Subway Suicide

I got to work 35 minutes late this morning--all of it spent in transit (about double the normal commute time from 14th Street). After sitting on one subway for 15 minutes at Penn Station growing increasingly impatient--and, in the aftermath of 9/11, concerned--the conductor announced that my train, along with all others on this line, were not only backed up but going express and skipping Columbus Circle, the station I usually get off at to go to work, due to "police activity." Bad news. That's a euphemism the MTA uses for everything from train accidents to subway shootings to suicides--none of them good (especially when they happen at your stop).
A few minutes later we flew through my station, which was decorated with bright yellow police tape, and one more before finally stopping at 81st Street--more than 20 blocks from my office. Nearly the entire car of commuters emptied out, crossed the platform and descended the stairs to the downtown train line, which we'd been told would be stopping at the station. Of course, as soon as we all reached the downtown platform, there was an announcement that uptown service had returned to normal. Too late for us. "If I'd been a little later, I would have gotten to work a little earlier," one man joked to a friend as we boarded a downtown train.
When we finally arrived at Columbus Circle, the cops had left and the TV cameras were just arriving. (I was met by an NBC camera as I walked up the stairs of the subway station, grumbling under my breath about the extra long commute). I was not alone. A few other colleagues had been rerouted too, and we all walked into the lobby at the same time. All of us were complaining about the unreliability of the subway service (in January, service on both the A and C lines were suspended then delayed for weeks when a fire in subway station knocked out an estimated 600 relay signals used to direct trains) and the inconvenience of being rerouted, when the security guard looked up. "It was a suicide," he said. "Someone jumped in front of the C train."
We all went silent. Spending an extra 20 minutes on the subway didn't seem so bad compared to spending any time under the subway.
Finally, one cynical colleague piped up. "I feel bad for the guy, but I wish he'd done it during off-peak hours."
According to police statistics, subway trains struck 80 people in 2003 and 75 people in 2004, accounting for about 40 deaths each year (yes, believe it or not--some people actually survive a collision with a subway). If the "police activity" today truly was a suicide, it would be at least the 8th one this year.

Easter at Coney Island

It's Easter Sunday and the windows in our largely Italian-American neighborhood are filled with paper cut-outs of pink bunnies, yellow chicks and multi-colored eggs. Rows of Easter lilies and daffodils line the sidewalks in front of the bodegas. All morning long, little girls in pink dresses and white patent leather shoes and boys in navy suits and loose-fitting ties paraded past with their well-dressed parents on their way to one of the many Catholic churches in the neighborhood.
Unlike yesterday, we woke to a cloudy day with no promise of sunshine. My husband and I got up early too, despite bar-hopping our way home from Bedford Avenue last night after a pint each at Spike Hill. But we decided to forego church and celebrate Easter at the New York Aquarium in Coney Island--along with a dozens of the city's Jewish and Muslim families, as it turned out. It took us almost exactly an hour to get there by subway. And the temperature had dropped about 10 degrees by the time we arrived at the aquarium, in part because it is located on the coast (though separated from the near empty beach by a high wooden fence). The breeze off the water made it hard to keep my hair out of my face as we walked outdoors from one exhibit to the next. The cool temperatures didn't seem to faze the sea lions though. Lured by the buckets of fish their trainers carried, three of them leapt out of their warm water tank onto the concrete deck or one of two specially designed wooden platforms to perform various tricks--clapping their flippers, spinning in circles, and standing on their heads--for the crowd during a lunchtime demonstration. The rest of the aquarium was less impressive. The Web site promised sea dragons, some of the most fantastic creatures imaginable, but we couldn't find any--nor any reference to them--once we arrived. Though there were plenty of seahorses and sea jellies, which are pretty wild-looking creatures too (and the aquarium staff had the good sense to put them in dark tanks with a blue backlight, which gave them an extra eery glow). The Web site also promised penguins, plural. But I only saw one. The species is from southern Africa, so I'm guessing they were huddled into one of the many holes carved out of their rocky environment, trying to stay warm.
The Coney Island penguins grabbed headlines a few years ago when researchers confirmed that two of the penguins, Wendell and Cass, were in a long-term, committed--and gay--relationship. We didn't see Wendell or Cass. But we did catch a glimpse of a couple beluga whales. The water in their tank was so cloudy that we weren't sure anything lived in there until the two whales came gliding past the glass. And we got a close-up view of the underbelly of a giant sea turtle and a tankful of baby sharks (they're actually cute when they're eight inches long--and there's a thick plate of glass between you--but I wouldn't take them home).
Afterwards, we walked along the boardwalk towards the Astroland Amusement Park. My husband wanted to ride the 78-year-old Cyclone, one of the world's oldest operating wooden roller coasters--and still one of the scariest (the wobbly wooden frame is one of the most frightening aspects of the ride besides its age, but there's also the 85-foot drop). I was freezing, even with my gloves, scarf and turtleneck and Victor's knit cap. I wanted to warm up by the food stands, which offered some relief from the winds. I told him I'd wait for him at the end of the ride, but he passed. I was looking for a Turkish pastry place called Güllüoglu that I'd read about in New York magazine a couple days ago. I thought it might be on the boardwalk, but the only Middle Eastern dishes I saw advertised were kebabs and
gyros, sold from stands that smelled of grease and looked like carnival booths. So instead, Victor pulled out one of two scrambled egg sandwiches wrapped in tin foil that he'd bought at a diner near our apartment and carried with him. We split it, eating it by the benches that lined the boardwalk. The wind whipped my hair against my face amd mouth as I tried to bite into the sandwich, and blew crumbs into my hair and eyes. I gave up after a few bites and offered my husband the rest. It was too cold to keep my gloves off for long anyway. I was amazed at how many people were actually lining up for the park's rides or playing miniature golf (albeit in ski jackets and caps and thick gloves). We headed back to the subway and the hour-long ride home.
When we got back to our neighborhood, Victor picked up two hot dogs and ate them on the walk home. I bought a bag of decidely non-Easter candy. The store was sold out of the baskets, so I picked up a handful of gummy "Mexican hats," sugary "fruit" slices, and a couple stale Tootsie rolls. I toasted the other egg sandwich when we got home and ate it next to the space heater with a cup of steaming hot coffee, reminiscing about the Easter church services I used to attend when I was younger. Victor is Catholic, but he doesn't belong to any New York church. I was baptized and confirmed as a Methodist but we joined a Unitarian church when I was in high school, after my mom married a Unitarian and we moved to Massachussetts. I haven't gone regularly to church in nearly a decade. I don't feel compelled to join the Catholic church, despite its ubiquity in our neighborhood. But sometimes I do miss the Sunday services--especially around the holidays. I miss the Easter baskets too. Mexican hats and Tootsie Rolls just aren't the same as chocolate bunnies, Peeps, and jelly beans on Easter.

