Category Archives: Urban Life

PLaza3-9285

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That was my family phone number for 50 years.

Not 212 753 9285. 

PL3-9285.

PL for PLAZA, meaning midtown east.

My dad’s office phone was JU2-1455.  JU meant Judson for midtown west.  There was MU for Murray Hill, etc. GR for Gramercy Park.  POB (partner of blogger)’s home phone was GR3-9119.

And it wasn’t just a series of numbers, but it located you in area of town.  Like old-fashioned GPS.  Your phone number made you less anonymous.  And you couldn’t take your home or business number with you if you moved across town. Wires and technology couldn’t handle that.  So, if you had a GR or MU or JU or PL number, you lived or worked in a geographically defined area.

And our zip code was 22, not 10022.  In the 1960s, you didn’t need five-digit zip codes, let alone the new nine digit ones.

Of course, some people (very few still alive) remember 6-digit phone numbers. They probably think I am late to the game of recognizing the lost nuances of day-to-day life in New York City.

But, today, I came across my birth announcement, among the memorabilia that I, as family archivist, need to preserve.  And it held more information than the fact of my birth (as a result of which my family was forever changed — some say for the better, others say “not so much”).  It captured a time and place in New York in the 1960s, where my family’s PL prefix in our phone number and our home address reflected upward mobility, into places where Jews mostly couldn’t find apartments.  It also suggest certain life that fashioned after JFK’s Camelot (at least until private school tuition kicked in).

The 60s gave way to the 70s and the urban decay.  Then came the late 70s, 80s and 90s and urban renewal and soaring population growth.  The end of the 20th century and first decade of the 21st gave rise to untold fortunes and a sea change in the socio-economic-racial-cultural urban landscape.

The nuances of numbers and two-digit zip codes were irrelevant and unworkable even in the late 70s.  Every now and again, I see a decades-old advertisement on a building that time forgot (until the lot next to it was demolished to build a high-rise) that has a six-digit phone number with a prefix that refers to a neighborhood.

And I think, I was born in a small town.  I was raised in small town.  It just got big and anonymous during my lifetime.  And these strangers don’t know the secrets of my small town.

And that’s good enough for me.

 

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The world is too much with me today

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I have been close to many in my life who did not have children.  They were/are blood relatives or relatives-by-love.

Now, another set needs SOB’s (sister of blogger’s) and my help.  These two people were the heroes of our youth, the fun and youthful aunt and uncle.  They had lives in theater, dance, and the arts.  They knew interesting people and were “mod” when “mod” was cool.  They lived life on their terms and expanded our imaginations behind where our parents tried to direct our paths.

They are old now and much diminished.  A generation slipping through our fingers, as we try to make the twilight comfortable and the darkness not so scary.  They once were kings and queens of their destiny and audaciously bohemian in their lifestyles.

And now their nieces, a doctor and a lawyer exactly as their parents had planned, must introduce — gently, very gently — the calculable reality.

Because even free spirits need grounded guides through the indignities of aging.  But we have to learn their terms and conditions for aging.  There is no room for hubris in thinking we know what they want.  We have to ask and we have to listen.

When Mom died, we knew what she wanted — we had talked about it for years, as the cancer began to win — and it was easier to do what needed to be done.  It was excruciating but the details and the path forward were clear.  How ironic.

And yet I am concerned and sad, but not “down” because we are trying to do what must be done in the gentlest, most honest way possible.

Wish us luck.

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Life as seen by Blogger, Part 2

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My Dad is healing from his fight with a New York City sidewalk.  Thank G-d, he was able to get up from his fall.

Of course, as the family archivist, I had to take pictures throughout the course of the healing process.  Dad still looks horrible, but at least his right eye is open and there is but a hairline fracture above his eye.

He came to the office on Wednesday and people were aghast (he comes for coffee at least once a week, and the staff has adopted him as a favorite visitor to the firm).  He looked like he had been in the fight of his life.  And to some degree, a fight with a cement sidewalk at his age is the fight of his life.  My father thanked everyone for their concern and, added as he stood up straight with his shoulders back, “you should have seen the other guy!!”

