internal demons, coming out of the closet and building a career.  I missed fun times, hard times, some weddings, bridal showers and a few births.  About 12 years ago, my mom got sick again.  I went through a transformation of sorts and recalibrated what mattered to me.  I reached out to my college friends, started to be more present in their lives (cyberly) and they embraced me as if the past was past and only the now mattered.  These are special women with special gifts of friendship.  When my mother died, I looked around the chapel and some had schlepped to come.  The next weekend, all were converging on NY as a planned reunion.  They all came over that next Saturday and sat in my home, just being there.  My mother was dead and my friends by their presence strengthened me.  I don’t know that I talked much, but they did and the chatter was comforting and their presence a gift.

These are friends of a lifetime.  Individually, they are fabulous and together they are a force of nature.  I love you all.

An upper west side moment

I ducked into a place to have a seni-leisurely drink before going home because these days the subway trip is not sufficient to decompress.  I figured I woul return emails from friends and tweet or draft blog entries.  A gay man who was at the bar was pointedly seeking my attention by talking in my directionabout the differences in picture quality between the two TVs above the bar.  Since he was talking in my direction, I looked up.  He immediately slid closer to talk with me.

He kept chatting along, moving from one subject to another. But it was an insane topic-hopping.  He is just an older man without family in New York whose friends have died or are enfeebled and he probably didn’t talk to anyone that day before he caught my eye.  I listened and engaged in conversation for about one-half hour. Then I had to go home to my family.  And I realized what a gift that is: having someone waiting at home.

I think I’ll call my dad now.

Supporting Artist While They are Alive!!

This weekend, there is a show of four live, breathing, artists in the Hamptons.  These are real people who have day jobs and still manage to create art.

Everyone who is going to the beach, remember, it may rain.  Take down this information:

Ashawagh Hall, 780 Springs Fireplace Road, East Hampton, NY.,  Jul 18-19, 10am-6pm .  Check out one of the artists, Alan Messer

Click on Alan’s name.

Friendships

An old friend emailed to me, “reading your blog is like catching up over a coffee because you write exactly as you speak.” I shared that with another friend who understood exactly.  These are friends regardless of the time that passes between visits.  I urged both friends to  guest-blog so that I “can catch up over coffee” with them.  So far,  one friend is reviving her blog and I have linked it.

Here is her blog

Mundo Bizarro

I went to a women’s shoe store opening. My friend is a banker and his fiancee wanted to open a shoe store. This is his banking exit strategy (this is the guy who asked me what my law practice exit strategy was and I said “death?”). Maybe I’ll get a few deals from him before he exits so I don’t have to die at my desk. Anyway, the shoes are way too cutesy for me. His fiancee looks like Catherine Zeta Jones and wear high heeled mules to run errands on Saturdays. It was a bizarre moment when my friend who is a guy’s guy turned to me and said, “I think we only have two styles that work for you. Let me show them to you. You’re an 8?” I was afraid mightily and had to leave.