Plates and Pregnancy

I spoke too soon on Tuesday. The next day we slipped right back into winter weather. Freezing temps, sleet then snow. I'd say at least half the city was caught off guard, and shivering, in their overly optimistic clothes choices. When I slipped out to pick up lunch from a nearby deli, the snow was coming down sideways, and the wind was blowing so hard I finally gave up on trying to use my umbrella to fend off the freezing rain. But at least I had on gloves and a scarf and a leather jacket. Even some of my co-workers were sporting strappy sandals and skirts and regretting it (needless to say, they ordered in). They either hadn't listened to New York One, which actually got it right--though the snow came about six hours earlier than Pat Kiernan had forecast--or they were just in denial. The month of March is full of wacky weather like that in this city. One day it teases with the promise of spring-- it's sunny and in the 60s and you're ready to pack up your winter clothes. The next day, the temps drop and the snow falls, and you spend half the morning digging out your jacket and winter hat. I've become so paranoid (or maybe it's just that I'm a procrastinater) that I don't pack up my winter wardrobe until May.
But today, Saturday (I know, I've been remiss in my blog updates this week), it's sunny and (relatively) warm and I can actually take advantage of it since I don't have to go to work.
Last night, I met a couple friends at a swanky SoHo spot whose name embodies the latest New York food trend: Plate NYC. Other examples include Mario Batali's Casa Mono, Alta (which claims to be the "anti-tapas bar"), and Tia Pol (a small spot serving similarly sized Spanish plates). Plate NYC describes itself as "eclectic Pan Asian, Pacific Rim and Latin American" (basically, it doesn't know what it is) and divides its menu into "plates": small, lead, main, and side. And bowls. It's sort of a twist on tapas. The idea, ostensibly, is to order a few "plates" of various sizes and share. I think it's really just an excuse to make more money. Two small or side plates equal one entree, so you end up ordering double the items and paying twice the price (even the smallest plates range from $7 to $14). On the other hand, it gives you the chance to sample several different dishes (very good for those, like me, who have a tough time deciding on just one item). Of course, two of us ended up ordering almost exactly the same thing: shrimp and lo mein. Though Shubha is a vegetarian so she skipped on the shrimp. But Stacie got two small plates--coconut Gulf shrimp and crab and avocado spring rolls--and shared (she's very pregnant, and was craving peanut butter and ice cream sandwiches--neither of which were on the menu). Shubha and I at least ordered different sake-tails, which were very good, even if they cost the same as our lo mein and shrimp bowls. (And more than a carpenter earns in two days in the Philippines).
Over dinner, we were dicussing another trend, at least among our friends: pregnancy. We're all in our 30s and in various stages of family planning. Stacie is well ahead of us; she got married in July and will have both a mortgage and baby by May. Shubha and her husband's "baby" is their dog (if their treatment of the dog is any indication, they will be excellent parents--before their trip up from Atlanta to NYC this weekend, they actually interviewed several "doggy day care" centers before deciding which would care for their pooch while they were away). And my husband and I... well, we have plants. And I have my sister and Stacie, through whom I can experience pregnancy (and, now, parenthood) vicariously. It's a good chance to view firsthand how your life, and your body, change (hint: A LOT) when you have a child. And it's good incentive to work my butt off and enjoy my social life and relative mobility now, so that I will be prepared financially, and emotionally, when I experience pregnancy firsthand.

Spring's Sprung

It finally feels like spring today. The sun is shining and the temps are in the 50s. And everyone is finding an excuse to be outside.
I just took a walk over to the Time Warner Center (which, despite the presence of $200-a-pair shoe stores and $500-a-meal restaurants with celebrity chefs, is still a mall--no matter what Time execs or Mayor Bloomberg say). It was near empty indoors but there were crowds of people just standing around outside, smoking or sipping their grande, half-caff, skim, extra-foam Starbucks lattes in the sunshine. The News Cafe across the street had opened its doors and placed tables not quite on the sidewalk, but in the doorway, in typical cynical New Yorker fashion (this way they could be pulled back inside quickly should the weather revert to rain). But the tables were full, and so were the benches in Central Park, with the midtown exec lunch crowd munching on take-out salads and sandwiches from Whole Foods (after they'd carefully flipped their tie over their shoulder, of course).
I tried to pick up a book at Borders called "Your Money or Your Life" that a friend had recommended I read. But the bookstore was sold out, which was a little suprising since the book came out in 1999. Then again, it did spend three years on the bestsellers list. Still, it's always surprising when you can't get something right here, right now in NYC. But that's what online shopping is for I guess. And it wasn't a wasted trip. I got a sandwich and (finally) some sunshine.