My Dad and TLP (the little prince) have a very special relationship.  So, Dad was very concerned that we prepare TLP for the discoloration and bruising on Dad’s face.  “I don’t want to scare him,” Dad admonished.  And Dad preferred that we have Sunday brunch at his house instead of Sunday night dinner at ours.  He just doesn’t like the attention from strangers that his injuries draw.

So, POB (partner of blogger) and I individually explained to TLP that Grandpa had a terrible fall and that he was ok, even though the bruising and swelling were hard to look at.  TLP pronounced himself ready to handle it.  And he understood that Sunday night dinner — which is more important to TLP than he will let on  — needed to be re-scheduled.

TLP hugged Grandpa and said, “it isn’t so bad!”  TLP was totally non-plussed about the bruising and swelling that is unbearable to me as Dad’s daughter.

As we sat down to brunch at Dad’s house today, TLP offered the toast, “to a fast recovery so you don’t miss Sunday night dinner next week!”

TLP loves and needs Dad and Dad loves and needs TLP.  And I thought, in that moment, POB and I have — so far — done the right things to bring together the generations of our family through love.  I don’t think we did anything other than to provide a forum for TLP and Dad to bond.  I am grateful to be the conduit.  It will enrich TLP’s life and extend Dad’s years.

And that is a blessing for all of us.

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Dinner at Eight

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POB (partner of blogger) and I have the same couples over for New Years each year.  A decade-old tradition.  But every now again, we like to gather a sub-set of the group for a “mid-semester” dinner.

POB really enjoys cooking new recipes.  But she needs a sous-chef.  I look to my left, I look to my right and then I realize, “le sous-chef, c’est moi”. I am good with that.  We set up a play-date for TLP (the little prince) and the two of us hang out companionably in the kitchen, each at our own stations, chopping and marinating and chatting.

POB accidentally purchased un-pitted olives.  She needed pitted olives for the fish marinade.  Two cups.  So, of course, I pitted the olives (and smell like Kalamata olives even today — two showers later).  Only when taking out other ingredients for the meal, did POB discover that she, in fact, had pitted olives in the refrigerator.  Hmmm, I thought.  Was there a passive-aggressive undertone?  Nah.  We just have an over-stocked refrigerator and we forget what is in there.

Guests arrive.  Wine and hors-d’oeuvres are warming up the crowd.  The smelling of delectables cooking in the kitchen puts everyone in a happy mood.  Time to be seated.  I help with the plates coming out.  The fish, which has a roasted tomato and olive marinade (along with various spices), looked very red.  As no no olives.  I look in the kitchen and there, on the counter-top next to the stove, was the mountain of olives I had pitted, a task that stained my hands and caused a noxious reaction with the perfume I had put on.  WHaaaaaaaat? Maybe there was something passive-aggressive after all. . . .

I turn to POB, my eyes wide with a sense of betrayal.  “Oh, no, sweetie, people were talking to me and I forgot to roast them . . .  and . . .  I am soooo sorry!!”  “No worries,” I say.  I bring the olives out, pour them over the fish as a garnish and explained to everyone, “I personally pitted these, so everyone is going to eat them — no excuses and no dispensation.”   I overheard someone say to Sabrina, “if I got [her partner] to pit olives for an hour and didn’t use them,  I would be making up for it for — I don’t know — YEARS.”  I caught POB’s eye and she looked at me and I smiled.  POB responded, “I think, it is only a question of months with [Blogger]; she is the forgiving sort.”

POB and I both smiled.  All is good and, as you all know by now, the “bravas” from our guests over my pitting the lives made up for everything.  I even washed the pots and pans.

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Doctors without borders

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This morning, I had a doctor’s appointment.  With PsyPHOB (my psycho-pharmacologist).  Not only because it is de rigueur in New York but because I am the poster child for better living through chemistry.  Nothing serious, just an anti-hyper-neurotic protocol.

(Those who know me wonder whether the protocol is working.  Fair question.)

About ten years ago, I determined that I didn’t want to change my then-existing character flaws and (medically toned down) neuroses because they make me who I am.

Anyway, since PsyPHOB is not my therapist, we can talk about life, etc., in a more conversational, participatory way.

