Tag Archives: Urban Life

When worlds collide

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If you live, work and love in New York, sometimes old worlds and old orbits collide. Sometimes, the reunion is comfortable; sometimes, there has been too many years of avoiding contact about issues. Quite frankly, sometimes we are in fact so shaped by our current circumstances, that the overture across worlds would require the universal translator that always saved Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock in the original Star Trek.

And in life (in contradistinction to movies), epiphanies are few and the hoped-for catharsis even rarer. Mostly, those who were on the peripheries of your prior worlds are only proxies for the unanswered questions and unresolved feelings of something much bigger.

So I declined the opportunity to invade someone’s performance at an outdoor cafe to re-greet a person of the past. She was performing and it would have been selfish at that moment. There are certainly opportunities — I have her number, etc., but I have chosen for 11 years not to reach out.  Why do so in her space during an expression of her art? If I really wanted to bridge the worlds, I would do so on terms acceptable to both of us. And after a decade, what do you say?  “How are you?”.  Sounds so stupid and pedestrian.  Some things are left better unsaid.  And these are not opportunities to reconnect — reconnect with what?  A life and circumstance that no longer exist?

I enjoyed her performance.  She has a beautiful voice.

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A Gym Moment

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I stopped off at the gym for 20 minutes of cardio (how does someone with a family find time for more).

I bumped into my sister (one of the things I loved about the City being my hometown).  She was on her way to the locker room to take a shower.  Not a bead of sweat on her.  And every time I see her, I think cows sweat, men perspire and women glow.  But, SOB (sister of blogger) has a sparkle in her beautiful blue eyes but no glow on the skin (other than the fabulous skin courtesy of our mother’s genes).

She passes me again as she leaves and I am on the recumbent bike, sweating.  SOB remarks, in that genuine way that only an utterly charming, yet clueless person can pull off, “Wow, you’re sweating!  Isn’t that wonderful!” as if this a discovery of an as-yet-unknown by-product of exercise.  Being the doctor, her knowledge comes from the results of clinical trials reported in the New England Journal of Medicine (that mag rag, as I’ve named it) or CHEST.  CHEST is really a medical periodical and not a late night pay-per-view show.  Only doctors don’t see the irony of the logo on the t-shirts distributed at conferences: “CHEST” written right across, well, er, the chest! OK, I digress.

Back to SOB.  I have seen her exercise and I can confirm that she never experiences sweat as a by-product of exercise .  She does the least she can do.  It is remarkable.  She should be able to deduct her gym membership as a charitable contribution on her taxes.

Our memberships in the same gym give us a common point of reference.  For example, the other day, I asked SOB if she saw the young woman with the BIG curlers preening NAKED in front of the mirrors.  I see this woman every time I go to the gym.  She has fake boobs and fake hair color and wears “come hither” panties as she struts in front of the mirror.  We had a communal “EWWWW” moment.

A sister-bonding moment.  Worth paying a lifetime membership at the gym.  And more.

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Dinner with Friends

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POB (partner of blogger) and I went out on Saturday night with two couples after about six months of juggling schedules.

One of the couples are the parents of our son’s best friend (BestFriendCouple, aka BFC) and the other couple are the parents of our son’s betrothed (FutureWifeCouple, aka FWC).  Forgive the identification in relation to children, but let’s be honest here, we are now someone’s Mom or Dad.  For at least half of our waking hours, our identities are in direct relation to our progeny. It is what it is.  Life never asks if you like what has happened, it just dares you to deal with it.

You may remember FWC from prior blog entries.  The dad is the Gentle Giant, until our kids get too serious and then I will start wearing body armor.  Until then, life is good.

POB and I decided to walk part of the way to dinner, along the Hudson River so we could feel the breeze should one arrive and give momentary relief to blazing hot and humid New York City.  As we walked along we saw the preparations for the next day’s triathlon in which people (of questionable mental acuity) run, bike and swim in forecasted 93 degree weather.  And the swim is in the Hudson River.  (By the way, if any skimmers in the Gulf are idle, we could use them to get the gross garbage and scum off the water’s surface.)  There were signs for the line-ups depending on your skill set:  Elite men under 35, Elite senior men, etc.  As we walked, I was looking for my category should I ever enter such a race:  “Women Far Too Decrepit For Middle Age” or “Those Desiring A Watery Demise“.

