A Violin in the Void

A Reprieve

2006-11-15T22:05:00.000-05:00

Funny, after spending three weeks worrying that our son would arrive early and scrambling to have the apartment ready in case he did, it now looks like he may be late. I went in for another Ultrasound today, after 48 hours of taking it easy and drinking lots of water (about a glass every waking hour--I spent almost as much time in the bathroom as out). This time my Amniotic Fluid Index measured a 7, which is on the low side but not low enough to take action. If it had been 5 or under, they would have admitted and induced me. Instead, they sent me home. The next appointment is scheduled for my due date: Friday. But the docs told me that our son still hasn't "dropped" and shows no signs of being in any rush to get out. He's already 7 pounds though, and I can feel his every movement--and see most of them, since he's pressing right up against my belly now. I sort of hope that they decide to induce me on Friday, just to get this process started already. I'm anxious to meet the little guy I've been carrying around for 9 months!

Oli-what?

2006-11-14T09:50:00.000-05:00

Went in for my weekly OB visit yesterday and ended up in the hospital. Turns out my weight, blood pressure and dilation (barely 1 cm.) had hardly changed since last week. But my belly had shrunk a little. So my OB did a sonogram and found that my amniotic fluid had dropped to a 4. At the time, I had no clue what this meant. Now, I know that a 4 means an Amniotic Fluid Index measurement of 4 centimeters on the sonogram--and that an AFI of 5 centimeters or less is an indication that the mom has oligohydramnios, and is a common reason for inducement after 39 weeks. Of course, at the time, all I knew was that I was being sent from the OB's office to "labor/delivery" at the hospital without my pre-packed hospital bag or my husband--or even reading material (I'd finished the NYT Sunday magazine while I was waiting to see my OB since she was running about 45 minutes behind). And that I might end up a mommy before the day was done.
Once I got to the hospital though, the nurses didn't seem to be in any rush to admit me. I sat in the waiting room for more than an hour, while women with more serious conditions--one with high blood pressure and suspected preclampsia, another who was in labor--shuffled past me through the door to the labor/delivery triage center. Finally, my name was called and I was handed the by-now familiar urine sample cup and cotton gowns (one for the front, another for the back to protect my modesty). The nurse hooked me up to an IV and a resident doctor told me that I'd be given fluids for 2 hours and then they'd recheck my amniotic fluid level. Two hours!
And no TV, or even windows, in the triage unit. I was doubly glad I'd made a quick trip to the gift store to pick up a bag of trail mix and a couple magazines. But trying to hold and flip through the magazine with one hand was not easy (my left arm, in which the IV had been inserted, was wrapped in a blanket to try and warm up the fluids being pumped into my vein). I gave up for good after I got a papercut across my palm and couldn't reach the paper towels. Fortunately, my husband showed up about then with half a sandwich, bottled water and some snacks.
The next hour and a half passed more quickly. I was feeling pretty confident that we'd be leaving. I felt fine after all (I still had no idea what the guidelines were for AFI numbers). And, more importantly, the baby's heartbeat and activity levels were fine, according to the doctor. And when the Ultrasound results showed my AFI level had increased to a 5.7, I thought we were home free. But the doctor seemed unsure. We had to wait another 20 minutes while she tried to reach my OB. In the end, I was sent home--at least for now--with instructions to take it easy and drink lots of water. I need to return to the hospital on Wednesday for another Ultrasound and AFI check. But at least this time I'll be better prepared. I'm bringing my pre-packed bag, plus a book and 2 magazines, my iPod, and lots of snacks. If Monday night was any indication, I could be hanging out in triage for a long time. That's the part you don't see in the movies or on TV when a woman gives birth.. the waiting time. The delivery itself might take minutes, but the lead time can last 24 hours or more. I'm glad we got a couple more days to get ready--and to sleep in!--and a preview of what to expect. Today, I'm planning to take full advantage of what may be my last day alone. I'm getting my hair done, and maybe a pedicure, and I'm loading up on all my favorite snacks and magazines--and water, of course.

One More Week...

2006-11-10T18:58:00.000-05:00

And I plan to savor every minute of unscheduled time until he arrives.
For the first week of my generous maternity leave, I was so nervous that our son would arrive early (a common occurrence among my colleagues, many of whom delivered 2-3 weeks before their due date) that I spent my days, and my paycheck, stocking up on dozens of essentials I was sure we needed before he was born. I picked up more than three-dozen items at Babies R Us, I scheduled a long overdue teeth cleaning, I signed up for another package of prenatal yoga classes. I took a 2-hour CPR and child safety class with my husband. We completed the last of five 3-hour classes on childbirth. I bought nursing bras, shirts and assorted paraphernalia. I bought extra bottles of shampoo, lotion, body gel, and 3 tubes of my favorite lipstick. I picked up a new robe and pajama set for the hospital stay. I scheduled one last hair appointment.
You'd think I had just been sentenced to house arrest, or was preparing to embark on a six-month sojourn to Siberia.
But as the days passed, and our son gave no indication that he planned to make an early appearance, I finally started to relax and to relish this time. It has been years since I had more than 2 weeks off from work. And this time seems even more precious because I know how limited it is--and how quickly the concept of free time or "me time" will disappear after our son is born.
Still, once I'd checked off all the items on my to-do lists, I didn't know what to do with all that time. I struggled with sudden feelings or irrelevancy. I checked my work emails and realized that they were doing just fine without me. I stopped by the office one afternoon, ostensibly to take a friend to lunch at the upscale cafe at my husband's office. But he was too busy to take a lunch break. And my friend was obviously busy too. The first time the phone rang, she brushed it off with a flick of her wrist. But by the third or fourth interruption, I saw her eying the phone worriedly and I urged her to pick it up. I left a few minutes later, vowing not to visit the office again until I was ready to come back. I didn't belong there now.
Still, I felt such pressure not to "waste" this time off that I spent several hours brainstorming about freelance projects I could take on while I was out on maternity leave. I sent emails to my agent, pitching book projects I couldn't take on for several weeks (or months) if ever. I sent emails to my colleagues at work about stories I knew I may not ever write. They humored me, but they were noncommital. Who could blame them? I' not supposed to be working now. And they were parents themselves. They knew better than I did how little time I would have to think about work, much less do it, once our baby was born.
I have one more week before our son is due. Maybe I'll read a book or 2. Maybe I'll write. Maybe I'll sit at home on the couch and eat bowls of popcorn and watch silly movies. Maybe I'll meet friends for dinner. Maybe I'll sleep in. Maybe I'll just do nothing at all.
The one thing I vow not to do is feel guilty about how I spend this last week.

And they're out!

2006-11-08T13:32:00.000-05:00

After six years and countless calls for his resignation, Donald Rumsfeld finally quit today--less than a week after President Bush declared that Rummy would remain at the Pentagon through the end of his term. Funny how things change when your party loses control of the House of Representatives and, quite likely, the Senate too (as of 1:30 p.m. ET on Wednesday, it appeared that Jon Tester had enough of a lead to declare victory over Republican incumbent Sen. Conrad Burns in Montana and in Virginia, Democratic challenger Jim Webb led GOP Senator George Allen--the incumbent best known outside the state for calling a Webb volunteer of Indian descent "macaca" on camera--by about 6,700 votes out of more than 2.3 million cast. That Virginia margin is small enough (less than 1 percent) though, that a recount is likely. And, according to the NY Times, the results may not come for several weeks.
In the meantime, though, the Democrats can enjoy the first majority they've held in Congress--and in gubernatorial races--in a dozen years. Whether they'll be able to do much with it, under a Republican president (even an unpopular one), is another question.

It's All Over Now But the Voting...

2006-11-07T08:38:00.000-05:00

No more negative campaign ads--well, at least, for the next several months. No more mailings. No more pre-recorded pleas from politicians on our voicemail (apparently campaign calls are excempt from the "No Call" lists).
Now it's just a waiting game to find out who won. Although, in New York, at least--if the polls are any indication--there's not much suspense. Hillary Clinton, Eliot Spitzer, and Andrew Cuomo (Democratic candidates for Senate, governor, and attorney general respectively) are leading the polls by wide margins. Even Alan Hevesi was still leading his Republican opponent Christopher Callaghan by more than 10 points after admitting that he not only misused taxpayer money to pay a state staffer to chauffer his wife around but covered it up and then underestimated the amount he owed in retribution.
But the expected results in other states are less clear. Democrats need to gain 15 seats to end 12 years of Republican control of the House, and six seats for the majority in the Senate. And, while initial polls indicate that the House majority is likely to shift after today's vote, the race for those half-dozen Senate seats is much closer.
My vote won't make much difference here, but I'm still planning to cast it. Good habit to get into. And what excuse do I have? I live 2 blocks from the polling station and this may well be my only major excursion today. I'm on day 12 of my maternity leave and I've completed all my to-do lists in preparation for our son's arrival. At this point, a trip to the gym feels like an accomplishment. While I still make plans with friends at night, by the time most of them are free to meet, I'm already beginning to fade. (My only friend who's not working is 25 weeks pregnant with twins and on strict bed rest). In the past two weeks, I've watched a dozen movies, read 3 novels and the newborn section of "What to Expect," and spent way too much money on baby and breastfeeding paraphernalia. My days have begun to revolve around meals and cable TV movies. I've made the occasional stab at something work-related, emailing colleagues so I don't feel completely out of the loop and compiling a growing list of potential freelance projects. But my motivation has been waning the closer I get to my due date since I know I may not have much time to follow up on any of them once our son arrives. At the least, voting is one activity I know I can complete, and it's free. (Has it come to that??)

False Alarm

2006-11-06T08:37:00.000-05:00

There is nothing like pregnancy, and impending parenthood, to remind you of how little control you really have over your life.
I brought home my day planner from work, and keep it opened up to the current date on my desk at home, and fill it with daily to-do lists and OB appointments and social plans. All the while, in the back of my mind, I'm keenly aware that I may not actually carry any of them out. Should our son decide to make an early appearance--and now that I'm more than 38 weeks along, that's a daily consideration--all those carefully laid-out plans and lists will fall by the wayside. I was reminded of that last night. I woke up yesterday feeling fine. After a friend had to cancel some afternoon plans, I decided to go to the gym (I usually take Sundays off, but since I'm going to be taking weeks off soon, I figured - why not?). Back home and feeling refreshed from an hour on the elliptical and the walk from the subway in the brisk autumn air, I suggested to my husband that we walk to one of our favorite neighborhood stores, The Bedford Cheese Shop, and pick up one of our favorite meal combos: cheese, charcuterie and chocolate.
We bundled up (it's been in the 40s at night) and headed off on the 15-minute walk. But we had barely made it a block before I started feeling shooting pains in my lower belly and pelvic area. That's happened before, usually when I am walking quickly to catch a subway. But the pains typically subside after a few seconds. Not this time. I slowed down and instinctively reached for my belly. But the sharp pains continued. Even at the snail's pace I had now assumed, it hurt to walk. Suddenly, the thought occurred to me: what if I went into labor at the cheese shop? That was followed by a rapid succession of increasingly scary thoughts. I haven't packed a bag for the hospital! I haven't washed my hair in 3 days! My mom isn't planning to fly up from Florida for another week and a half! What if my water breaks in the store??
The pain I probably could have weathered, but the thought of going into labor even 15 minutes from home was enough to convince me to turn right around and head home--that and the sudden tightening on my belly (was this labor?). That's the thing about first-time pregnancies. If you've never had contractions before, it's hard to know when you are actually going into labor, and when it's just 1. Braxton-Hicks contractions (a.k.a. "false labor"), 2. the weight of your every-growing baby, compounded by any shift in postion that puts more pressure on your nerves , or 3. gas (which would be a really embarrassing discovery should you act on your fears and head to the hospital prematurely).
Once home, I called my sister--who's a doc and a mother of 2--for a diagnosis. She assured me that she'd had the same pains in the weeks before she delivered and that it was most likely caused by our son "dropping" into launch mode. This, fortunately, did not mean that he was planning to launch himself into the world that night. But it did give me an excuse to plant myself on the couch for the rest of the night, while my husband ran out to pick up dinner (heroes and pastries--a fine alternative), and enough incentive to pack an overnight bag. Just in case.