He asked me if I had had a check-up recently.  Well, I was here in his office, wasn’t I?  And, I was going to have a tax check-up with my accountant later. Wasn’t that enough?

PsyPHOB thought a general check-up was a good idea, with a blood work-up.  Why?  Because he says I am middle-aged and peri-menopausal.  Ok, when did he have license to use those words with me?  Fortunately for him, he is 15 years my senior, so it is probably from personal experience with his wife.

Seeing the look on my face, PsyPHOB switched to another topic.  Taxes.  Oh, great.  He started reminiscing about bad tax shelters of 1980s.  Oh, good.  I mentioned jocularly that the only way to get out of a tax problem is to die and, even then, there could be consequences for the decedent’s estate.  Ok, a conversation stopper.

All right-y, then. Let’s go straight to matters at hand.

*************************************************

At the end of the session, he reminded me about getting a general physical and the usual battery of tests.

I told him “head” and “wallet” were enough for one day.  Maybe, I will have my blood and guts checked out another day.  For now, I was tapped out.

 

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Life as seen by blogger

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Maybe you will understand a little more about the inner-working of my psyche after you read the following:

SOB (sister of blogger) and I planned to meet at the gym this evening, where we would silently and companionably exercise on adjacent machines, with me perspiring and her, not so much.  Per the plan, she would hand off some necessary documents to wind up my mother’s estate, thereby completing a highly-charged emotional task in the middle of sweating, grunting people.  Precisely the juxtaposition that would humor Mom z”l.

Then a received a message at the office from my secretary. “[SOB] called.  Nothing urgent.”

I called her back, thinking she was calling to bail on the gym part and set up another rendezvous of the document transfer.

She answered, “Hello?”

I gave my usual “Hellooooooooooooooooooooooooo” response.

Pause. “I’m here with Dad.” Pause.

Already, I am having visions of the ER and heart trauma, because SOB doesn’t just drop by Dad’s in the middle of her ICU work day.  My heart sank.  So this is what she means by nothing urgent?

“He looks ok.  He fell on the street and landed on the right side of his face.  But he’ll be fine.” In fact, my dad at 90.5 years-old is agile and still has some awesome Fred Astaire moves.  But still, he FELL.

She handed the phone to Dad.

“Dad, are you ok? Are you still at the ER?  Did you get stitches?”

“No stitches.  [SOB] thinks I look ok.”

“Dad, give the phone back to [SOB].”

“You mean a real doctor didn’t look at him?” I asked SOB.

“Oh, you mean like a juris doctor, like you?” Ok ok ok ok ok ok.  She had a point.

Dad was checked out and he is fine.  He just has one really bad bruised, swollen eye, made worse by his heart medication that thins the blood.   He fell but he got back up which is the best part.

SOB has a way of sugar-coating things, so as not to unduly alarm people.  But, SOB and I are a team and we need to deal with family issues together.

“Really, don’t come,” SOB continued, “Dad made me take a picture so you would feel like you were here.”

“Wait, Dad wants to tell you something.”

“Yes, Dad?”

“How much do you pay for your eye glasses?”

“why?”

“Because my $35 glasses didn’t break or cut me and I bet your fancy $400 glasses wouldn’t hold up so well.  Would you like me to pick up a pair at Costco for you?  Just give me your prescription.”

OK, there is nothing wrong with my father.  But I didn’t want to tell him that I spend more than $400 on my frames lest THAT give him a heart attack.

Crisis occurred and resolved in 1 hour.  Priceless.

Later at the gym, SOB whips out her cellphone and shows me a picture of Dad smiling with a huge bruise and swelling around his eye.  “Dad says you’re the family archivist, and this is one ‘for the books,’ so here,” she said.

Dad looked bad — horrible in fact, but he was smiling.  I think he was smiling for a lot of reasons, first among them, he is ok.  Second, he only had to call and help was immediately dispatched (albeit SOB).

But there is more.  He understands that SOB and I have this pact to share the funny, the macabre, the good, and the sad when taking care of our family members.  That way, we stay strong.  And his insisting on the picture was his way of telling us he understands us.  And that he is amused by us, too.