Rain, Restaurants and Real Estate

Today is the first day of spring. It's grey and raining and the thermometer in the garden is hovering around 40 degrees. But that is an improvement over the forecast, which called for temps in the 30s and snow. My husband and I got ourselves out of bed before noon and took the subway into the city to pick up a book from Barnes & Noble, and a couple of bagels and egg salad. The rain had stopped (or taken a break, as it turned out) so we didn't bring an umbrella. But it started drizzling as soon as we emerged from the subway station. My hair frizzed up, but we didn't get soaked.
Our friend, Justin, had stayed with us last night but he'd woken up five hours earlier to catch a plane to Canada from JFK. He and his wife used to live in Brooklyn, but they got burnt out on the city and moved first to Paris, where he went to business school, then to Vancouver, where he is working as a music industry analyst for Nokia (he was in NYC on business). Justin said he likes living in Vancouver but he really misses NYC, and still considers it home. He said it took him a few years--and a couple visits back to NYC--to realize what he'd needed was a break from the city, not a permanent move. It may be a long break though, since they've got a baby on the way, and a big apartment in Vancouver that would be hard to replicate here on the same salary. That's the problem with NYC. So many people want to call it home that we're driving up the cost of living here, and pricing ourselves right out of the city we love.
Last night, I got a glimpse of the kind of place I'd love to own one day in Manhattan (well, if it was about 60 blocks further downtown). I went to my friend Pam's birthday party, while my husband and Justin went out for sushi with another couple of guys. Pam's boyfriend was playing host. A successful musician who's worked on Broadway shows and toured with Bette Midler, he owns a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side complete with jacuzzi bath, recording studio, and a kitchen to rival that in many NYC restaurants (it includes a full bar, and an industrial-sized refrigerator and cooler). For Pam's birthday, he'd hired a local catering company. For hors d'oeuvres, the tuxedoed servers brought out trays of smoked fish, skewered shrimp, crostini with sliced portobello mushrooms on wasabi, crab cakes on spicy wafers, and corn salsa served in pastry cups. That was followed by two main courses: halibut with caramelized bananas (an odd combination, but better than I'd expected) and short ribs with mashed potatos. Then they sliced up Pam's birthday cake and served it with lemon ice cream and chocolate wafer cookies.
After the caterers had cleaned up, Pam's boyfriend sat down at the piano, his musician friends pulled out their guitars, and they all started jamming in the living room.
Meanwhile, a half-dozen of my friends and I stood around in the entry way, picking at the chocolate cookies and poking fun at the pure food movement. Two of them had gone recently to a raw food "cooking class"--and, yes, the irony was not lost on them--where they'd paid to watch an aging hippie blend several different types of purees then pitch the natural food store's products (including a $25 cannister of Himalayan salt, which as our friend pointed out, came from salt mines that had been carved into the side of the mountains...not really the sort of thing you'd expect a self-described environmentalist to be supporting). NYC is one of the few places with restaurants (plural) to accomodate every type of dietetic preference--from macrobiotic vegans to meat-eaters.
And it makes for endless conversation as well as gastronomic adventures. After living in Manhattan for three and a half years where she's been working in non-profit and fundraising, my friend Joy said that she has figured out that as long as you are well-versed on the subjects of restaurants and real estate, you can hold your own conversationally in any social circle. (She'd moved from L.A. where all anyone talked about, at least in her circle of friends and acquaintances, was The Industry--a.k.a. Hollywood--which had made keeping up with the conversation in NYC a bit of a challenge in her first few months here, she said).
I'd add politics and art to the mix too, though you don't have to be particularly well-versed in either to have a strong opinion. We'd spent a good 20 minutes arguing the merits and artistic value of Christo's The Gates over dinner, though two of us hadn't even walked through them. Those topics can prove contentious, however, depending on the company (there are some Bush supporters in the city, though they are vastly outnumbered by Bush bashers). While any New Yorker, regardless of how wealthy he or she is, can commiserate about the relative absurdity of real estate prices in NYC and can also appreciate a good deal (or a host successful enough to have an apartment big enough to accomodate a catering staff, 40 guests, a large piano and several guitars with space to spare).

Slainte!