Pregnant? Take this off your movie list.

2006-11-05T23:00:00.000-05:00

So, a couple months ago, I was home alone on a Wednesday night while my husband grabbed a beer (ahh...beer - I'm looking forward to having one of those again soon) with a friend of his. I was flipping through the cable channels and "Jersey Girl" was just starting. I read the brief description: know-it-all publicist (Ben Affleck) ends up as single dad, meets young woman (Liv Tyler) who changes his life for the better. Great. I popped some corn and settled in for a relaxing night at home. It never occurred to me that (*spoiler alert*) Affleck's character became a single dad because his wife died of a previously undetected aneurysm while giving birth. I'd just figured he was such a prick (and he was--at the beginning, at least) that she left him.
Of course, rationally, I know the chances of having an aneurysm--much less an aneurysm that bursts during labor and kills the mother, even though she is in a hospital at the time--are slim. But that didn't keep me from rushing to the computer to Google "aneurysm and child birth." (There weren't a whole lot of entries, which provided some relief. But the fact that there were any at all made me a little nervous.) And it sure didn't help me sleep that night.
After that, I started rigorously screening all movies to ensure that they didn't involve any pregnancy or delivery mishaps or tragedies. Just to be safe, I stuck mostly to sappy romantic comedies (in the past few days alone I've seen "Casanova , "Must Love Dogs," "Shopgirl" and "Prime"--none of which involved pregnancies or babies, just a lot of baby-making activity). I'd wholeheartedly recommend them to anyone who's pregnant--or trying to get pregnant.
But my streak ended tonight, an hour and a half into a really good movie: Junebug. I probably should have been a little more wary when one of the main characters announced she was ready to give birth "any day now" (in my defense, the plot description didn't even mention her), but I was too involved in the film by then. I don't want to spoil the movie (so don't read the next line if you're planning to see it). But I really wish there'd be some sort of warning label on movies that depict unfortunate outcomes for any pregnant characters. If you're pregnant, I'd highly recommend waiting until after you've delivered to watch this one.
And from now until my son arrives, I'm sticking with silly slapstick and romantic comedies.

Time

2006-11-03T18:17:00.000-05:00

For weeks, months really, maybe years, I've been telling myself that if I just had the time, I would write that novel or put together that photo portfolio. And now, here I am with more free time than I've had in years--at least, until our son arrives--and fewer obligations. I've bought and washed the baby clothes. I've got the breast pump, nursing bras, and $100 worth of assorted paraphernalia I'm not even sure I'll ever use. We've gotten everything we needed off our registry, and more. We have a swing, two vibrating chairs, 2 playpens, a pile of toys, and drawers full of clothes that should outfit him for the next year or more. I've bought birthday gifts for friends through November, just in case I forgot after he arrives. I've sent out 25 thank you notes. I've bought diapers, wipes, hand sanitizer, even baby nail clippers and a thermometer. I've bought things I'd never even heard of until weeks ago (a nasal aspirator? breast shields??). I've read "What to Expect When You're Expecting" and "The Whole Pregnancy Handbook" and dozens of articles online about motherhood. I've visited a daycare center, picked a pediatrician, and planned our first vacation. I've checked off just about every item on the four pages of to-do lists I compiled on the day my maternity leave began.
And now there is nothing left to do but wait. Watch movies. Sleep in. Read novels. See friends.
Take those photos. Start that novel.
Instead, I'm sitting here at 6:20 on a Friday night doing just about everything I can to avoid doing either. The battery in my Canon Rebel died. But I have yet to replace it. The journal I started six months ago is gathering dust under my desk.
What am I waiting for? I could say that it's just that I don't want to start something that I'll have to suspend for weeks or months once our son arrives. But that's just an excuse. For so long, I've told myself that all I needed was time. But the truth is, what I need is a little courage. Or, at least, diligence. Yeah, I know I know. Sounds corny as hell, especially since I write for a living. But there's a big difference between writing for work and writing for or about yourself. And it's not so often that the two overlap.
So I'm putting this out here now. I'm going to start writing every day--here or in my journal--until our son arrives. And as soon as I can get back to it afterwards... if for no other reason than that I'm never going to experience anything like this again: my first pregnancy, our first baby. And I could kick myself for not recording more of it sooner. But, funny, our son just kicked me instead (guess he approves). Stay tuned.

Two Weeks Left!

2006-11-03T12:23:00.000-05:00

Till Me Time is lost forever--or, at least, for the next 18+ years. If not for all his squirming around in there, and the difficulty I have bending over and sitting up, I'd find it hard to believe his arrival date is just 2 weeks away (*plus one day, if my husband's wish comes true).
I'm not planning to run the NYC marathon on Sunday, but I feel great. Sure, a late night for me now means anything past 9pm and my ability--or desire, anyway--to schlep groceries and other purchases is limited to about a 3-block radius. But as I told my husband last night, besides the additional 21 pounds I'm carrying (one third of which belong to our unborn son, according to the Ultrasound estimate I got last Friday), I may be in the best shape of my life. I've been fortunate to have had a relatively easy pregnancy, not counting those 8 weeks of near non-stop nausea at the beginning. I'm still exercising almost every day. I'm doing prenatal yoga at least once a week. I'm eating well--relatively speaking, at least (it seems a shame not to use some of those extra 300 calories we're allotted each day towards dessert!)--and taking vitamins plus iron, Vitamin B12 and fish oil supplements. Except for the occasional sip now and then, I haven't had a drink since I learned I was pregnant. And now that I'm on maternity leave, I'm getting at least 7 hours of sleep a night. It's no wonder I feel so good.
The true test will come after he arrives, when taking care of me falls to a distant second behind meeting his needs. From what my mommy friends, and sister, tell me, I'll be lucky if I can squeeze a shower in each day, much less a workout or a proper meal. So I'm going to try and squeeze as many of those into my last pre-mommyhood days as I can--as well as manicures, matinees, meals out with friends, and romantic "dates" with my husband. I have a feeling it will be awhile till I can enjoy, or even think about, any of those again after he arrives.

18 Days to Go...

2006-10-31T10:32:00.000-05:00

Not that I'm counting or anything. Actually, my husband is hoping our son will arrive a day after the due date, since November 18 is Latvian Independence Day and both his parents are Latvian. Also, November 18 is a Saturday, which means 2 fewer days that he has to take off from work. That is a real benefit, since he does not get any paternity leave and only has 5 days of vacation for the rest of 2006. Meanwhile, I've been off on maternity leave (bless my employer) since Oct. 23. For the first week, I spent so much time running around ticking items off my To-Do list, that I hardly had time to absorb the fact that I am no longer working.. and won't be again for months! But now that I've bought or removed (on a friend's advice) the few remaining items on our baby registry; and picked up those basic items--diapers, rash cream, washcloths, Purell, and wipes--that never made it onto the registry; washed all the baby clothes and bedding with Dreft detergent; bought nursing bras and related paraphernalia; and put together all the baby furniture, there's little left to do to prepare for his arrival. I finally find myself with more free time than I've had in years and fewer obligations. Last night, my husband and I took our last baby prep class: baby CPR and safety. That followed the fifth and final 3-hour child birth class. It still amazes me that we spent twice as long (15 hours!!) learning about childbirth, a process that shouldn't last more than 24 hours, as we did on baby care, which lasts years! For five Monday nights, we went through breathing techniques and what seemed a minute-by-minute reenactment of the stages of labor and every potential problem that could arise during child birth (you don't want to know, really). I think we're pretty well prepared for almost any scenario when it comes to the actual birth of our son. But what we do after we bring our son home.. that's a little less clear. We may have the basics down--diaper changing, burping, bathing--but there seems to be a range of advice on how to handle almost any other situation. Every baby is different, and every parent, it seems, has his/her own opinion on the best way to raise him. I'm sure we'll have our own opinions too soon enough. But I'm glad that my mom will be with us for the first couple weeks, at least. I may be a mommy myself soon, but I can admit, I still need my mommy too.

Seven months later..

2006-10-07T10:57:00.000-04:00

It's been an inexcusably long time since I last wrote. And in retrospect, I wish I'd done a better job of documenting the past seven months because I will never experience anything like them again (at least not as a novice). But better late, than never, right? A brief summary:
I learned in February that I was pregnant (and extremely fertile, apparently, despite my fears of the contrary, as I got pregnant within weeks of getting off the pill). And as much as I wanted to shout the news to the world, and post it here immediately, my husband--and my own superstitions--kept me quiet...for a couple months at least. I knew too many other women in their 30s, and even 20s, who'd miscarried. And I tried not to allow myself to become too attached to that growing bulge in my belly until I'd hit the 6-month mark: a milestone I reached on August 17. Now I have less than 6 weeks before my due date. And my son seems anxious to make an appearance. He's growing so quickly that my belly grew a full inch in the past week. And I'm finally starting to slow down a little bit. I've been fortunate to have a pretty easy pregnancy--so far, anyway--with the exception of the 2 months in my first trimester when I was plagued with hours-long bouts of nausea but only vomited twice (but wished I had--just to get some relief). I've done everything in my power to try and avoid the common side effects associated with pregnancy: varicose veins, stretch marks, back pains, exhaustion, and edema.
And, if my experience is any indication (though I know that every pregnancy is different), it really comes down to two things: eating well and exercising. I don't always eat well, but I have at least two pieces of fruit, whole wheat bread, veggies, and elean protein every day (helps to offset the cookies I almost always indulge in afterwards). And I am still going to the gym nearly every day. I'm fortunate that I was already in the habit of hitting the gym 5 days a week, thanks in part to my job, which doesn't require me to show up till 10 or 10:30. And I've modified the workout. I just alternate between three different elliptical or stair climber machines and, if I get short of breath, I slow down. But, as hard as it sometimes is to drag myself to the gym, I always feel better afterwards. More energy, less weight gain, less swelling. I worried that I might be pushing it too hard (something I've been known to do) but my OB only encouraged my exercise regimen. And then I read a piece in Pregnancy magazine documenting one woman's delivery day. Her husband noted that she had a much easier delivery than some of her peers because she'd exercised every day--every day!--during her pregnancy. Who knows if it really makes that much of a difference, but it makes sense intuitively. If you're in good shape, and your muscles are toned, it should be easier to employ them during labor.
Prenatal yoga helps too. Every woman in my class looks fit and, relatively, comfortable. And we range from 14 weeks to 40. A couple weeks ago, I was shocked when the woman on the mat beside me told me she was due that day. Yet here she was, doing yoga. (Fortunately, her water didn't break in class--that could have been messy).
But despite all the precautions, it's impossible to ward off all the side effects. After long days at work, and there have been many of those lately, my whole body feels swollen and I can hardly muster the energy to walk to the subway and home. And when I look down, my lower legs are often swollen. Socks leave deep imprints around my ankles. There are creases in my belly from my waistband (even if it's elastic). And I just feel big. Fortunately, I only have a couple more weeks at work. We get a very generous four weeks off before the due date.
Mentally, I am already half out the door. I work hard, but my priorities are already shifting, which is really odd for someone whose career has been such a priority for the past decade. There have been massive changes at work in the past week. Three editors are leaving, or have left already. Four of our senior editors have been promoted (including mine). And our daily workload has increased tremendously. But as I sit in our news meetings, I often feel like an observer. I am still pitching ideas and writing and editing stories. But all it takes is a nudge from my unborn, and extremely restless, son and any thoughts of work disappear. All I can think about is that little boy curled up in my belly, waiting to be born. And the feelings-this combustible combination of love and fear and excitement--swell up inside me.
Despite job changes and marriage and moves, my life has remained relatively stable--even predictable--for the past several years. I've been in the same apartment with my husband for six years (two of them as his wife). I've been at the same magazine for five years. I've been in NYC for nearly seven years and had the same close friends here for at least that long--some since college. My schedule has hardly varied for the past five years. But all that is about to change: my full-time job (motherhood!), my daily schedule, my sleep and exercise regimen, my social life, my identity.
It's all a little daunting. As much as I try to do to prepare for motherhood, there's no telling how I'm going to feel when it arrives. But I'm excited at the prospect.