So, bottom line, in two hours, he was fine and glad to be home, resting, with his children nearby.  And we get to archive it, laugh and cry about and, best of all, I get to blog a our it. 

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The New Me (In the Test, Day 7-ish)

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It is hard to describe how I feel as I watch the events unfold around the world, but let me try:

say you are in a bath (reading a book, sipping red wine in the hypothetical awesomely fabulous Manhattan apartment) and you pull the stopper to let the water drain.  At that exact second, you hear a big BANG from somewhere.  So what do you do?  You put the stopper back in the drain and shiver a little.

Powerless and with shivers of fear.  (FYI:  I don’t live in the hypothetical fabulous apartment, I am drinking an unfortunate Sauvignon Blanc (I don’t even like white wine) and I have no time to expand my intellectual acumen (maybe when my son is 10).)

In truth, I never thought anything was out of my control until TLP (the little prince) was born.  Now, I worry about the world after I am dead because (I hope) he (and his children) will still be alive. THAT makes what we do now even more important.  Because we all know that the harvest reaped in two generations will be directly related to the seeds we sow now.

My mom always believed that if you can’t change the big things, then start with the little things, but you must always, always, strive to repair the world (tikkun olam) — תיקון עולם

Here is the difference between Mom and me.  Mom just did things.  I, first, need a whole new outfit and work-out regimen.

Did you think I could stay so serious and not deflect my fears, hopes and dreams by lapsing into (sometimes, forced) humor?  DO YOU KNOW ME?

Sooo, deflectors are engaged.

One has to have strength to repair the world, no?

Ok, so let’s critique my old gym regimen, also known as, NP2 — “no pain, no pain”:

  • 3 times a week, get on the stationary bike for 30 minutes, but quit after 25 minutes.  Don’t even break a sweat.
  • Think about doing sit-ups. Hyper-ventilate about the anxiety of dealing with my expanding midriff. Suck in my stomach and do something else.
  • Do push-ups because I actually can do them.  And not the girl-y ones, either.
  • Do back muscle exercises because I don’t want to stoop too much in my dotage.
  • Talk to some people, less now that some gym friends have moved to other locations.
  • Notice the time and realize I have to get home.

There was a time when I could suck in my tummy, arch my back a little and my stomach would be flat and my breasts “perky”.  One cannot leave on memories of prior glory.  Starting tomorrow (because I am drinking wine and might hurt myself if I tried it out now):

My new, Spring, regimen, also known as SPB2 — “some pain, but buff”:

  • Buy some new outfits for my new gym state of mind.
  • Do Michelle Obama arm exercises because we all deserve to look like we could go sleeveless on national TV.
  • Do something cardio for 40 minutes. And actually break a “glow” but no sweat because I am becoming more genteel (and eccentric) as I age.
  • Stop watching the TV because next year Oxford English Dictionary will declare “pundit” a synonym of “idiot” and people who watch pundits “vidiots”.

I promise, Mom, in the midst of my self-absorption, I won’t forget about tikkun olam.  For your grandson and your great grandchildren.  For everyone’s children and grandchildren.

תיקון עולם

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My mother’s words . . .

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“My poor baby, if I could have it for you, I would!”

My Mom would say this in a soothing voice whenever one of her children was sick, be it mind, spirit or body.  I say that now to my son whenever appropriate.  And I mean it, for all loving and nurturing, yet practical, goal oriented reasons.

My son had an upset stomach last night (no fever or other symptoms).  He started feeling sick at 9pm when he was already in bed, at around the same time the Jets were a lost cause and Janet2 was cleaning her kitchen floor (because the Patriots WERE OUT OF CONTENTION — these digressions are getting worse).

POB (partner of blogger) and I dutifully took turns in the night soothing him when he woke up and giving him Children’s Tums.  Because I was just recovering from a thrown-out back at around the same time our son got sick, POB did more turns initially.  Each time he woke up and I went in (and freaked him out by yowling in pain), I would rub his head and back and say Mom’s magic words that always comforted me.  He would eventually drift off for 45 minutes or so. And I would roll out of his bed and crawl to my room so as not to scream in pain and wake him.  Of course, that woke POB, so I probably did more harm than good despite all loving intentions.