Today is St. Patricks Day, but you wouldn't have guessed it if you were on the L train this morning. I was the only passenger in my car who seemed to have made a conscious choice to wear green today (albeit paired with black pants, black boots, and a black leather coat). My grandfather is a first-generation, Irish-American who once worked in NYC as a lawyer, but now resides in an assisted-living facility in Florida. He is my only grandparent who was not born in the States, which makes me about a quarter Irish--and gives Ireland more of a genetic presence in my blood than any other culture (I've also got a bit of Swedish and Eastern European blood flowing through my veins).
At the 8th Avenue station where I transfer, and often (this morning included) head above ground to my gym for a pre-work workout in between, I had only three green sightings--all of which seemed to unintentionally coincide with the holiday. An elderly Chinese women wore a lime green quilted jacket. A black man carried a forest green backpack (note: there are "Black Irish," but the term doesn't always connote skin color). And a bright green Sprite bottle poked out of a teenager's half-open backpack.
The predominate color choice among passengers today was black, followed closely by blue--as in blue jeans. With variations of each in a distant third (e.g. black jeans, denim jackets).
The only sign it was St. Patrick's Day was just that: a sign on the tiled wall of the subway station, marked by a green clover, that encouraged riders to use public transportation to get to and from the St. Patrick's Day parade and other festivities. (An advantage of living in a city with excellent public transportation is not having to worry about drinking and driving--the downside is that you may have to share a subway car with a bunch of drunks... see below).
On the sidewalk, I spotted one potential Irishman with color-coordinated olive-and-blue striped scarf and matching cap (this was Chelsea after all). And at the gym, a strawberry-blonde, freckle-faced woman deliberately (I hope) sported gratuitous green shoes beneath a black pants suit.
Not very impressive though, for a city that boasts the most residents of Irish descent (2.1 million, at last count, though I don't remember anyone asking me) of any major U.S. metropolitan.
I was beginning to wonder where the Irish had gone? A century ago, most of them would be found in the Lower East Side tenements inside the notorious Five Points area, immortalized--if slightly misrepresented--in Martin Scorcese's "Gangs of New York."
These days, they're spread out all over the five boroughs. I'd bet many of them were still sleeping (the parade didn't start for another two hours). Or they were already lined up to watch, or participate in, the parade. A significant portion of New York's finest and bravest (a.k.a. police and fire departments) are of Irish descent. And many of them march in the parade--with the notable exception this year of an estimated 1,000 firefighters who are protesting a new ban on green berets (wearing them has been an annual tradition for this heavily Irish firefighting unit since 1975). There's the spirit.
And speaking of spirits (and stereotypes)... On the C train, I finally spotted some parade-goers. I wouldn't have known them by their attire (they were wearing--yes, you guessed it--black and denim). But by the telling (and unusual, at 10 in the morning) stench of alcohol that surrounded them. They'd apparently gotten a head start on the fesitivities, and were already--loudly--mapping out the bars along the parade route as the rest of us looked on enviously, thinking about all the work we had to look forward to at our destinations.
But they also got me thinking about the tall glass of Guinness I'll by raising tonight to celebrate my heritage (and the end of the work day).
Slainte!
** Correction: As my (non-Irish) husband reminded me, the gaelic toast is spelled slainte, not sleinte, as I'd initially written (sorry, grandad).

Guilty Pleasures

I don't typically relish the misfortune of others--even if they've brought it upon themselves. But I had to suppress a smile when the cable news channels began broadcasting the guilty verdict against Bernard Ebbers, the former CEO of the former WorldCom (now a much-chagrined, and much smaller MCI). It took the 12 jurors--all of whom declined to speak to the press after the verdict--about 40 hours to convict Mr. Ebbers of securities fraud, conspiracy and seven counts of filing false reports with regulators. Since each count carries a sentence of 5 or 10 years, Ebbers is looking at spending the rest of his life behind bars--assuming his inevitable appeal is unsuccessful.
What makes the verdict even more satisfying is that it comes on the heels of Martha Stewart's release from a 5-month stay in prison. It is only fair that Stewart, whose suspect stock sale cost her a lot more than anyone else, is free while Ebbers, whose fraudulent accounting methods literally cost tens of thousands of employees and investors their jobs and life savings, will probably be spending the rest of his days behind bars for it.
Stewart was convicted of lying to regulators about her sale of 3,928 shares of ImClone Systems stock in 2001--from which she netted about $225,000 (or about 2.8 percent of the $8 million she earned from selling shares of her own company upon her release from prison). But her stock sale was personal--and had no ties to Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia, whose stock price has actually climbed quite a bit since her trial (I wish I'd bought some then)--and no one lost money as a direct result of the ImClone stock sale for which she is still serving a home prison sentence. In fact, ImClone stock has also increased in value since then.
Ebbers's alleged accounting fraud, on the other hand, added up to a $10+ billion, much of which came out of the pockets of tens of thousands of WorldCom workers who lost their jobs and savings when the company filed for bankruptcy in 2002. For them, the verdict might bring some satisfaction even if it doesn't bring them sufficient compensation.
(The company already agreed to a $750 million settlement with federal regulators to repay some of the losses suffered by investors, but that's a small chunk of the tens of billions of dollars lost in the scandal.)
Mr. Ebbers, who is 63, is by far the most prominent executive yet to be convicted in a corporate fraud case, but he is not the only one to be charged with such crimes.
The trial last year of former Tyco executives Dennis Kozlowski and Mark Swartz, who were accused of stealing $600 million from the company they ran, cost an estimated $12 million --and resulted in a mistrial. But Kozlowski is now being retried in New York.
Richard M. Scrushy of HealthSouth, who is also accused of fraud, is on trial now in Birmingham, Ala. And Kenneth L. Lay, the former chairman of Enron, will be tried next January on fraud and other charges, along with his colleagues (or co-conspirators, depending on how you look at it) Jeffrey K. Skilling, Enron's former chief executive, and Richard Causey, the former chief accounting officer.
The guilty verdict against Ebbers has reportedly sent a "chilling message" to other executives facing trial. Let's hope it also sends a message to other executives who may be contemplating cooking their books to boost--artificially--their company's stock price.
It will take more than one conviction--especially as Ebbers's appeal could delay any sentencing for several months--to convince Corporate America that meting out prison terms for white-collar crimes is the norm not the exception. Fortunately--or not--there are plenty more opportunities in the months ahead to prove that is the case.