The High Cost of Living

2006-03-02T22:55:00.000-05:00

It's no surprise that life in NYC ain't cheap. Just do the math. Three hundred and twenty square miles, 8+ million residents, 8 of the 10 wealthiest zip codes in the country. This is not the city to move to if you value space or a slow pace of life (unless you've got a 7-figure annual income). Both come at enormous cost here. Slow down and you might lose that fabulous job--or apartment--to someone who's faster. And space, of course is at a premium. Especially in Manhattan, which is just 28 square miles, 1.3 of which are taken up by Central Park (where no one lives but the homeless and the squirrels), and home to more than 1.5 million residents. Want to buy in Manhattan? It will cost you, on average, $970 per square foot. So, for example, a tiny 300-square-foot apartment, the size of your college dorm room, will cost you $291,000 (and that's not including monthly maintenance fees, closing costs, or any fixing up you have to do).
For someone who's net worth is still negative (the amount of debt I still owe exceeds the amount of money I've got in my bank accounts + investment portfolio), this math is particularly depressing. The fact is: even if I paid off all my debt and my husband and I managed to save up $100,000 this year, we'd be lucky if we could afford a $300K apartment in Manhattan (or 1-2 subway stops into Brooklyn). And $300K won't get you much these days. As author Robert Sullivan points out in today's New York Times magazine, "a half-million dollars won't get your phone call returned by real-estate agents in Manhattan, where the average apartment now sells for more than a million."
Looks like we'll be staying in Brooklyn for awhile. Though, perhaps not in our current neighborhood: Williamsburg. Back in the 90s, it was populated largely by artists who'd been priced out of the East Village. They took over the large industrial loft spaces, living 10-20 people per floor (with living quarters sometimes separated by hanging sheets or portable dividers). But those loft spaces are now being converted to $1 million lofts and condos. According to realtor Tom Le: half a million isn't enough anymore to get an apartment in Williamsburg--or even East Williamsburg (which is where displaced residents from Williamsburg moved in the early 2000s)
As Sullivan puts it: "Real estate is so often the business of readjusting dreams."
Or readjusting incomes.
That's what we'll have to do if we don't want to get priced out of our own neighborhood.

And we' re baaack!

2006-02-28T21:53:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I know. It's been a long time. And I have no good excuse. I wasn't sick or out of the country (even that would be a lame excuse, since there are few parts of the world that aren't wired anymore). I took a break that I told myself would last a day or two. And * presto * it's late February, and I'm reading my blog and wondering what the hell I've been doing for the past four and a half months with all that time I used to spend blogging. I didn't have a good answer for that. So I figured it was time to pick up where I left off.
So, a quick recap. Inspired by our friend Noah's 35th b-day entry on his blog, here's a partial list of what I've been up to since October 10:
* Ate North American Cricket, served with pepper jelly and cream cheese, at the Explorers Club (along with sautéed rosemary rattlesnake and mealworm served in escargot butter--fortunately, we also got ample glasses of Pinot Noir to wash it all down).
* Met Peter Athans, a.k.a. "Mr. Everest", who has personally summited seven times, more than any other climber of non-Sherpa ethnicity.
* Ate "one of the last genuine Key Lime Pies in the world" in Red Hook
* Cheered my Arizona friend, Beth DeFalco, on in the NYC Marathon. Three months later, the AP (finally!) offered her a job she couldn't refuse, covering the NJ statehouse, and she is on her way out here for good.
* Indulged in a three-hour, six-course gourmet chocolate tasting at Michel Cluizel's first chocolate shop in the U.S., which happens to be in downtown Manhattan
* Checked out some boobies at the Museum of Natural History
* Survived the 2005 NYC transit strike without missing a day of work (okay, I worked from home two days and bummed a ride the third, but it was a good 3-hour round trip with all the traffic).
* Rode in a Bell JetRanger helicopter around Washington D.C.
* Spent four fantastic days in the Bahamas
* Played with my husband in more than 2 feet of snow in the middle of the street--in Manhattan!--during a record-setting blizzard.
* Sampled genuine Riga Smoked Sprats and Pama Pomegranate Liqueur for the first time (both highly recommended!)
* Took a Tai Chi class with my mom in Florida (amazing)
* Finished the 1,476th revision of my book proposal
* Went to a Tupperware party (four words: stainless steel fondue pot)
* Enjoyed my first Chinese New Years Dinner--all six courses of it.
* Watched a prostatectomy done entirely via robot
* Watched a Russian cabaret version of "Tequila" while drinking vodka (of course)at a supper club in Brighton Beach
* Celebrated the birth of a friend's baby
* Celebrated the engagement of four friends
* And (finally) returned to blog about it.

Happy Indigenous Peoples Day

2005-10-10T18:57:00.000-04:00

Today is Columbus Day, at least in New York, which doesn't mean a whole lot more to me than a day off from work. Though I found this history of the commemoration of Columbus Day interesting. Apparently, the holiday is not one of our more popular ones--at least, among Native Americans, who view it as "a celebration of conquest and genocide." Some places, like Berkeley, California, have actually renamed the holiday Indigenous Peoples Day. The state of South Dakota renamed it Native American Day in 1989. And in 2002, the Venezuelan government renamed the holiday Día de la Resistencia Indígena ("Day of Indigenous Resistance"). That's gotta score Hugo Chavez extra points with Fidel.
Unfortunately--or, fortunately, perhaps, since he works on contract and is only paid for the days he works--my husband did not have the day off. So last night, I went to New Jersey on my own to spend the day and night at my mom's place, a journey that required a subway, cab, bus, ferry, and car. But it still took me just about an hour each way. I didn't mind the transfers actually. It felt good to walk. In New Jersey, the only walks I took were across various parking lots from her car to the movie theater, the restaurant, or the elevator in her apartment building. I prefer Brooklyn to New Jersey if I have to live across a river from Manhattan. But the view of the city from my mom's ninth floor apartment is spectacular. Even after nearly six years in NYC, I am still entranced by the sight of the city skyline (though a little sad that it's not the same one I used to gaze at before 9/11).

It was a very good year

2005-10-02T20:00:00.000-04:00

When I was thirty-five
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls
Of independent means
We’d ride in limousines
Their chauffeurs would drive
When I was thirty-five
- Frank Sinatra

I'm not blue-blooded and we're not riding around in limousines, but my husband is 35, as of last Thursday. And it has been a very good year--years, really, together. Next March, we'll celebrate six years since our first date. This is a milestone in itself, but particularly so in my case, since six months (with a few exceptions) was the average length of my relationships before Victor came along.
Victor was a bit nostalgic on his actual birthday, which makes sense, since 35 is not 30 or 21. And there's no denying that we're not kids anymore. In fact, most of our friends are having kids. And we plan to try soon ourselves.
When you're 21, and eager to enter adulthood, it's exciting to make predictions about where you'll be in 10 or 14 years--to look ahead and say, "When I'm 35, I'll be riding in limousines."
But when you're 35, you tend to look backward and say, "It seems like yesterday that I was turning 21." And where did the time go?
On Thursday, we tried to make the best use of our time and slid out of work precisely at 6pm (which is about the earliest either of us can leave the office without raising any eyebrows or suspicions). I'd given him one present early--a ticket to Avenue Q--and wrapped two of his other presents earlier in the week. When we got home from work on Thursday, I cleared a table upstairs and set his gifts out with a card. Then we shared a bottle of Ommegang, one of our favorite beers, and got ready to go out for dinner. I took him to a restaurant that was about a 10-minute walk from our apartment--his requirement for dinner had been that it be somewhere in Williamsburg, and preferably some place he hadn't visited yet. So we went to Bozu (pronounced Bose, like the sound systems), a Japanese tapas place owned by Makoto Suzuki, who practices karate with Victor. I was hoping that Makoto might be there to wish Victor a happy birthday, but he was off that night. Still, our waiter was really cool, bringing us a bowl of edamame `on the house'and playing a funky version of the birthday song in a subtle nod to Victor (the staff didn't sing along, but our waiter winked at us when we looked over quizzically after the song came on). For dinner, we ordered a selection of sushi "bombs," a house specialty: slices of fresh fish piled atop balls of rice with garnish or a dollup of homemade sauce. Our favorite was the buttery white tuna with ginger sauce, but the special pan-fried eel topped with minty shiso was really tasty too. We also ordered Japanese pickles, despite our Japanese waiter's warning that though he liked it, he'd found that most Americans did not. They're actually not pickles at all but various pickled vegetables: Asian cabbage, beets, and garlic. And they're surprisingly good, crisp and slightly sweet (even the garlic). But I'm glad that we both sampled the garlic slices. We also split a 500 ml bottle of sake, then Victor had a Sapporo beer and I tried another small "box" (basically a square plastic or wooden cup) of cold sake. When we got home, Victor opened his gifts: a black buttoned shirt from Kenneth Cole that, to my frustration, still had the security tag affixed to the collar; and an HP 5.1 megapixel Photosmart R707 digital camera, which I'd bought afetr reading several glowing editorial and customer reviews. (I was looking for a small camera he could use to take pics for his blog, that worked well in low light, had red eye protection, and took pictures that were sharp enough to maintain their detail even after they were blown up onscreen). I think I picked the right model because Victor kept repeating how surprised and happy and lucky he was. And, after showering me with kisses, he pulled the camera out of the plastic pouch along with all the accessories and immediately started reading the instructions.
Having figured out how to take, view and upload photos on the camera, Victor took it on a test drive last night. We were celebrating his birthday again, along with that of another friend of ours, Webster, at a pub called The Brass Monkey in the Meatpacking District (possibly the only bar in that super-trendy 'hood that doesn't have a velvet rope, a cover, or cocktails that start at $14). When we got there around 9, there were maybe 30 or 40 people and plenty of elbow room. We even managed to snag a table and bar stools for our group of about 12 (it would swell to more than 20 later). Turns out, we got prime real estate. By 1 a.m., the place was packed. And half our table had been taken over by strangers, most of them with halter tops and belly rings. It was time to go. Victor and I walked to the subway station a few blocks away and barely caught the train. The conducter actually popped open one of the doors for us, so we could squeeze on. We were lucky. After midnight, it can be 20 minutes or more between L trains. And we were anxious to get home. Victor had bought 3 slices of pizza and a chicken calzone earlier that night. We'd split the calzone and a slice of mushroom pizza before we left. But he put the other 2 slices away "for later," and I was so glad he did. That's all I could think of as we stumbled home. When we got in, Victor popped in a Globe Trekker DVD (Greek Islands) and I heated up the slices of cheese pizza in the toaster oven. It was about 2:30 when we dug into the slices. By the time he washed the dish and filled up a glass of water, I was already asleep on the couch (though I insisted I was just "listening to the DVD").
We slept in till nearly noon. It was wonderful. Then after a cup of coffee and bagels with lox spread, we spent most of the day cleaning the apartment and trimming and fertilizing the 14 house plants that are the closest thing to kids we have now. And I wondered if we would have the real thing before we celebrated his next birthday.