Apparently, I won’t even get a slot even as a “Hail, Mary” contestant.  I’m ok with it.  I will live longer for not swimming in the Hudson River, even with a wet suit.  There are beautiful bodies of water with a vast, healthy ecosystem (until we find out about them and then ruin them), there are bodies of water with foundering ecosystems (the Gulf, for example), there are dead bodies of water (one or more of the Great Lakes) and then there is killer water which will destroy and corrode anything that dares enter its watery slaughterhouse.  THAT, that is the Hudson River.  Hint:  it has a menacing brown color.

Because we are New Yorkers, we were hungry after our walk, EVEN AFTER discussing whether a life form in the Hudson River could mutate enough to survive nuclear holocaust and repopulate the world in a crazy-horror-flick-come-true scenario.  We NYers are a hearty people.

We arrive early at the restaurant so we can pretend that we are not middle-aged and possibly flirt with, and coo at, each other.  Since our son may read this one day and I already cannot afford the therapy that having two moms will cost, I will stop at this.

Lucky for our son, FWC arrived.  Wife of FWC (WFWC) looked very stylish (she is not yet middle-aged so it was ok).  I think she was wearing jeans that are like leggings.  On her, it worked.  But for everyone else, DO NOT TRY THAT AT HOME.  It could lead to unsightly consequences.  The Gentle Giant, also H of FWC (HFWC) is a terrific guy and bravely ordered an unpronounceable drink.  WFWC tried one that sounded like, if you didn’t like it, it could also be a spa treatment.  I was eying the cucumber slice garnish and thinking about the laugh wrinkles POB mentioned in our abortive attempt to flirt and coo.  Note to readership: “I love your laugh wrinkles” does not put one in any “mood” worth having.  Just saying.

Shortly thereafter, BFC arrive.  The husband (HBFC), who has been busy being “Dad” these last few months, gravitated to HFWC for manly, over-8 year-old talk.  Soon they were drinking beer.  Which is to say that it is primal that men, in the company of other men, eschew foofy drinks with unpronounceable names in favor of BEEHHHH (beer) or possibly even LAGGGEH (Lager).  The foofy drinks are just to show off one’s feminine side and gain points with your wife’s friends.  I still think that lesser men in the presence of four strong women would have stayed with the foofy drinks.   So, bravo to these two husbands (who are today shepherding their children to assorted events while the wives relax or go to the gym, G-d bless them).

So, WBFC and I haven’t had much time over this last year to chat.  And we sit opposite each other at the table.  We are both very opinionated and believe that everyone is entitled to hear our opinions — from the what-were-you-thinking-when-you-got-that-tattoo to why we are living the dreams of our unionizing forebears even though we are not unionized and work long hours, etc.  Our upbringings are as strikingly similar as our backgrounds are diverse.  Totally awesome.

Then we all had too much inspiration and meaningful conversation. It was time to DISH on those whom we know in common.  So, four women between 40 and 46 (old enough to know better), started sentences with “omigod, can you believe . . . . ?“ in loud voices.  SOOOOOOO MUCH fun.  The boys were probably talking about hunting because they kept ordering BEEEEHHHH or LAGGGEH.

Having had two glasses of wine — my upward limit — the rest is a blur of delicious food and vicious conversation.  So much fun that I even forgot (until writing this entry) that POB mentioned my wrinkles.

What wrinkles?

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So, canyoubelieveit, someone asked my opinion

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No sooner did I write about not being polled, than I answered a phone poll.  About my local Congressman.  What I answered surprised me.

Charlie Rangel has been great to NY and the country.  He also has some alleged ethical lapses.  Serious (alleged) ones.  He is 80 years old and probably should make way for the younger generation (who are nearly eligible for AARP benefits).

But, Charlie Rangel remained a steadfast liberal even when it was a dirty word.  He spoke up against the tyranny of fear-mongering during the Bush years, even when others (whom we thought were strong) cowered.  He has worked hard for over forty years to move America forward.