Good Spirits Part II

On Friday night, my friend Joy introduced me to one of her favorite tequilas: cazadores reposado. We shared a glass of it on the rocks with a slice of lime, alternating with a glass of club soda, at the bar at Dos Caminos on Park Ave South. And it was good. Not too overpowering. And, at $12 for a large glass of 76-proof alcohol made from 100-percent agave, a relative bargain--at least by Manhattan bar standards. We were smart enough to have dinner first at a new Asian restaurant a few blocks away called Wild Ginger, where the entrees were cheaper and healthier (I highly recommend the glazed ginger chicken). There's no doubt we could have polished off a couple orders of guac and chips at Dos Caminos if we'd gone there first. Instead, we stood and sipped the cazadores and two hours slipped by seamlessly before I thought to check the time. By then, it was nearly 12:30. I called my husband to tell him I was en route and woke him up. I got home just before 1 a.m. He'd left three bags of Utz chips out for me on the counter (he knows about midnight munchies). But I settled for a glass of water instead and slipped into bed.
On Saturday, my husband took me out to Miyako, a favorite Brooklyn sushi spot--and where we had one of our first dates five years ago. So it seemed an appropriate place to celebrate five years together. It was crowded but we waited less than five minutes. As I wrote on his blog, Miyako is one of those neighborhood spots that we locals don't want to talk up too much for fear it will get too crowded. The fish is always fresh, the sake comes chilled, and the sushi chefs and servers are all Japanese. We split a sashimi sampler with salmon, fluke, and three types--or parts--of tuna (white, red, and yellowtail). Eating white tuna raw, as bad as it might sound, is a truly orgasmic experience. As buttery as salmon, but more flavorful. We ordered another ten pieces of it a la carte, and ate every slice. We also split a cherry blossom roll and dragon rainbow roll. We toasted our good meal and good fortune several times with Ozeki Dry then stumbled home, stopping to buy the early edition of the Sunday New York Times en route. Saturday Night Live was just starting when we got home. David Spade was hosting. He was funnier when he was a cast member (or a character on "Just Shoot me"). Jack Johnson was the musical guest; I fell asleep in the middle of his first set. A true sign I'm not the partier I used to be. I slept straight through most of SNL, while my husband smoked one of the cigars we got in the gift bags at the Chivas Regal launch on Wednesday.
We slept in today. The sun was shining and the temperature had climbed into the 40s for the first time in days. We wanted to take advantage of it, so we took the subway up to the temporary indoor-outdoor exhibit called Art Rock--as in Rockefeller Center. Todd Oldham designed the gateways, which are constructed of orange trailers and decorated like a bachelor-on-a-budget studio apartment. Oldham was the biggest name associated with the exhibition, which comes down on the 14th. [Christo apparently kicked off a whole trend in temporary art exhibits in Manhattan this winter--there's also the appropriately titled Nomadic Museum, which opened last week and will occupy Pier 54 through June, when the entire structure and Gregory Colbert's photographs exhibited within, will be dismantled.] Art Rock displayed the works of 10 relatively unknown national and international artists. My favorite was Matt Johnson's "Dumpster Shaped as Paper Airplane," which was exactly that. It couldn't fly far, I'm sure, but the concept was cool.
Now I'm home sipping a glass of Argentinian Piazzolla Bonardo 2003 from Astor Wines (Lord, the way I've been drinking this week, maybe I should think about doing it for a living!) as my husband prepares grilled bruschetta; chicken roasted with Italian spices, onions and plum tomatoes; and steamed broccoli for dinner. And I catch up on my blogging and raise a glass to good food and good fortune--and a very good husband.

Good Spirits

This posting comes a day late because Blogger crashed on me just as I hit the button to publish my post yesterday and I lost it all. I couldn't bear to go through that twice in one day (nor did I have the time). Here's hoping I have better luck today.
On Wednesday night, my husband and I went to the formal launch of the Chivas Regal 18-year-old blend. And it was formal. The event was held at the three-story emporium of a British luxury-goods retailer on Fifth Avenue, complete with $60,000 alligator-skin bar, black-clad models/servers, and an invitation to peruse the store's collection of rare books, which includes a nearly century-old collection of well-preserved Jane Austen books valued at close to $1 million. (Be careful not to spill Scotch on the books!)
Now I don't usually drink Scotch--though this blend, diluted with a splash of water, went down really easily. Nor does Scotch fall under my general reporting beat without a real stretch of the imagination (though I'm sure I've written about alcohol, or mentioned it at least, once or twice). Hell, I didn't even realize covering spirits could be a beat until that night, when a woman I met told me that's all she reports on at CNN. "That's all?" I asked. She assured me it was plenty, with a smile that said "Don't you wish you could get paid to drink for a living?"
And, yeah, after hanging out with people who do for most of the evening, I sort of did. I wondered if drinking booze all the time and writing about it wouldn't get a little old after awhile, but they showed no signs of burn out (if their eyes were red, I knew it wasn't from staring at a computer screen for 10 hours, as mine were).
The booze beat reporters were in the minority at this party, distinguished by pocket scarves on one end of the spectrum (editors) and funky glasses and intentionally shaggy haircuts on the other (writers). Then there was Ted Allen, who looked like he'd just stepped off the set of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," which he probably had. But most of the crowd was made up of men in expensive suits who looked like they'd just taken a car up from Wall Street and women in strappy heels and slinky black dresses dressed as if they were going to a cocktail party (which, I guess, this sort of was). We figured they all work for either Chivas or the British retailer--or one of the Wall Street firms that cover the spirits industry. But there was one man I was certain worked for Chivas: Colin Scott, the master blender who created the 18-year-old batch among others. He was also the only person there in a kilt.