An Unusual Bond

2005-09-19T11:38:00.000-04:00

The relationship between a tenant and a landlord (or landlady) in New York City is often a tenuous one. Rentals, after all--with the notable exception of rent-controlled apartments--are temporary. Everyone aspires to own a piece of property eventually. And there's often an innate tension between a tenant and landlord since the latter extracts a lot of money each month in rent (in NYC it's often the equivalent of one-third to one-half of a month's salary) from the tenant for the priviledge of remaining in the apartment, however small it may be. So any resentment a tenant has about paying $1,600 for a 600-square-foot studio in the East Village, for example, is often directed at the person who's collecting the money.
My husband and I are fortunate to have an unusual, and cherished, relationship with our landlady and landlord. We feel so close to them, in fact, that they were guests at our wedding.
Victor discovered our apartment more than seven years ago through our landlady's niece, who worked in his office at the time. She knew Victor was looking for an apartment and that her aunt was looking for a "suitable tenant" (defined as someone who was polite, reliable, and childless) for the two-story rear apartment behind their home in Brooklyn.
Needless to say, he has never left. And when he and I began dating seriously in the spring of 2000, there was no question of who would move in with whom. (I had been paying more than $1,000 a month to share a three-bedroom loft in SoHo with two male friends).
The apartment is not officially rent controlled, but our landlady and landlord (Blanche and Louie) kept our rent stable for so long after I moved in that Victor and I actually volunteered to pay $100 more apiece each month--a move that is practically unheard of in this city (and was met with absolute astonishment from friends who learned what we'd done).
But we didn't want to damage the relationship we'd built by then with Blanche and Louie. We've been with them now through Sept. 11, a wedding, three job losses, and several holidays. When they learned we were home alone one Christmas Eve (we were flying out the next morning), they insisted we join them and their family at dinner. When I walked through the front door in shock with tears streaming down my face on the morning of Sept. 11, having witnessed the second plane slicing through the building where--until that morning--I had been working as a freelancer, Blanche met me in the entryway with a hug and a plate full of food (she is Italian, after all). And I cannot count the number of times I've walked through the hallway of that front apartment to find a plate of steaming food for us on the table where they leave our mail.
In the mornings, I take comfort in the sounds of Louie puttering around the concrete garden that separates our apartments. He and Blanche have transformed the space with hand-decorated planters filled with blossoming plants. They've managed to coax grapes and tomatoes from vines they've cultivated in concrete planters. Pots of pansies and peonies hang from the awning or our porch. In the summer, and well into the fall, the garden is awash in a rainbow of colors: fuschia, purple, orange,lime green and yellow. And almost every morning, Louie is there, humming to himself as he tends and rearranges the plants, or adds another angel to the thigh-high shrine to the Virgin Mary that he erected at the bottom of our steps. Often Blanche is with him, offering her suggestions and opinions in a mix of Italian and English.
So it was unnerving when I woke up one morning last week to silence. I peered out the window. The garden was empty, their blinds were shut, and the lights were off. For nearly three days, we didn't see them. Their son came by to sort the mail. But the blinds remained closed. The garden empty.
Finally on Sunday, we came home to the comforting smell of tomato sauce wafting through their open doorway. We were happy to glimpse them through the open blinds eatng at their dining room table with their son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter.
We always worry when they're away from their apartment for long because they rarely travel (Blanche got on a plane for the first time in her life last year to fly to Florida, and said she wasn't sure she would do it again). And we know, from reports from Blanche's niece and from the bills we see when we sort the mail from radiologists and medical centers, that Louie has health problems. Once he collapsed in the garden and bumped his head and spent a day in the hospital.
But I couldn't remember when they'd been gone more than a night or two (at least without giving us warning). So both Victor and I were worried last week. And it turns out this time we had some reason to be.
This morning, when I left for work, I saw Louie in the garden. He was leaning heavily on a cane, and there was a large bandage wrapped around his throat. I was so happy to see him back in the garden that I nearly hugged him. "Buongiorno!" I said. "It's so nice to see you. We missed you last week."
He nodded and I could tell he was struggling to talk. Finally, in a hoarse voice, he managed "Hello."
I kept smiling and added, "See you later, Louie," then turned away quickly so he couldn't see the tears welling up in my eyes.

Bruising and Boozing

2005-09-17T18:35:00.000-04:00

"I want to hold a cold beer against my sore foot and then drink it."
This from my husband, who went to karate fight class today despite a bad blow to his left foot a few weeks ago that has not yet healed, and came home with a matching bruise on the instep of his other foot (not quite as severe as the initial injury, he told me, but it hurts more since it's fresh). So I took the cue and we walked--or hobbled, in his case--to "Beverage World," a warehouse-sized beer store about six blocks away that sells everything from Budweiser kegs to magnum-sized bottles of imported Belgian beers. Even with his injuries, Victor insisted on carrying home a 12-pack of one-liter club soda bottles and a 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon cans (we like to stock up our fridge for a couple weeks at a time). I was amazed at how easy he made it look, even holding them up as he dug for his key then opened the front door. I'm not sure I could have carried much more than the magnum of Maredsous , four-pack of Ommegang Abbey Ale, and six-pack of special edition Brooklyn Pennant (Go Yankees!) Ale that he also generously bought. (Did I mention we like to stock up?)
When we got home, I tried to figure out how much he'd carried exactly. And, according to my sources (someone please correct me if I'm wrong), one liter of seltzer water weighs 1 kilogram, which is the equivalent of 2.2 pounds. So, by my calculations, Victor lugged home 26.4 pounds worth of seltzer alone--and that's not including the 12 cans of Pabst. Between his beverage runs, laundry pick-ups, and grocery shopping, he'll never need to lift weights in a gym.
After we'd unloaded the beer and seltzer water, Victor ran out to pick up some chicken pizza (my favorite) from Sal's, which is about six blocks in the opposite direction from our apartment. Of course, even the most mundane errands can sometimes seem impossibly hard in NYC (and it is at times like this that I sometimes envy you all in Texas and Arizona, with your cars and drive-thru windows).
Less than a minute after he'd left, it started pouring rain. By the time he got back, his shirt and shorts were soaked through and his sneakers were squeaking. But the pizza box--though sagging from the water it had soaked up--was still surprisingly intact, and the slices within were still hot. Delicious.
I felt a tad guilty that while he ran through the rain umbrella-less, I was sitting at home comfortable and dry in my tank top and shorts and slippers typing away. But Victor swore he didn't mind the rain.
I'm really amazed sometimes at how he's able to maintain such a positive attitude when he's lugging a 40-pound laundry bag home in the rain (as he's done on more than one occasion) or carrying bags of groceries along with a backpack full of karate and fight gear home on the subway. He told me that he got his training when he backpacked through Europe and the Middle East in the early 1990s, when he was living and working as a journalist in Riga, Latvia. He traveled mostly alone, with all his belongings in his pockets and backpack. He said he used to make it a "physical challenge" or "mission" to get to the train or the hostel or the bus on time because he figured if the train or bus had left or the hostel was full or closed by the time he got there, he'd be stuck. And, as he put it, "Plan B, if there was one, wasn't very good."
After watching him in action today, I'll bet my beer that he never had to revert to Plan B.

Comings and Goings

2005-09-12T20:35:00.000-04:00

On Friday, my husband and I headed to Musical Box, a bar in the East Village, to say goodbye and good luck to Jen (another one), a good friend of mine from college who was leaving NYC to spend six weeks traveling through Central America. Then, after a short stopover in the city to pack up her belongings and bid goodbye to those of us she's leaving behind again, moving to L.A. for good to pursue acting (or a Masters degree, depending on how the acting goes).
The next day, we spent the afternoon with another pair of peripatetic friends, Justin and Sue, who were visiting from Vancouver (their second stop after leaving Brooklyn a few years ago-the first was Paris, for a year and a half) with their three-month-old son. A friend of theirs in Fort Greene had thrown a small party so they'd be able to see all of us at once. She called it brunch (though it beagn at 3pm, which is perfectly normal for NY on a weekend). But it was a real feast: plates of grapes and olives and crackers and goat cheese, sandwiches of French or foccacia bread with sliced beef, fresh egg salad, or chicken with caramelized onions and roquefort cheese.And homemade ice cream sandwiches. Delicious. And, of course, beer and wine; though I stuck primarily with water. It may be fall (unofficially, though in NYC, everyone behaves as if summer runs from Memorial Day to Labor Day weekend) but it still felt like summer. The temps were in the upper-80s and my sleeveless sweater clung to my back.
We were all peppering Justin and Sue with questions about Canada. They struggled to describe Vancouver to us and, finally, came up with "quiet." They don't walk in Vancouver--well, not like they did in NYC--and they pay a lot less rent there than they did here for a much larger apartment with a terrace. They didn't miss the rent in NYC. But they did missed the energy, they said. And the irony. Canadians, they concluded, did not understand irony. New Yorkers thrive on it.
And so I thought it was a bit ironic that New Yorkers spend so much time kvetching about the high cost of living here, and the nuisances (subways that are sometimes smelly or slow or even stalled, as mine was for five mintues tonight; taxi drivers that cut you off as you cross the street then honk and/or swear at you, though you had the walk light; literally picking up groceries or laundry or dry cleaning, and carrying it home because you don't have a car to put it in). And yet, once they move away, they can't stop talking about how much they miss the city--and when they might come back. And I do hope Justin and Sue come back with their Canadian-American son in tow.
We left the party around 5:30 and rushed back so we'd be home in time to greet Victor's old college roommate who was visiting from Las Vegas (where he'd recently moved from Florida). Ted is about six-foot-four with the body of a professional linebacker but not the attitude. Ted, who'd come out early for a Monday business meeting, has a sweet demeanor and the gregariousness of a Floridian and a successful salesman (which he is). He has been out here so many times that he's pretty familiar with the city; but he hasn't picked up any of our cynicism, which is refreshing.
We kicked back at the apartment on Saturday. But last night, Victor and I already had plans to go to dinner at Mario Batali's midtown seafood restaurant, Esca, and then see a sold-out show, Avenue Q, at 7pm with my mom (a belated birthday present). A raunchy puppet show (sort of an NC-17 Sesame Street set in Brooklyn), but very funny. So we met up afterwards, around 10, with Ted and a colleague of his, Amy, who had spent two years in NYC but now lived in San Diego. I thought about bailing (it was Sunday after all) but they convinced me to go out to a local bar we like,Spuyten Duyvil, where I nursed an excellent Belgian beer for the next 2 hours and listened to Amy tell me how much she missed the pace of life here and the raw ambition. In San Diego, she said, everyone is so relaxed it makes her nervous. I told her I missed the ocean out there, watching the waves. But she laughed. It can become boring, she said. And repetitive. The waves go out, the waves come in, out, in, out, in. The predictability of the tides gives me comfort. But I could see how it could lull those who live nearby into a state of complacency.
Would she move here though? Unlikely. I told her that she had almost the best of both worlds, since she came out here for work pretty regularly. She could look at New York like an injection of caffeine (appropriate, since she and her husband have started a coffee roasting business) or ambition, when she was feeling complacent. You can't be complacent in NY. Or you'll literally get run over. You can't stop. Even if you just `went with the flow' here, the tide of agressively ambitious residents will push you further than you ever imagined you could go. It's what I love about NY: the energy, the opportunities, and the sense that anything is possible here (but not without hard work and perserverence). There's little that's predictable about NY beyond those three things (well, besides unbelievably expensive rent for incredibly small apartments). Just when you think you've figured the city out, or its residents, it surprises you (more often than not, pleasantly).
But there are times when I crave the ocean, and the sunny climate of southern California. When I just want things to be a little easier. The perfect solution, I think, is to spend half the time in NYC. And half the time in California. Though NYC would always be home to me.