Assume what is alleged is true.  He failed to pay taxes on investments and improperly owns too many apartments in a subsidized building.  I am ok with it.  (Not HAPPY, but ok if I hold my nose.)  I guess I have mellowed or my righteous indignation has been spent on other, more deserving targets.  Or, I guess I put it into perspective of what other politicians did — sold their votes to big oil, took us into a war that was a mistake, vilified a group of Americans or immigrants for political gain, stoked the birther movement for political gain.  I could go on and on.

Yes, he should retire soon (and wear an orange jumpsuit if he is guilty) and let the younger politicians carry the torch, but right now we need people who are experienced in the trenches and are squarely on the side of the President to help the President get us out of the mess created by 8 years of George and Dick.

So, guilty or not, Charlie is my man.

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Bucolic Amidst the Grit

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For those of you who remember New York City in the 1970s, it is hard to believe that these are pictures of along the Hudson River between 103rd and 123rd Streets in Manhattan. 

Ok, the guy in the hammock is a little over the top.  So, much so that the kayakers stopped to take a picture of him.  I was in the middle of my run and couldn’t get out my blackberry in time to take a picture of the kayakers taking a picture of the guy reading in a hammock.

It seems a little like an exurban paradise, if you don’t think about the Riverside Stabber — the insane man who has been stabbing people in the Park recently.

I felt very guilty about running in the Park with a psychopath on the loose because I have a child to raise (with the least amount of trauma) and protect (with the most amount of neurosis).  Then, my son comes home after a day in the country with his cousin, and I learn that he was walking on railroad tracks!!!  My cousin quickly assured me there was no electric third rail like there are in subways.  With family like this, the psychopath in the Park is the least of my worries.

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Signs and Portents in New York

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Yesterday I was walking past a building where a delivery was being made.  I couldn’t see the company logo, just the shirt backs of the two delivery men.

One said, “The First Guy,”

and the other said, “The Other Guy“.

Funny and true and sad.  We readily let two guys into our apartment and we have no idea their names.  If we had to talk about the delivery, we would say, “the First Guy asked where we wanted the sofa and the Other Guy brought it in on the wheely-thing and then the First Guy asked me to sign the receipt.”

Reminds me of my housekeeper years ago when I was a bachelorette.  I left a relationship (and moved out) and took over the lease of my friend’s apartment together with all of the contents that she wasn’t taking to her new apartment with her girlfriend.  I even got the housekeeper, Olga.  Except Olga didn’t do the work.  She had her “cousin”, Marta, do the work. I saw Marta once (Russian, bad blonde dye job) and wouldn’t recognize her if I fell over her.  I was embarrassed not to be able to recognize her, so, on Fridays, I would get up early and walk down the stairs so I wouldn’t run into her.  (Of course, she wouldn’t know me either.)  If I saw anyone of her vague description within a block of my apartment, I would smile and nod just in case.

I imagined how I would answer a detective’s incredulous questions on Law and Order.  “How could you not know Marta’s last name?” “You have no address for the woman who has a key to your home, and access to your jewelry?” ‘Tell me again how you could not possibly know the full name of the woman who cleans your underwear?” “How did you know it was Marta every week?” “Based only on the fact that she ruined your whites with the same hue of blue, you are telling me that it was always the same woman?” Unfortunately, the answers are yes, “I could” and “I did”.

I did have Olga’s outer-borough phone number.  I used it to say that I was moving and I wouldn’t be needing Marta’s services.  I left two weeks’ pay and Marta left a thank-you note written in a scrawl that suggested that she didn’t know so much English and was just as happy that she didn’t bump into me (even if she recognized me).

At least I know her first name.  That is something.  But not really a lot.  A nameless immigrant in the sea of New York, doing work that most people won’t do.  If you want to see strivers and the role that nameless immigrants — legal or not — play in our society, come to New York City.

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How cool is technology?

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Here is the crazy thing: I am typing this entry from my iTouch. This may not seem a big deal to those who are tech-savvy, but for me, this is awesome. Useless technology for sure and not as easy as using a laptop.
Definitely worth knowing for the times I simply must blog from the scene of the bloggable event.

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The Monday Morning Blues

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My sister resembles my father in the way she gets out of bed in a happy mood.  My brother resembles my mother’s father in the way he gets out of bed (or did when we were kids) in a less-than-kind or communicative mood.  I am in the middle:  I am low energy, slow motion and hit the alarm six or ten times before staggering out of bed.  That is why lawyers’ hours in NY — in the office by the crack of 10:15am — work for me.