3am rolls around and he is up and really, really feeling bad.  I go in, because I know POB has to get up in 2.5 hours and I can stretch my alarm until 8am if necessary.  He is really feeling bad and I say Mom’s magic words and, lo and behold, like a miracle swept in from the sea, he vomits all over me and then runs to the bathroom for the other end of the story, so to speak.

Nothing makes you feel more mom-like than having your child yawn in technicolor all over you.  I cleaned up and started to strip the bed and hose everything down.  (At this point, POB was up and ready to crank up the washer/dryer.)

Our son has a strong stomach for all that to have stayed in for six hours.

I couldn’t help thinking that if he were able to give it to me at 9pm, my system would have expelled everything in 5, maybe 10, minutes and we all would have been happier and all have gotten a good night’s sleep.  Instead, today, our wiped-out son stayed home, I was essentially in traction and POB had to be nursemaid to two babies at once.

Do you think Mom ever had the same thoughts about wanting to be sick instead of us, or am I just a diluted (and deluded) version of her?

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Oh, Blackberry

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This weekend, I read about a mother unplugging her kids from their various anti-social devices — smart phones, laptops and TVs — so they couldn’t engage in anti-social-yet-social activities like texting and Facebooking (is that a word?).

I had a smug moment about how we carefully monitor our son’s time on these devices — ok, he is only 8.5 years old so he doesn’t have an email address or a Facebook account.  And, thank G-d, his fine motor skills are not the best, because that will delay texting (and therefore sexting, G-d help me).  Bottom line: I have nothing to be smug about because I don’t have these issues YET.  But let me enjoy the moment however ill-deserved.

The very next day the “ALT’ and “a” keys on my blackberry stopped working.  I was frantic.  Karma is SUCH a brutal boomerang.  The blackberry provider which shall remain nameless (Verizon) wouldn’t honor the warranty without some trouble-shooting, even though I explained that it was a mechanical and not a software problem. 

Trouble-shooting?  Was a technician going to reach through the phone or computer and unstick my keys or relieve their key fatigue? 

So, I am on the phone with a technician and she says, “type the word, ‘blackberry’.”   Ok ok ok ok ok ok ok.   I CALMLY say “I can’t.”   She asks, “why?”   WHY?????  WHY????  WHY????  I CALMLY tell her, “it will come out ‘blckberry’ because the ‘a’ doesn’t work”.  Ahhh, now she understands.   She is no longer puzzled and frustrated.  How NICE for her.  She determines I need a new device.  Brilliant. 

Now, you think I am over-reacting.  I am.  I am hooked on my blackberry (karma being a brutal boomerang after my smug thoughts).  But there were 36 hours between the initial SOS to service provider which shall remain nameless (Verizon) and the actual trouble-shooting call.  And then 24 hours after that.  So, for 60 hours, I was typing emails that looked like “ttched is drft of the lon greement” (not really, because, G-d bless spell check).  All I can say is that it is hard to think of words that don’t have “a”s in them.  Try it.  And when you are typing messages that look nonsensical without the “a”s, you feel like you are either drunk or using someone else’s glasses.

But I did have fun torturing my assistant with “a”-less emails, like “plese mke reservtion for three t [name] resturnt” or constantly resending of “I cn’t use the LT or _ button”.   As if she didn’t know.  But you can’t spell TEAM without an A and so she needed to live this crisis with me.  And well I am better for it.  She, she, had to leave early with a migraine.

My new blackberry is synching now and I am humming right along with it.

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a Day in the Life

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This morning, I got on a plane to Chicago for a meeting.   The plan was, that after the meeting, I would take a cab from potential client back to the airport for a plane to take me home.

I hear they have these new-fangled things called telephones and video conferencing that makes one-day round-trip travel less necessary.  Actually, most times, the older and ever more quaint tradition of meeting someone and shaking his or her hand is really the best approach to sealing the deal that turns a potential client into a new client.  But I still need all of the gadgets and technology to meet somewhat far flung potential clients in real time and in the flesh.  So neither alone works as well as both do together, in the right proportions.  (If we are talking about teenagers and adult email/text junkies, then you need to send them to a monastery to start a 12-step program before even talking rationally to them.)