Abnormal Results

Last week, I got a call from the receptionist at my dermatologist's office. She wanted to let me know that the biopsy results for the mole on my stomach came back "abnormal." Now, I could have told you that that was not a normal looking mole (that's why I went to the dermatologist in the first place). So I assumed "abnormal" meant melanoma. My heart sank. "It's cancerous?" I asked her. There was a rustling of papers in the background. "Oh no--just abnormal," she told me. "He'll explain your results to you when you come in."
I came in two days later and paid a $20 co-pay so my dermatologist could hand me a piece of paper with this diagnosis:
"An atypical pigmented lesion that extends to the margin. Melanocytes, singly and in nests, at the dermoepidermal junction, bridging between some nests, and fibrosis in the papillary dermis."
Well that clears everything up. I feel much better now.
Of course, the dermatologist was on a tight schedule so he didn't have time to define all the dermatology terms and broke it down like this instead: "It's the type of mole that has a high risk of becoming cancerous. So I'd like you to get rid of it--and soon."
But soon was a relative term, I learned, since he doesn't remove these things himself. And the surgeon he referred me to is only in twice a month and already had FIFTY appointments set for her next visit. So I'm booked for the end of March and that's just for the $20 co-pay consultation. Then I've got to schedule the actual surgery for a later date. At this rate, that mole could be cancerous by the time I get it off. Though my dermatologist (or his assistant, actually) assured me it would not.
Nonetheless, I was instructed to come back every three months (for what I'd imagine will be the rest of my life or his) so he could continue to monitor my moles. "This is a wake-up call, you know," the dermatologist said.
Oh, I got the call, I assured him. I understand I can no longer afford to take a trip to the tanning salon or to sun my buns in South Beach (as tempting as that sounds on a day like today when it's snowing like hell and temps are expected to drop into the teens)--and not just because of all the money I'll be spending on the surgery and regular office visits.

Up In Arms II

Speaking of stupid laws (or loopholes) about guns, today's New York Times reports that dozens of terror suspects on federal watch lists were allowed to buy firearms legally in the U.S. last year, according to a Congressional investigation. Apparently, terror suspects aren't barred from buying guns--even if they have "clear links to terrorist groups."
I'm not talking about suspects buying guns on the black market. These people actually filled out the paperwork, registered and got approved by the government to buy a firearm. According to the GAO investigation, officials approved 47 of 58 gun applications from terror suspects over the nine-month period it surveyed last year.
So aging rocker Yusuf Islam, a.k.a. Cat Stevens, is barred from entering the U.S. because of suspected terror links. Even Canada's defense minister--whose innocuous and decidedly un-Arab sounding name is William Graham--is refused entry on a flight to the United States because someone else with his name apparently did something to get on an American watch list. (He wasn't allowed to board until he could prove that he was the other Bill Graham--the one in charge of the Canadian Forces.)
Yet suspects with known ties to terrorist groups are not only moving freely about the country, but they're armed!

Up In Arms

So, Del and Sandi, you got me thinking about women and guns--enough that I figured it merited a separate posting. (And, Malcolm, to answer your question: Bridal showers are basically an excuse to get a second round of wedding gifts from your female friends, though this round consists mostly of sexy lingerie and spa certificates and other things you couldn't really put on your registry without feeling selfish or offending an older relative).
Back to guns. Sandi's right. I have been out of Texas awhile. New York used to be one of the most dangerous cities in the world. But today the FBI considers it the country's safest big city; and crime has dropped dramatically in all five boroughs for 15 years in a row. Even if you wanted to have a gun for self-defense, it's very difficult to get a carrying permit--a priviledge usually reserved for law enforcement officials and owners of high-risk or oft-targeted businesses like upscale jewelery shops.
Even getting a gun to keep in your home is a multi-step process that involves paying $300, filling out a stack of papers, then waiting several months for an application before you can even buy a gun. Once you've got the go-ahead, you have to buy the gun within 30 days or your license expires and you have to go through the process all over again. Then, after you've signed the bill of sale, you have 72 hours to return to the License Division at 1 Police Plaza to have the gun inspected and its serial number entered on your gun license. Gun owners in New York are required to have a trigger lock on their gun and a fingerprint and background check on file, but they are not required to learn how to operate a gun before they buy it. And, as I learned when I read a first person account of a New York magazine reporter's experience buying herself a Kimber .45 and learning how to use it, there's only one training range open in Manhattan (West Side Rifle & Pistol Range) and it costs at least $400 to join for two years.
But it's not the bureaucratic b.s., or the cost of the gun, license, and training, that's kept me from investing in a firearm. It's fear. Rationally, I know that an increase in gun ownership will not necessarily result in an increase of accidental shootings.
But I've seen the results of an accidental shooting, and it was enough to put me off guns for the 20 years since. My good friend in grade school once showed me a scar that ran halfway across her belly. When I asked what happened, she told me she'd been shot. Now, keep in mind, this was at a private school in the suburbs and the only association I'd had with guns until then was with cops and criminals. I'm not sure I even realized then that "regular people" owned guns and legally. I couldn't imagine why they would. (I was young enough that I still hadn't made the connection between the cows I saw grazing in the pastures when we drove through rural Texas and the hamburgers I ate at McDonald's; hunting, to me, seemed like an archaic activity from the days when cowboys and Indians roamed the range).
Melissa had been shot by her uncle accidentally as he and her father--and I'm not making this up--were wrangling over the gun during an argument about the sensibility of keeping guns in the house. During the struggle, the gun (which her uncle had thought was not loaded) went off. And Melissa escaped death, literally, by an inch.
Three years later, after I'd learned where burgers came from, I stopped eating red meat altogether (another anomoly in Texas). Later, I heard the startling, and still controversial, statistic that a gun in the home is 22 times more likely to be used to kill a family member or friend than to kill in self-defense. That was enough to convince me that not only did I not need a gun in my house, but it might actually be more dangerous to have one.
That definitely put me among the minority in Texas. Down in Texas, guns are a fashion accessory. And gun racks are as common as bottle holders in Texas trucks (well, at least, when I lived there and there was no open container law--even while driving).
But as I moved around the country, I found I was now in the majority--especially in New York City, land of the liberals, where you're more likely to see a samurai sword in someone's home than a gun. While this city is accepting of almost any lifetsyle choice--from gay parenting to group sex (protected, of course in this post-AIDS era)--gun ownership for citizens is a topic I've never heard broached.
There are times, though, that I wonder if it wouldn't be worth learning how to shoot a gun, even if I don't buy one, if for no other reason than to face my fear. Of course, there is the danger that learning how to fire a gun might stir other fears: of becoming too trigger-happy (What if I enjoy it?) or, as the author of the New York article wrote, of actually having to use it one day. Even if it's in self-defense, having a gun ups the ante. If you're not quick enough, your target could fire first and you could be dead. And if you are quick--well, then you could be a murderer.