An Emotional Week...

2005-09-04T13:38:00.000-04:00

this has been. Last weekend, I turned 33, and I celebrated with my husband of a year (and 2 months) and some of the best friends a girl could ask for. But there was one friend who was conspicuously absent from my birthday dinner. Stacie, the first friend I'd made in NYC and still my closest, had just learned that the headaches her brother had been complaining of for weeks were the result of an inoperable cancerous tumor that had lodged itself between his skull and his sinus cavity. By the time he was correctly diagnosed, the tumor had grown so large that the neurosurgeons at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center refused to operate for fear the risks far outweighed any potential benefits. Instead, he will begin seven weeks of radiation therapy that, in a best case scenario, will only cost him his vision in one eye. In a worst-case scenario, of course, the radiation regimen will damage his healthy cells but will not kill the cancer cells. We've been told he has a 30-percent chance of survival. This, I told myself and Stacie, is better than a zero percent chance. But it is still a pretty bleak prognosis. Stacie, who is already juggling her responsibilities as a new mother and a full-time pharmaceutical representative, is now trying to squeeze in regular visits with her brother as well.
On the day we'd planned my dinner (which I'd nearly cancelled after hearing the news--it seemed almost frivolous to celebrate my birthday over wine and tapas when a friend of ours was in so much pain), Stacie was shopping for pajama pants and sweatshirts for her brother to make his convalescence more comfortable.
And she still thought to send me a flowering plant the next day (she didn't want to send flowers that could be dead by week's end) with a card apologizing for missing my birthday dinner.
I am blessed to have such friends in my life.
Of course, the same day the plant arrived in my office, Hurricane Katrina landed on the Gulf Coast. We all know now what happened next. Suddenly the pain that Stacie was feeling was multiplied by 1000s. For the next week, I would see images of hurricane refugees crying over lost relatives, pets, homes. I would see images of stranded and starving residents clinging to their roofs and to the narrowing glimmer of hope that they would soon be rescued. I would see images of people who'd survived the hurricane and ensuing floods dying in their lawn chairs from dehydration or starvation because we, as a nation, had failed them.
I sat in my air-conditioned office at work, watching these images on TV from the relative safety of my midtown building, taking reports from our correspondents and interviewing those who'd been there or were on there way. I had never felt so helpless. I watched hurricane refugees pleading for help, for food. "We're dying!" they shrieked at the cameras. And I could do nothing but write about it.
I sat in my office on the phone with Stacie as she gave me the details of her brother's treatment and I could do nothing but listen. I kept asking her, what can I do? But I could not do what she needed most. I could not save her brother. I can only pray that the doctors will.
On Wednesday, my best friend from college, AJ, called me from Orange County, where she had moved four days earlier. And when I asked how she was doing, she burst into tears. She'd been in a car accident that afternoon. Her small convertible car was totaled. All I could think was, she is okay. She is okay. She is calling me so she must be okay. And, relatively speaking, she was. She'd badly strained a muscle in her neck and shoulder and had suffered a concussion. But she was more shaken up than anything. The worst part, she said, was that she had no one to call after the accident. She didn't know anyone but the staff members in her new office, whom she'd met three days earlier. She'd felt so alone, she told me. And my heart ached. I reminded her that I was only a phone call away. But I knew that was little comfort. Even if I'd jumped on a plane, I wouldn't have been there for hours. By then she'd already been to the hospital. It was her office manager who drove her there and then back to the extended stay hotel that is serving as her temporary home.
Finally today I got a call from Denise, a good friend from grad school. She apologized for not calling me on my birthday. But she'd gotten some bad news that day. I braced myself. Another friend of ours from school had lost her father, suddenly, that day after he suffered a stroke and hit his head, causing severe damage to his brain. "Oh God," I said. And the tears started again.
So many people suffered so much this week. And in the end, I can only count my blessings and pray for those who have lost so much this week. I thank my God and my fortune that AJ is alive and will recover. And that Denise and Stacie are strong women who will provide the support that our friend and Stacie's brother will need in the coming weeks and months.
The best gift I received this year for my birthday was the reminder of all the gifts I have already: my friends, my family, my health, my job, and my loving husband.

Back from my Summer Vacation

2005-09-02T20:33:00.000-04:00

And what a week to start blogging again.
My professional position prevents me from fully articulating the anger I feel with our administration right now. Let me preface my upcoming rant with this: I am a registered independent, I have voted for members of both major parties, and in my job I do my damnedest to remain unbiased (or at least, not to let any personal biases affect my reporting).
But regardless of your political affiliation or personal feelings about our president, it's hard to believe that anyone who's been to the areas affected by Hurricane Katrina in the past 5 days or read the stories of the survivors (some of whom ended up dying anyway from lack of food, water, or medical treatment) or seen the images can say that the state and federal government is truly doing all they can. Our president remained on his ranch for two days after the hurricane first struck the Gulf Coast. TWO days. While literally thousands of victims waited to be rescued as the flood waters rose around them. Some would succumb. And the police officers and rescue workers in New Orleans were so overwhelmed that they could not even stop to count the corpses floating past them. They were focused, rightly so, on saving those who were still alive.
Why weren't our state and federal officials similarly focused on such a goal? When President Bush said today -- without apology -- that the efforts thus far were "unacceptable," he accepted none of the responsibility for the failure. His pledge to finally get help to those who needed it was almost cruel in its timing. Because those who'd needed it most were now dead. More than four days after the hurricane hit, he finally set foot on the ground in Louisiana. More than four days after the hurricane hit--days in which literally hundreds, maybe thousands, of refugees had gone without electricity, showers, and with little food or water--the convoys finally began to show up. The airdrops began. The sandbags were dropped into the breaches in the levees. Military units were activated.
What is "unacceptable" is that our nation has an abundance of food and water, and clothing--and we had the means to get those resources to the hurricane refugees three days ago--and we didn't. And people died because of it. It is tragic to lose hundreds, or thousands, in a natural disaster. But it is criminal to lose hundreds or thousands more to incompetence.

If You Can't Take the Heat, Get Out of the... City

2005-08-14T21:31:00.000-04:00

I woke up Sunday morning before 8 a.m. and the temperature was already in the mid-80s. The National Weather Service had issued a heat advisory and predicted a high of 94 in the city with a heat index of 105 degrees. The perfect day for a four-mile, three-hour hike!
Victor and I set out for the portion of the Appalachian Trail that runs through Clarence Fahnestock park north of the city just after 9 a.m. with our fearless friends Jen (a reporter who's worked in Israel, Bosnia, Kenya and Colombia) and her husband, Steven (a lawyer who spent seven months working in the war-torn former Yugoslavia) in their rented SUV. We arrived at the trailhead about a quarter after 10. By the time we'd finished spraying ourselves with herbal "Bug Away" and spray-on sun block and assembled our bandana (Jen) and backpacks (the rest of us), we were already dripping with sweat. And we had yet to set foot on the trail. Over the next hour and a half we would encounter exactly four people: a hiker with a straggly beard, bad B.O., and large, steel-framed backpack who was apparently doing the entire Appalachian Trail; a friendly, and fit, Latino couple in their mid-40s; and a red-faced man in jeans and a sweat-drenched T-shirt who seemed anxious to get back to his air-conditioned car.
We went as far as the viewpoint overlooking the furthest edge of the lake we planned to jump into after our hike, where we sat down (in the shade) and broke out the PB&J sandwiches, cherries, popcorn, trail mix, water and iced coffee. Delicious. The walk back was a little easier, since it was mostly downhill. But by the time we made it back to the car around 1:30, we were beat and filthy and anxious for a dip in the lake.
But just as we pulled the SUV around to the entrance of the beach, we heard thunder and started to worry. Sure enough, the parks department had just cleared the beach ahead of the anticipated rain storm (though the sky was still blue above us). So we had to settle for an air-conditioned car ride instead and a cold drink and ice cream (mint chocolate chip) in nearby Cold Spring.
Not a bad compromise. And we were still home by 5--exhausted and dirty, but feeling pretty good about our accomplishment. And happy that we didn't bring any ticks home with us.
Once Victor and I had turned on the A/C, showered and changed and thrown our dirty clothes in the hamper, we toasted our hike with a cool bottle of Hennepin, a delicious Belgian-style ale made by the Ommegang Brewery in Cooperstown, and almost forgot we were in the midst of a heat wave.

Somewhere between Married & Motherhood

2005-08-08T20:04:00.000-04:00

There's nothing like spending an afternoon with three generations of your family--one of them younger than you--to stir up nostalgia for your own childhood and remind you that you are all grown up. (Or, at least, you should be).
It's been seven months since my niece was born, and I still can't get used to hearing my mother referred to as "grandma" (I'd suspect she's having an even tougher time adjusting to the title, though she's embraced the role). And every time I look at my niece, Evie, I am overcome with this mix of awe (she came out of my sister!), pride and love--and absolute fear. I watch my sister with her and I try to imagine myself changing her diaper, wiping the formula off her face, lifting her up with seeming effortlessness (though she weighs more than 20 pounds). And it is overwhelming. Could I handle it?
Of course, I know I can. And it's not as if we have to give up our lives when we start a family. But I realize now that it will be the end of life as we know it. And there's this part of me that wants so badly to cling to that time when I answered to no one (well, except my boss and my growing list of creditors), when I could sleep in--or all day--on the weekends if I wanted. When my decisions revolved around what outfit to wear and what new restaurant or bar to check out that week. I am happily married, mind you. It's not singlehood I crave, but time.
I want to be a mother; at least, I think I do. But when I'm faced with the reality of what it entails (at least, when you are not wealthy enough to hire an entourage to help you raise your child or take care of household duties so you can--or even wealthy enough to take a year off to stay home with the baby), I am overwhelmed. So many tough decisions ahead. Would I go back to work immediately and leave my newborn in the care of a stranger? Would I take time off and pray that we could continue to pay the bills? Should I try to work part-time, knowing that it will likely derail my career plans--or, at the very least, delay them.
And, money aside, there's the reality that we will no longer have control of our schedules or even our sleep patterns. Everything will revolve around this little tiny human being, who can't even stand up yet, much less hold up a conversation. And yet, there's a sense of relief too--in knowing that you have someone to care for besides yourselves, and someone who needs you. That it's not about you anymore. And that this child is probably the most important contribution you will ever make to this world.
I look at my sister with my niece and I know that, even with the sleepless nights and the financial strain of having another mouth to feed (and daycare that costs almost as much as their mortgage), she has never been happier. She is already talking about trying to get pregnant again next summer. Maybe we will both be pregnant by then.