As I am floating along in a technology-induced empowerment daydream (it is early for me, remember), I realize that this morning’s trip is on a put-put plane.  The gangway doesn’t go all the way to the plane.  We have to step outside in the sleet and the rain and jump over puddles (that could qualify as rivers) in order to climb the thin (as in one-at-a-time only), small staircase into our claustrophobic airplane.  So much for my earlier comments on the power of technology.  I am no longer dreaming.  I am awake to the reality of a cold, wet, snowy day with wet feet and barely two inches separating me from my fellow passenger.

There is an woman in row 7 indirectly trying to get the attention of the flight attendant who is attending to things behind row 22. The woman is being very passive-aggressive about it all — telling everyone that the flight attendant is avoiding her.  Clearly, the flight attendant doesn’t hear her.  Finally, I ask the woman if I could help get the flight attendant’s attention.  She responds, “it’s her job to notice me!!!”  Ok, forget the personal touch.  Get me the hell out of this plane.  What is wrong with video conference?  I bet a new rainmaking tactic could be handwritten letters (in crayon, of course) sent by snail mail.  No.  No.  I will not let this woman ruin my dreams of global domination by charming and cajoling and pleading with potential clients far and wide.  No.  No. So I motioned to the flight attendant that the woman needed her.  Had it been an hour earlier, I would have left the plane and took a cab home and hid under the covers.

It seems that the woman — an oversized person — was promised a seat in an exit row because of the extra leg room but she was seated in row 7 — not an exit row.  The flight attendant couldn’t re-seat her until everyone was seated.  The woman was not pleased and she showed it by griping and grousing at an anger level and amplitude that was just criminal at 8am.

Ultimately, she was able to be re-seated in an exit row.  But the seat didn’t recline because there was a second exit row right behind the first one.  (The put-put plane that had more exits than windows.)  Sooooo, slowing our departure further, Goldilocks had to try the seats in the second exit row.  Those seats reclined.  Ah, she found the one that would do ju-u-u-ust fine.  [sigh] Wait, uh oh, the seatbelts don’t fit.  A cruel joke engineered by Papa Bear because he hates when Goldilocks comes, tries everything and leaves a mess.

So, in the end, she moved back up to row 7, opting for a reclining seat over leg room.  I would have opted for leg room with no reclining seat.  Ultimately, I am glad she was not in charge of the exit doors. I didn’t agree with her judgment call.

Goldilocks caused us to miss our place in take-off and we sat for one hour on the runway.  No wonder Papa Bear hates when she comes by, which happens many times, every night, given how many times the story is told on any given day around the world.

Back to my business meeting.  It went well.  Groveling in person is often effective.  Then I got in a cab to start the journey home.

I was able to get an earlier flight, at a cost of $75 (which I bet would have been $50 if I had checked luggage for $25). Regardless, getting home earlier is priceless and I did, in fact, use a MasterCard so I lived that commercial.

As I headed toward the gate, there was a plane boarding to JFK Airport at the next gate (I was flying into LaGuardia Airport). I wanted to switch again because it was another opportunity to get home even earlier.  Unfortunately, the two airports, although 10 miles apart, are considered different destination cities and there is a big cost differential to change destinations. The plane had been delayed for three hours and there was a line of disgruntled people waiting to board.  I decided that if JFK was that backlogged, that I would save money and not be on a plane ride from hell.

But recognizing the potential for delays and angry hordes, and even though I was assured that LaGuardia was running on time, I decided that an upgrade to first class (not too expensive) was in order, as a mental health prophylactic measure.  Sanity, priceless . . . Another MasterCard commercial.  I am living the dream.  And we were delayed on the tarmac before take-off and we circled before landing, so it was totally worth it.  I had plenty of room and I couldn’t smell anyone’s perfume.  Now, that the Sniffer (see prior blog entry) made me aware of perfume, I really appreciated only have that slightly nasty airplane smell we have come to expect.

So this all started on a put-put plane sitting on a runway on a cold, snowy, sleeting morning. And now I am in my jammies, having kissed my son before he fell asleep and then crawled into my cozy bed and smiling at my beloved.

Another day on the road to Utopia.

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