Life After SATC

In the span of nine months, I've been to three bridal showers (one of them was mine), three weddings (ditto), two baby showers (and a gift and regrets went in my place to a third), and two housewarmings.
Out of the 13 women who came to my bridal shower last summer, six are (or were) married, three are mothers, and three are in serious relationships. Four of my closest friends from NYC are still unmarried (though half of them are in semi-serious relationships). My two newly married friends are now pregnant or trying. Three of my colleagues are expecting babies in the next four months. My sister is a new mother. And our mother is already asking me when she can expect her next grandchild.
Here I am, suspended somewhere between matrimony and motherhood, clinging to what's left of My Fabulous Life. I realized one night, as I lay on the couch with the flu, watching Sex and the City reruns (for the 2nd time in one week), that the reason my friends and I were so upset when the series ended is that that chapter in our lives was coming to a close as well--and without the happy endings for some. Most of us are nearly as old as the characters on SATC were in the sixth (and last) season. As long as they were single and satisfied, so were we. But once they'd settled down, it seemed the story was over. Every one of the Fabulous Four from SATC met her man and got married (or got monogomous, at least).
Miranda moved to a brownstone in Park Slope (Brooklyn), complete with handy husband, toddler son, big dog, a nanny only a lawyer (or someone in a similarly well-paying occupation) could afford, and a mother-in-law suffering from dementia. Lord. Charlotte stays in the Park Avenue penthouse her new divorce lawyer husband helped her win from her ex-husband, along with a pedigree dog named Elizabeth Taylor and (we can assume) an adopted Chinese baby. Samantha decides to share her life and her loft apartment in the Meatpacking district with her much younger, burgeoning movie-star boyfriend. And Carrie, the star of the show, moves back to Manhattan after being rescued from Paris (Paris!) by her "Big" knight in shining Armani. The End.
But life goes on. And post SATC, it's not so glamourous. As my newly married and now very pregnant friend reminded us during a recent night out (and by "night out"--I mean dinner in Brooklyn at 6:30, home by 9). As she told us, she's gassy, she's bloated, she's still a bit crabby (having given up smoking/drinking/caffeine the day she learned she was pregnant), she's gaining weight so fast these days that she ripped the waistband in her brand-new $100 maternity pants after 2 wears.
"I just thought pregnancy would be more, well--glamourous," she admitted to my two single girlfriends and me. "Glamourous??" we asked her, incredulous. "Where in the hell would you get that idea?" I asked "From seeing Demi on the cover of Vanity Fair?"
"Well, yeah--sort of," she said.
The three of us looked at each other. "That cover was definitely air brushed," said one. And we laughed.
But the more I thought about it, the more sympathetic I became. If you look at how pregnancy is portrayed in the media, it either 1) isn't, or 2) revolves around glammed up images of celebrities during pregnancy (A 7-months pregnant Claudia Schiffer tells the Mirror: "I'm eating whatever I want at the moment.. Isn't is marvelous?") or after (see this month's Maric Claire: "Best Post-Baby Body!").
I don't care how rich and famous you are. Unless you're paying someone to carry that baby for you for nine months, pregnancy is not glam. Having been through four pregnancies (albeit vicariously), I can say that anyone that tells you she "loves being pregnant" is lying--or heavily medicated. And definitely doesn't hold down a full-time job.
This is not to say that pregnancy isn't wonderful--or, at least, the end result is. But it does a disservice to women--and to their husbands--to portray pregnancy as nine months of post-coital bliss.