A Beacon of Light

2005-07-31T19:39:00.000-04:00

I promise to write about something other than the security (or lack of) of our public transit system today. But first I have to point out the New York Times magazine Q&A this week with Senator Charles Schumer, a Democrat from New York, in which he says: "Unfortunately, this administration is derelict in how it treats homeland security. They're not interested in spending the necessary dollars. We spend $7 for every air passenger on homeland security. But we spend one penny for every mass-transit rider."
Okay, 'nuff said.
Today Victor and I braved two forms of public transit--the subway and Metro-North rail--to get out of town. It's something NYC-ers try to do most weekends between Memorial Day and Labor Day, three months when the weather in the city is typically characterized by the "3 Hs": hazy, hot, and humid (and often a 4th: Horrible smells, as the haze seems to trap all the city scents, including garbage, exhaust fumes, and often--on a weekend morning or near bridges or benches favored by the homeless--urine). And the city is filled with European tourists. My husband and I don't have a share in the Hamptons or a house on "The Shore." So we had to be a bit more creative this summer.
A couple days ago, we planned our Sunday getaway (Saturday was spent at my mom's in New Jersey). We debated between spending the day in Southampton or venturing up the Hudson River to check out the modern museum, Dia, in Beacon. After we compared round-trip fares and times, Beacon won. The train ride to Southampton would take more than two hours on the Long Island Railroad, and would cost $5 more than the hour-and-a-half ride to Beacon. And, according to a friend of ours who lived in Southampton, we'd need to take a cab--or a very long walk--to get to town from the train station. But the Dia:Beacon was only a 10-minute walk from the train station or a short (and free) shuttle ride. We opted to walk.
Victor wanted to take the 8:51a.m. train, which got us to Beacon at 10:21a.m.--39 minutes before the museum actually opened. But it took us 10 minutes to walk there, and the cafe and bookstore had opened at 10:30. By the time we'd visited the museum gardens, bookstore, and bathrooms, we only waited a couple minutes more before the doors to the galleries opened...onto Andy Warhol's "Skull" series: oversized, silkscreen prints of a skull decorated with neon splashes of color. In fact, the museum's current exhibition, "Dia's Andy: Through the Lens of Patronage," is all about Andy Warhol, from the perspective of patrons (of which Dia is high on the list) and other artists. It also includes a number of Warhol's works, both on canvas and on video, as well as four "time capsules" (numbers 5, 51, 68, and 237) that contain random paraphernalia from Studio 54 invitations to Polaroids he took of his assistants to a 91-page transcript of a conversation he had with Truman Capote (including many corrections he'd scribbled in). I find Warhol's portraits and "Screen tests" strangely mesmerizing. Maybe it is because I live in New York City, where I literally pass by thousands of people every day at close proximity. Yet how many of those faces do we remember at the end of the day? One, two, maybe three. And even when it comes to our friends, and certainly our colleagues, do we really study their faces? How often do we notice a distinguishing characteristic about someone from a photograph instead? To me, that's what is so striking about the screen tests. There is nothing to look at but the subject's face. And it's also so interesting to see how the subjects behave when they have nothing to do but stare at the camera for 2 minutes or more. One woman smacked her gum. Another woman alternated between smiles and sadness. The range of expressions he captured was amazing. I also noticed that the men seemed to stare straight into the camera as if to dare the audience to laugh. But the women, for the most part, squirmed uncomfortably, or--in at least one case--cried.
I have no doubt that Warhol was an intriguing and intelligent man. I wish I'd been able to meet him. And he grasped and exploited our fascination with celebrity in a way few artists of his era did. But I'm not sure if I would call him an iconoclast as much as he was a fervent follower himself, worshipping the celebrity idols that he helped create (and working hard to become one himself). If he had been born 50 years later, would he have been doing portraits of Paris Hilton and Kate Moss?
Of course, Warhol wasn't the only artist on display. Victor and I spent more than an hour and a half touring the 300,000-square-foot space. One of my favorite 20th-century artists, Gerhard Richter, was represented here as well. I didn't particularly like this piece, but I appreciated it. And I found some new favorites as well: Richard Serra, whose sculptures literally swallow you up in their awkward embrace; Robert Smithson, whose works incorporate both natural and manmade materials; and John Chamberlain, who used crushed car panels to make beautiful even delicate works of art.
After we made our way through the entire museum, my husband and I had planned to walk to Beacon's Main Street for lunch. There's been a concerted effort to spruce up the main street of town, but it appeared as if they had run out of funds after barely a block. When we first turned onto Main Street, it looked promising with three galleries, a tea shop filled with lace and antique furniture, and a sandwich shop that served paninis. But we turned a corner, and it was as if we'd stepped into a different (and decidedly downscale) neighborhood. Shop windows were broken or boarded up. The only place that was open and serving food was a fried chicken joint marked by a flashing neon sign. There were people standing or sitting on the corners staring at us as they smoked or drank from paper bags. Needless to say, we turned around pretty quickly. And we decided to hold out for lunch till we got back to the city.
So we caught a 1:50 train back to New York that put us in Grand Central at about 3:30. We were home by 4:15 with bagels and egg salad and a bottle of Australian shiraz. Next time, we'll eat at the Dia cafe.

If the Feds won't help...

2005-07-30T20:50:00.000-04:00

At least I know that the NYC mayor and the NYPD chief are well aware of how formidable, expensive, and utterly important the task is of defending our public transit system. Three days after my rant, I read an excellent piece in the New Yorker about the NYPD's anti-terrorism unit.
Before 9/11, the N.Y.P.D. had fewer than two dozen officers working the terrorism beat full time. Today, there are about a thousand.
Did you know...
...the N.Y.P.D. is almost twice the size of the F.B.I.?
...David Cohen, who is the N.Y.P.D.’s Deputy Commissioner for Intelligence, spent 35 years at the C.I.A. (and rose to become director of operations there)?
...the N.Y.P.D. has detectives stationed in France, Britain, Israel, Canada, and Singapore? (Singapore? I wondered the same thing.)
...On the morning of the London bombings, four N.Y.P.D. detectives were on a flight to London by 9 a.m.?
...NYPD officers have visited more than 20,000 businesses since 2002, enlisting most of them in the "Nexus" program, which keeps tabs on, among other things, terror-sensitive businesses and merchandise? (Business owners basically have a direct # to call if they see suspicious customers or activity).
... and the most surprising, impressive (in regards to Mayor Bloomberg's priorities) and depressing (in regards to the fed's) fact about the NYPD's anti-terror efforts:
The bill for the city's anti-terrorism budget is roughly $200 million a year. And it is footed, for the most part, by the city itself.
As William Finnegan reminds us in his story, in fiscal year 2004, Wyoming received $37.74 per capita, and North Dakota $30.82. New York got $5.41.
Among the fifty states, New York’s per-capita allotment was forty-eighth.
If the federal government isn't willing to ante up, I think we should slap a 5-percent tourist tax on every hotel room and earmark it for anti-terror funds.
And I wish that it was written somewhere in Michael Chertoff's contract that he must take public transportation. Every day.
(And especially when he comes to NYC).

Insecurity

2005-07-24T13:30:00.000-04:00

I'd planned to post an entry on Thursday after the failed bombings in London. But this week has been super busy at work (I was in the office from 10am to 11pm Friday with just 2 short breaks to run out and upstairs for lunch and dinner).
I never got a break to post until today. But there is still evidence of the city's reaction to London's attempted attacks throughout New York. For the first time, I noticed a police officer stationed on the sidewalk between the stairs to the subway station and the entrance to my office. There were cops on the subway platform and posters announcing that "As of July 23, all large backpacks and bags are subject to search." (Though I have yet to witness an actual search, except on TV). The ACLU is all up in arms about the move, as expected, but I think it's a good idea. Mayor Bloomberg says the searches are "random"--every 20 people or so. Fine. At this point, I'd support airport-like security in which every bag is searched or X-rayed at every subway station. Though that's unlikely anytime soon.
In 2002, New York's Metro Transit Authority said it was committing nearly $600 million to improve the security of the NYC subway and rail system. But as of March, only $30 million had been spent, and nearly all of that on consultants and additional study, according to one of the subway unions.
Frankly, even if $600 million was spent, it wouldn't come close to the federal funds that have been spent protecting our planes. An American Public Transportation Association analysis found that, since 9/11, the federal government has spent $18 billion on aviation security, compared to only $250 million on security for mass transit nationwide (which includes, subways, rail and buses).
Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff tried to justify the decision by claiming that aviation disasters would result in more casualties than a mass transit attack. "The truth of the matter is, a fully loaded airplane with jet fuel, a commercial airliner, has the capacity to kill 3,000 people," he said. "A bomb in a subway car may kill 30 people."
Obviously Chertoff has never ridden in a fully loaded NYC subway. If he did (and I truly hope he does), he might rethink his estimates. If a bomb went off in a subway car at a station during rush hour, there would easily be several hundred--if not 1000s--of casualties.
But while Democrats--particularly those from New York and New Jersey--criticized Chertoff's ignorant (and inaccurate) explanation, senators ended up rejecting one proposal to spend more than $1 billion in federal funds on mass transit security measures, favoring instead a competing $200 million proposal (though that was better than the initial plan, which would have actually cut spending on mass-transit security from $150 million to $100 million). In April, William Millar, president of the American Public Transportation Association, testified before a Senate committee that transit agencies around the country had identified more than $6 billion in transit security needs.
So where does that leave the estimated 29 million people who take commuter trains, subways and buses each day in the United States (one third of them in New York City)? Out of luck. Or, more precisely, unfairly dependent on luck--that the terrorist will be the 20th person to pass the police inspector, not the 19th. That the detonator will go off, but the bomb won't. That a passenger might notice something suspicious and report it before the potential murderer boards the bus or the subway car. That an unattended bag will be whisked away by bomb squads before it can explode. That we won't be on the car or bus that's targeted.
That's not what homeland security should be. "Homeland security" should not depend on an astute passenger, or an overly cautious cop--or luck.
I'd hoped that the London attacks would serve as a wake-up call for Chertoff and for Congress. The London "tube" system was more secure than our system is because British authorities have had decades of experience dealing with threats to the public transit system by IRA terrorists. And it's been breached twice now.
What will it take for our government to realize that we are equally--if not more--vulnerable here? I hope it's not an attack on our own soil.

Moving Images

2005-07-17T18:01:00.000-04:00

In the newspaper today there are photos of the dead. I'm struck by how young they seem. On the front page: Anthony Fatayi-Williams, a 26-year-old Nigerian engineering executive whose father, a doctor, is Muslim; Sharaha Islam, a pretty, 20-year-old, second-generation Bengali immigrant who worked as a bank cashier; Jamie Gordan, 30, who spent his early years in Zimbabwe; Shyanuja Parathasangary, a 30-year-old Sri Lankan who worked for the postal service.
Inside, there are four more photos: Mohammad Sidique Khan, also 30, a former counselor at a primary school; Shehzad Tanweer, a shy-looking 22-year-old sports science major at Leeds Metropolitan University; Hasib Mir Hussain, an 18-year-old who studied business at a local vocational School; and Lindsey Germaine, a 19-year-old who was born in Jamaica but lived in Leeds.
All 8 of them--and at least 47 others--died on July 7th in the London bombings. But unlike the four whose photos graced the front page, the four listed above knew they would be dying that morning. They deliberately carried bombs onto three subway trains and a double-decker bus during the morning rush hour and detonated them, blowing themselves up along with any unsuspecting passengers on the three trains leaving the Edgeware Road station (7 killed), the Liverpool Street Station (7+ killed), and the King's Cross station (27+ killed) and a bus near Tavistock Square (at least 14 killed).
The four were captured on video outside the Lution railway station. Donning beards, baseball caps and backpacks, they looked like so many other passengers boarding the train that morning. Their faces bely nothing of their intentions. I studied the close-up photos that have now been released, looking for some clue. But they look no different than those they murdered: Germaine smiles in his photo, his face pressed up against a white man's (the photo is cropped so only the friend's left eye and cheek are visible); Tanweer's shy smile and doe-like eyes make him appear far younger than his 22 years; Hussain has a close-cropped beard and darkly intense eyes; Khan has a round face, his eyes gaze left, avoiding the camera lens.
Who would know, by looking at them, that they were murderers? Even their families were shocked (or so they say). These were not men without food or futures, without hope. Two were students, one a school aide. They had families and friends, and lived in middle-class neighborhoods. Though three of them had Pakistani parents, they were born and raised in England.
On the subway this morning, I scanned the faces of my fellow passengers. There were two pale girls in tight pants and tee-shirts speaking in Polish; a round-faced woman with a multi-colored skirt and a Jamaican accent; a tall, black man in a basketball jersey; a slim Asian woman in a white peasant skirt and black sandals; a heavy Hispanic woman speaking Spanish to a chubby little girl with pigtails and pierced ears; and a dark-skinned man who could have been of Pakistani origin--or Indian. He wore a tee-shirt and kept his face down, reading the New York Times magazine.
What was it like for him now? I wondered. His face may have resembled those of the murderers, but his thoughts were different (or so I guessed--or hoped). Still, most of us on the train would look at him and see only his dark skin and close-cropped beard and wonder.
Because we cannot see what goes on in his mind or others'. We can only judge by what we can see. And pray that his backpack is filled only with books.