POB (partner of blogger), who wakes up at 5:30am, takes our son to school.  But today, she had to wake up even earlier to catch a train for an out-of-town meeting.  

I had to take my son to school.  That meant that I had to start slamming the alarm at 6:00am.  (For most of the year, the sun has not risen at 6:00am so in my book it is still the middle of the night.) 

Clearly, POB is a blessing in my life because our son would be a truant if I were responsible for getting him to school.  AND she made coffee for me.

In bizarre proof that gene replacement therapy works by osmosis and hypnotic suggestion when kids are asleep, our son is just like me in the mornings.  Which makes POB even more of a ROCK STAR.

We soldiered on through getting dressed, eating breakfast, washing up and brushing teeth.  (I am talking about both of us, here.)  Neither of us could talk but we grunted as humanely and endearingly as we could.

I dropped our son off at school and arrived at my office at the crack of 8:15am.   I need a nap now.

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Behind the scenes at my son’s 8th birthday party

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First, let me say that my son had a great time.  Second, let me say that POB (partner of blogger) and I did the least we could do.  Everyday we star in our own MasterCard commercial.  In this case, paying for an all-in party at Chelsea Piers bowling alley, $___; seeing your kid smile, PRICELESS.

We were greeted by the shift manager, a friendly enough woman. She failed to enunciate when she said her name and between the thumping music (which I forced them to turn down) and my middle aged ears, I couldn’t catch her name.  Not to worry, my middle aged brain would have forgotten it in seconds anyway.  She asked who was the mother and we both said, “we are”.  Shock and consternation showed on her face.  She then asked, “are there two birthday boys?” Ok, maybe she was thinking she needed to charge extra or maybe she was worried that there was some foul-up.  But this is NEW YORK CITY on GAY PR IDE WEEKEND.  (As for our family, we’re here, we’re queer, we are sooooo over it.)

Ok, so it took a few screams in all of our ear canals to get the point across (remember there was the thumping, party tape playing — another gift by the gay community) in order for the manager to understand that there were two Moms and that all was the same as planned.  Phew.  One small step for us, one giant step for GAY families.

My dad arrived early but not as early as usual so I was tempted to start a police manhunt to track him down.  (He is almost 90 and I worry.)  I waited outside and caught him as he was passing the place.  He noted the loud music and then I wondered to myself, how can he hear the loud music but not hear me screaming “DAD!!!!” on the pier.  A cosmic puzzlement.  One of the moms of our son’s friends asked Dad, “whose father are you?” (as in is your daughter POB or Blogger?).  My dad misunderstood the question, and answered, “No father.  Two moms.”  He came over to me later and suggested that someone didn’t realize the family dynamics and whether he should have a word with her.  G-d bless my Dad.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the mom-in-question already told me about the mis-communication. So, I said, “Another time, Dad, and thanks.”

It is my son’s day, but I need to have a moment about my Dad.  Sometimes, being the sandwich generation has it joyful moments.

I have spent the day putting together Star Wars lego battle cruisers, whatever.  Every parent can relate.  That’s why we don’t march in the parade.  Who has time when there are Lego projects and Little League and Hebrew School and birthday parties?

I get emails from my college friends asking about the birthday party.  I did NOT tell them (not that I wouldn’t but we had facial moisturizer to discuss).  But one is “friends” with my sister who posted pictures of the event.  You can run but you can’t hide.

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Tennis, anyone? a New York happening

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I work in Rockefeller Center, so there is always something happening with the Today Show outdoor events or Radio City Music Hall.  But today, there were periodic wild eruptions of applause and cheers.  It made me curious.

I was hungry around lunch time and I decided to take a walk even though it was HLAH (hot like Africa hot) and see if I could figure out the cause of the commotion.

On one of the pedestrian walkways, HSBC and Prince (racquets) had erected a viewing stand with a huge TV so people could watch parts of the Wimbledon tournament.   They also built a  grass tennis court and invited passersby to play.  So, I took off my shoes and blazer, grabbed a racquet and started hitting with a tennis pro.  I had never played on grass before — the surface is fast and the ball doesn’t bounce up. 

If someone asks if I have ever played on grass, I say, “sure, on the streets of New York City.”  No one will believe me, but it is true.

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