We All Need Somebody

I met my friend, Laura, for drinks last night at Bar Veloce (the original, in the East Village), a tiny wine bar that serves domestic and Italian wines and a food menu that features gourmet tramezzini and panini and a "famous" dessert pastry made with Nutella .
We settled for an Italian montepulciano blend and grumbling stomachs. We had dinner reservations at nearby Poetessa at 8 and plans to meet Maureen, the gallery curator, and a friend of hers there--a special agent who moved up to NY a couple months ago to work in the drug trafficking/ money laundering division. She is one tough, but surprisingly feminine, chick; and she was packing heat in her small, stylish handbag, which kind of scared and fascinated us at the same time. (I instinctively scooted over when she told me about the gun, so the bag wouldn't be "pointed" at me).
As I was getting off the A train, en route to Bar Veloce, I spotted a tall blonde women walking ahead of me wearing an obviously expensive coat and jeans and a Gucci shoulder bag, and I wondered if it was Uma Thurman. She does live near the 14th Street station. I'd be surprised if she takes the subway but it's not unheard of to see stars on the subway. Hilary Swank used to take the subway to Gleason's Gym in Brooklyn every morning to train for her Oscar-winning role in "Million Dollar Baby".
It's easy to be jaded when you live in New York. Celebrity spotting can be a daily activity, depending on where you hang out.
But I was still a bit curious. As I sped up to try and catch a glimpse of her face, I heard a guy next to me nudge his friend and point to her. "Hey," he said. "I think she's somebody."
I laughed and thought to myself, we're all somebody to someone. And, suddenly, I didn't care much whether I caught up to Uma--or her stand-in--or not.

Home

Tonight, the driver was older and wore a turban and was annoyed with me for being a few minutes late (it was 9:25 when I got into the car). He didn't introduce himself. We spent most of the ride in silence.
As we drove onto the top level of the Queensborough Bridge, I peered through the tall windows of the high-rise apartments along the East River that I couldn't (yet) afford. And I wondered how many of the people inside had once driven across the bridge and looked through the windows of the luxury apartments and said, One day I will live there.
As we drove over the river, I looked back at the New York skyline all lit up in silver and gold. And I thought about how hard it will be to leave this place if/when we do. My hopes and dreams reside here (and some frustrations too, of course). Here, every day is a reminder that anything is possible, and a chance to rub elbows with some of the greatest actors, artists, writers and success stories in the world. Here is where I found my love, my home--and, eventually, myself.
And I vowed to one day to buy a big apartment in Manhattan with plate-glass windows that overlooked the East River.

The (Not So) Long Ride Home

The car came at 9:48. The driver was young. Midway through the ride, he introduced himself as Raj, asked my name, and told me I was pretty. Very pretty.
I told him I was married. Very happily married. But thanks for the compliment.
We passed Barney's, where three underweight mannequins posed in white and gold dresses in front of a wall covered with china plates and saucers. A garbage truck pulled up beside us at the light and a middle-aged man in a thick green jacket, Timberland boots, and a New York Mets cap tossed a pile of giant trash bags into the back of the truck like they were pillows. A red-and-white sign advertised a sale on suits: 50 percent off.
A bouncer in a black suit guarded the entrance to Fredericks, while a Hispanic woman bent down to clean a spot off the glass doors of the Paris Theater, where the last showing of "Bride and Prejudice" had just begun.
Raj turned up the radio, a radio show called "Chill With Chris Botti" on New York's "smooth-jazz" radio station WQCD (101.9 FM). Botti was playing a remix of Hall & Oates, "I Can't Go For That."
Piles of snow buried a bench and rimmed the leafless trees in the park across from the Queensborough Bridge. From the bridge I looked back at the Manhattan skyline. The Empire State Building was lit up in white, red, and green (from top to bottom) in honor, I later learned, of a Welsh(!) holiday, St. David's Day, which celebrates Wales' patron saint, thought to have died on this date 1416 years ago.
(The BBC online asks: how you will be marking the anniversary? Will you be supping leek soup, laver bread and Welsh cakes for a special St David's supper in Sydney? Um, no. But I could go for some cake right now.)
In Queens, a North Fork Bank sign said it was "37 degrees." The Mega Millions jackpot had reached $112 million, according to the billboard. We passed PS1, an old public school that's been converted into a Contemporary Art Center. The sign out front said it's closed until March 13th. We crossed the Kosciusko Bridge into Brooklyn, a route my husband and I had walked in reverse (from our apartment to PS1) one sunny afternoon two summers ago. Past the Pit Stop Bar. And a Polish restaurant. And then one turn and we were on my street. It was 10:07. A new record.

Caution: Work Ahead

It's 8:30 and I'm at work still with two stories, three book reviews and a wrap-up of the latest health studies to write before Thursday morning (all but the reviews due tomorrow).
It's going to be a long night. And a long day tomorrow.
But sometimes it feels good to work late. Especially when it's freezing and snowing outside and I forgot to bring my Russian rabbit-fur hat to work. (Well, I remembered as soon as I walked out the door, but I underestimated how much the temperature would drop and the winds would increase during the day). And we can use a car service if we leave the office after 9 p.m.
Now that's incentive to stay late. I'm only a 20-minute car ride from home--about 5-10 minutes faster than by subway--if there's little traffic and my driver doesn't make a wrong turn and end up in Long Island, which happened late one Friday night after I dozed off in the car (following a 14-hour work day). That night it took 45 minutes and a map consultation to get home. Hey, I'm no driving expert--especially in Queens (which we usually cut through to get back to Brooklyn). I usually take the subways. But tonight I think I might consult Mapquest before I take the car. Just in case. I don't want to waste time getting home tonight--especially since I'll be back here in about 13 hours. And my stories are due in 21 hours. Yikes. Almost makes me wish I'd just brought an overnight bag and a change of clothes to the office today.
Think I'd better get back to work.