Good Charlotte

2005-07-10T21:09:00.000-04:00

I was never all that active in my sorority. But I was fortunate enough to meet three of my closest friends in the house. Mayumi, who lives with her boyfriend in San Diego (and with whom I may collaborate on a book); Liz, who married her college sweetheart (whom she met at a frat party the first weekend she was at school) and is now a mother of two in Manhattan; and Nicole, who spent a semester abroad with me in London and, after several years living near D.C., got married, moved to Charlotte, N.C., and gave birth last fall to a baby girl.
Considering the geographic distance between the three of us, we still manage to see each other pretty often. Mayumi and her boyfriend came out to NYC and stayed with us in February. Liz lives just across the East River and I see her at least once a month (she is often at the Shore during the summer weekends). Nicole came up to NY, along with Mayumi, last year for my wedding (all three were part of it).
I've visited Mayumi a few times--in part because my sister used to live in San Diego and my husband's sister still does. And we also have friends in L.A. and San Francisco. So we can visit both friends and family whenever we go to California. And we love it there. (A quick aside... When Victor and I made a list the other night of cities where we'd be happy living in the U.S., here's what we came up with after 20 minutes and a beer each: #1 New York #2 L.A. area #3 the San Francisco Bay area, and #4--well, there was no #4).
But I had not been to visit Nicole since she moved to Charlotte a couple years ago, despite her continued requests. And then--seemingly out of the blue--I got a freelance assignment to travel down there. And the editor was cool with me just going down there on a weekend (I was concerned about missing a day of work). So not only did they pay for me to travel to Charlotte, but I would be paid to do a story, and I'd be saving them some money since Nicole insisted that I stay at their home at least one night while I was there.
On Friday, I went straight from work to the airport, where I spent the next three hours waiting for my flight. It was scheduled to leave at 7pm. But the remnants of Tropical Storm Cindy had passed over New York on Friday and dumped several inches of rain, so the FAA ordered my flight--and several others--to remain at their cities of origin until the rain let up. I didn't mind the wait so much. I spent more than 2 hours of it on my cell phone with Mayumi, catching up and talking about our potential book collaboration. Then my battery died mid-sentence. So I ate an orange scone that I'd bought at Au Bon Pain and started reading "Nice Girls Don't Get Rich." (So that's why I'm not rich yet!).
Our flight finally took off at nearly 9:30. It was 12:30 by the time I reached the Marriott hotel in Charlotte. I showered and went straight to bed. The next morning, I woke up around 9 and headed to the fitness center downstairs. Fox News was playing on the television and the only other person in the room had turned up some R&B station so loud that I couldn't even hear my CD with the headphones on. When she left a few minutes later, I turned off the radio.
I checked out just before noon and went to meet with two of the four people in Charlotte I had to interview for my story (I'd done several other interviews by phone). Then I got lost on the way to meet Nicole and her husband and daughter for lunch, and ended up in a beautiful old neighborhood. Tall elms curved into each other, creating a canopy over the winding road. Stately brick houses, guarded by painted gates and tall columnades, lined the street. When I finally found my friends, they told me that I'd veered off into one of Charlotte's nicest neighborhoods and had probably driven past the Bank of America CEO's home.
After lunch, we spent a couple hours at Nicole and Dan's two-story house--part of an 800-home development that includes a lake and a large outdoor pool, located in southern Charlotte. I stroked their dog's head and watched from a chair at the kitchen table as Nicole cut up cheddar cheese, avocado, and green beans and spread them out before her daughter Kelly on the tray of her high chair. "She loves avocado," Nicole told me. She tried to sneak in spoonfuls of stewed carrots in between and Kelly, who had bits of avocado all over her bib by this point, seemed surprisingly receptive.
After Nicole finished feeding her daughter and cleaning her up, we drove to a nearby mall. I bought a black shirt and a white embroidered skirt from Ann Taylor, a store I never visit in New York. I'd gone in because Nicole was looking for a shirt (she bought a floral, sleeveless shirt with ruffles), and ended up buying more than she did. We went home and changed our clothes then drove with her husband and daughter to a new sushi restaurant in a nearby shopping center. I wasn't impressed with the white tuna, but they made a good 7 spice crispy salmon roll, served in a martini glass. Then Nicole came with me (as "the navigator") to another interview for my story. She was afraid I'd get lost in the dark, and was nervous about me meeting sources "so late" (I was meeting them at 9 o'clock since they'd had guests all day). I spent an hour with them and then we drove back to her place, where we stayed up another hour talking.
Charlotte is a beautiful city, but it seems so small. It's hard, once you've lived in New York, to imagine yourself living in a city of just 700,000 (even if it is North Carolina's largest city). I don't think I'd be happy living in Charlotte, but I was happy to visit. And it was wonderful to spend a day with Nicole and to meet her daughter. She has created a nice life there and there are parts I envy (a walk-in closet, a home and a car she owns). But I always ache for the city when I am away for even a day or two.
On Sunday, we had just enough time for a latte at Starbucks and a trip to Babies R Us (Nicole needed extensions for her baby gates) before I left for the airport. The trip by car and plane from Nicole's home in Charlotte to our apartment in Brooklyn took just three and a half hours. But what a world away. As the plane descended, I smiled when the little boy in the seat behind me (who had never been to NYC) asked: "Mommy is this all New York?" He added, in awe, "It's SO big!"
And it is. When we took off from Charlotte, I was struck by how green the city seemed--the city is surrounded, almost dwarfed, by the woods and dotted with golf courses. But as we flew into New York City, I could actually identify most of the green spots--Central Park, Yankee stadium, the strip that lines the East River. New York is not green so much as silver. It sparkles--the skyscrapers' millions of window panes reflecting the sun. And there were rows upon rows of homes and lines of cars as far as your eye could see. I couldn't wait to land.
We actually arrived 15 minutes early, but the line for the taxis was four deep, so I figued I'd spend at least that long waiting for a cab--until someone told me there was a new taxi stand two lanes away. I rushed over and got a cab right away. My driver was a large African woman wearing beads and a headdress. She insisted on carrying my suitcase to the trunk of her cab. She was also the first woman whose cab I'd ever ridden in, and she got me to Williamsburg in less than 20 minutes. I called my husband, Victor, en route. And he was waiting on the sidewalk for me with a big grin when the cab pulled in. I smiled when I saw him. It was good to be home again.

From Triumph to Tragedy

2005-07-07T13:48:00.000-04:00

There were grim faces and extra police officers on the NYC subway this morning. The bomb blasts in Britain happened too late to be reported in this morning's papers in New York, but many of us had seen the news before we'd left home. And there was a sad irony now to the photo that covered most of the top half of today's New York Times cover: thousands of Londoners celebrating after hearing yesterday that their city would host the 2012 Olympics. As I scanned the smiling faces in the photo I wondered if any of them had been at the King's Cross, Edgware, Russell Square, or Moorgate stations this morning when the explosions happened.
My heart dropped when my train stopped in the tunnel under the East River. It was a normal occurence during weekday rush hour, when trains tended to stack up, but my mind raced with alternative scenarios. I couldn't relax until we started moving again and emerged from the tunnel at First Avenue. Even then, I caught myself watching the digital clock in the subway nervously. The first of the four bombs in London had gone off at 8:51 am, London time, the height of rush hour, and the last blast occurred nearly an hour later. It was 8:41 when I got off the train at 8th Avenue. I felt some relief knowing that I would be at the gym for the next hour.
Almost every television at the sports club--both the large sets mounted on the walls and the smaller screens attached to the exercise equipment--were turned to CNN. Images of bloodied and bewildered British commuters filled the screens. I plugged my headphones into one of the sets to hear an update. At the time, only two people had been confirmed dead in the blasts. But there were more than 160 injured. And 'several bodies" had yet to be recovered.
I only have two friends in London: Kris, a high school friend, and Iris, a friend from college, who had been preparing for a move to Germany anyway (if she hasn't moved already). So the chances of either of them or their spouses being on the bus or trains that were targeted are pretty slim. But watching the images on TV, I was overcome by a wave of emotion. I could barely hold back the tears. Perhaps it was the memory of living in London for nine months in 1993, during which time the IRA set off a series of bombs. I remember being stranded twice in central London after bomb alerts shut down the "Tube" stations I normally used. (Although in those cases, the IRA almost always called ahead of time with a warning, so there were few if any fatalities. In this case, it seems, the terrorists were hoping for as many casualties as possible). Or, perhaps, seeing hundreds of commuters running from smoky subway stations brought back memories of 9/11. Whatever the reason, I had to turn the channel.
Now that I'm at work, the news is unavoidable. We've been getting regular reports from our London bureau, and the television in my office has been covering the attacks non-stop since I arrived here an hour and 20 minutes ago.
The death toll has now risen to 33. Reports say seven were killed in a first explosion in an underground railway tunnel near Moorgate on the edge of London's financial district, 21 in a second near King's Cross and another five at Edgware Road station in west London. No figures have been released yet on the bus blast near Russell Square, but it's likely that some passengers were killed as the blast ripped off the top of the double decker bus. The terror alert in New York has risen as well--as have the anxiety levels of all those who live here. Everyone is on edge. No one talks about it, but we know that it could just as easily have happened here--and still could.

God Bless America

2005-07-04T22:51:00.000-04:00

It's July 4th, Independence Day. All afternoon long, our neighbors have been setting off firecrackers that sound like gunfire. I jumped the first time I heard the rat-tat-tat outside the window. But by mid-afternoon, when Victor and I took a break from writing our respective book proposals to toss the Frisbee at the neighborhood park, I barely flinched when some kids set off sparklers on the park's perimeter, just a few meters from where we stood.
En route home, I took Victor up on his offer to buy me a round at Pete's Candy Store. We squeaked in just before happy hour ended. So Victor got a Brooklyn lager for $2. Of course, I ordered a Campari, which apparently did not qualify as a "well drink," so it cost my husband $6 and earned me a long why-can't-you-just-order-a-cheap-vodka-tonic look. But he paid for the drink and threw in $2 more for a tip, and we carried our drinks to the garden behind the bar. There were a few guys in T-shirts and flip flops at one of the long wooden tables drinking draft beers from pint glasses, a dark-haired guy sharing a large bottle of Zyviec (Polish) beer with a girl in a lime-green tank top nearby--and one leering, leathery old man in an open shirt and gold chains, sitting alone across the garden staring at the girl as he smoked a cigarette and sipped a cheap well drink. But he didn't stay long.
We sat a few tables away and downed our drinks. Then we walked to the grocery store so Victor could pick up a steak (he had a craving for red meat; I had a black bean burrito waiting at home). Back home, we split a bottle of Pinot Noir and watched the fireworks exploding over the New York City skyline--on TV. I know, I know. It was a bit ironic that we chose to watch the televised version of what was happening right outside our door. But we'd turned down an offer to meet up with some friends who live further out in Brooklyn so we could work on our books. And we didn't feel much like dodging bottle rockets to catch the show from our street. Plus, we'd seen it before. And the NBC cameras had a damn good angle for the fireworks display (at least, when they weren't focused on Mariah Carey or the multi-racial mix of military men and Mariah fans singing along to her songs on the pier... Was that the price of admission, we wondered--military service or the ability to recite her lyrics on command?).
I actually got a little misty-eyed watching the show. After the New York Pops played "America the Beautiful," we toasted our good fortune to have been born in this country, and to have found our way to New York and to each other.
Happy Fourth.

One Year and Counting...

2005-06-28T17:28:00.000-04:00

First off, apologies. I've been remiss (again) in my blog postings. I've had another busy week at work. And, as those who read my husband's blog regularly know, we've been pretty busy outside of work too.
On Friday, Victor and I rustled some friends together for a belated Midsummer Night's Celebration at a favorite neighborhood bar, Spuyten Duyvil. We were also celebrating a few specific accomplishments: the onset of our friend Marty's 36th birthday (at midnight); the publication of our friend Nicole's book ("The Running of the Bulls: Inside the Cutthroat Race from Wharton to Wall Street"--Buy it now!); and our one-year anniversary (which took place officially yesterday--more on that in a moment). We finally left the bar around 1 a.m., our stomachs full of Belgian beer, bread, Bresaula and bloomy rind cheeses. My husband and I got home and stayed up talking another hour or so, but made up for it the next morning--sleeping in till nearly noon. It took us another hour to get out of the apartment. Victor went to pick up our new Vonage VoIP phone adapter (the switch will, hopefully, mean a $100/month cut in our phone bill!) and some bagels and egg salad, and to deposit his paycheck. I picked up my dry cleaning and came home to a phone message from our PR department asking if I would appear on MSNBC Sunday morning to talk about a story I'd helped report (I said yes). I spent the next hour tracking down my notes and the final version of the story to prep for the interview. Then we were off to the gym (me) and karate fight class (him), back home for a quick shower and change of clothes, and off again to meet Marty and his girlfriend and some other friends at a sushi restaurant called Sakura Hana in the West Village. Two friends of theirs, who live across the street, are regulars there so the chef sent out three boatloads (literally) of sushi and sashimi along with at least eight bottles of cold sake (the waitress informed us that the owner had ordered a case of sake for the occasion!). Needless to say, everyone--except Marty's girlfriend, Carolyn, who ironically, since she organized the sushi dinner, doesn't drink sake--was pretty sloshed by the time dinner was over. I tried to limit myself to three small shot-glass sized cups of sake and to drink lots of water, so I wouldn't risk oversleeping or struggling with a splitting hangover headache on Sunday morning (the station was sending a car to get me at 8:45 a.m.). After dinner, we bought a couple bottles of white wine for Carolyn, who'd kindly picked up the sushi/sake tab, and headed to their friends' place. I lasted till 11 before calling it a night.
The next morning, I was up before the alarm. The round trip to the studio took a lot longer than my actual TV appearance, which lasted about 6 minutes. But it went well (according to my husband--I haven't seen the tape). And I was back home by 10:15--just in time to kiss my husband goodbye as he left for two karate classes.
I took advantage of the time alone to pick up a couple shirts for his anniversary gift (a white Cuban-style embroidered shirt and a funky, diagonal weave navy/silver shirt). We didn't want to wait till midnight to start celebrating, so we walked over to Planet Thailand, a popular restaurant off Bedford Avenue that predates both of our moves to Williamsburg and has since grown to encompass two neighboring spaces (and is still filled nearly to capacity every night!). We split a small sake and an excellent "Crispy Long Island Duck" salad special and two Thai entrees.
I'd initially hoped to take Monday off to spend the day together. But we decided to go to work then to an early dinner. The work day dragged by slowly, as I counted down the hours to our anniversary dinner at Molyvos, which we'd chosen as a nod to the honeymoon we'd spent in Greece (Athens, Mykonos, and Santorini). And walking through the rustic, rose-colored dining room, past shelves of Greek ceramic pottery and framed photographs of the Cyclades islands, I forgot for a moment that we were still in the middle of Manhattan on a steamy, rain-soaked afternoon. We were seated in a cozy corner booth in the back, beside a photograph of Mykonos large enough that we were actually able to identify some of the seaside restauarants and tavernas we'd visited, and we spent a few minutes reminescing about our time there. The table of twang-y tourists across from us and the severe shortage of Greeks--even among the staff--brought us back to New York. But we decided to adapt Hellenic dining habits, nonetheless, stretching our three-course meal over as many hours. Victor started with a Greek lager called Alfa and I had an Aphrodite cocktail, which was made with Vodka and pomegranate juice (delicious). We split a grilled baby octopus salad appetizer, which appeared so quickly after we'd ordered it--even before the wine--that Victor was suspicious. But it tasted like it was fresh off the grill. The wine--a Hatzimihalis Cabernet from Athens--arrived shortly afterwards. We'd had the same wine in Greece and it complemented the entrees nicely. Victor had the lamb moussaka, an incredibly rich dish, but delicious. I opted for the halibut, which arrived in two flaky fillets over a saffron corn broth with baby shrimp and freshly peeled peas. I finished the fish and then dipped slices of Pita bread into the broth (it was that good). We still had a year-old slice of thawing wedding cake waiting for us at home. But we had to sample some of the Greek sweets at the restaurant. We ended up splitting a three-dessert sampler of baklava, ravani (a spongy almond cake), and bougatsa (a phyllo pastry filled with semolina custard). The baklava was as good as we remembered, and I quickly finished off the bougatsa too. The almond cake was less flavorful, especially after I ate all the whipped cream off the top. But we finished it nonetheless. Victor had a brandy too, then kindly took care fo the check (part of my anniversary gift). Then we stumbled to the subway and were back home within 45 minutes. We exchanged cards and Victor opened his gifts (the two shirts and a new wallet) and we shared the last remaining slice of wedding cake. I tumbled into bed soon after, too full and too woozy to keep my eyes open through The Daily Show, and dreamt of white-walled tavernas overgrown with bougainvillea, sun-dappled streets and langorous afternoons lying on deck chairs on the sandy beaches of the Greek Islands beside my new husband. It's hard to believe we've already been married a year. I look forward to many, many more.

Smirnoff Scores

2005-06-20T00:55:00.000-04:00

It was a shock to many vodka snobs when Smirnoff beat out 21 rival vodkas in a January blind tasting arranged by The New York Times. The panel, which included "New York’s leading cocktail experts," judged the vodkas on "interest, elegance, neutrality and balance" and Smirnoff, surprisingly, came out on top. This was big news among budget-conscious boozehounds like my husband since Smirnoff (once known as the Budweiser of vodkas) costs about $13 for a 750-ml bottle, less than three times the price of competitors it beat out in the taste test.
Last week, Victor and I got to see for ourselves, when we were invited to a blind taste test, hosted by Smirnoff at Pravda in SoHo.
This time the Smirnoff, which is the world's best selling vodka,
was up against only two competitors.
We were instructed to sniff each of the three glasses and then write down our descriptions of the aroma. Then we picked up each glass, sloshed it around and sipped it, then wrote down our observations.
During the process, we were continuously reminded that voka, by definition, is colorless, and nearly tasteless and odorless. So that was what we were looking for in our ratings.
I noted that the liquid in the glass on my far left was sweet and smooth, with a slight odor. The vodka in the glass on my far right was more pungent and had an almost medicinal taste initially, but then settled nicely. The vodka in the middle glass barely registered. It was smooth too but, in my opinion, somewhat unremarkable.
When the woman who was leading the tasting asked what we thought of the first vodka (on the left), I noted its sweetness. It was like caramel in my mouth (well, compared to the others at least). But, of course, I knew, as the other 20 or so guests did, that Smirnoff must be the vodka in the center. And, if we were grading vodkas on the traditional defintion--odorless, colorless, tasteless--then it would be the winner. So it was no surprise that when the woman took a show of hands as to which vodka met the criteria, the middle choice won. Nor was it a surprise that the middle glass contained Smirnoff. My neighbor and I correctly guessed that the vodka on the right was Grey Goose. But I was surprised to learn that the one of the left was Absolut.
The verdict: I would rate Smirnoff highest as a mixer. But if I was to order a vodka and soda (or one on the rocks), I'd probably go with Absolut.
Hey, I am not a purist. I like a little flavor in my vodka. I actually order Stoli O or Ciroc (a French vodka made from grapes) most of the time when I'm out.
For pursists, though, I'd highly recommend Smirnoff which, as we were reminded many times, is distilled three times (the maximum needed, according to Smirnoff sources--any more and the effect is negligable). But, more importantly, it is filtered through silver birch charcoal. Each drop of Smirnoff, according to the markerting reps, passes through 12 tons of charcoal, a prohibitively expensive process (one Smirnoff can only afford because it produces and sells so much vodka) that is reportedly more effective than any other means of filtration. And it is a damn good vodka, especially for the price.
Of course, after the tasting, Victor ordered an extra dry Smirnoff vodka martini straight up, with olives. While I ordered a glass of the new black cherry flavored vodka. Very flavorful.

Field Trip

2005-06-16T21:49:00.000-04:00

My mom and stepdad helped celebrate my mom's birthday on Sunday by taking my husband and I out to dinner and a movie ("Mr & Mrs. Smith"), and serving us tea and slices of cake (cheese and carrot) then sending us home with the leftovers.
You'd think it was my birthday! All we had to do was get ourselves and the gifts we'd purchased across the river (the other river) to New Jersey. Not a bad deal.
Victor was feeling adventurous (and parsimonious), so he suggested we try to catch a bus from Penn Station in midtown Manhattan to Edgewater, which is located-you guessed it-on the eastern edge of New Jersey. For the bargain price of $2.60 apiece, we rode from Penn to one of 2 stops in Edgewater, which, unfortunately, was about 2.5 blocks from the movie theater where we were meeting my parents. Though we are New Yorkers, and I probably walk at least four times that distance every day at a minimum, it felt suddenly strange to stroll with my husband along a winding, weed-strewn sidewalk in my heels while Beamers and Benz's whizzed by us. Not to mention it was really, perspiration-provoking hot. And I was wearing a thin jacket (well, for about the first 10 seconds till I decided to carry it instead) in anticipation of the air-conditioned theater where we'd be spending the next 2 hours.
But it was a quick walk. And the A/C in that theater felt good. While we waited for my parents, I hit the candy bins, filling up a bag with Swedish fish and Skittles (my favorites--and lunch!). My parents showed up soon after. They'd already bought the tickets online and they ushered us into the theater "to get good seats." There were 5 people in the theater. The movie (or the pre-movie commercials) weren't scheduled to start for another 20 minutes. So we settled in. Then my mom opened the straw shoulder bag she'd brought along and pulled out baggies filled with dried cherries (tart and crispy) and bottled water. They like to come prepared. We all spent the next 15 minutes munching on our snacks, discussing Doubt (a play about priests and pedophilia that they had seen the day before and highly recommended--it just won the Pulitzer and a handful of Tonys), and debating the merits of anonymous sources in journalism (I'll just say I am a proponent in general, with some notable exceptions).
Then, just as we got to the mind-boggling phenomenom that is Paris Hilton, the ads kicked in. "Mr & Mrs Smith" was sort of like one long ad too--for homeowner's insurance. Not that most of us would have to worry about the problems that plagued the Smiths: The "houswife" and "high-level contractor" are actually highly skilled (and highly paid, judging from their suburban Mcmansion) assassins who have been ordered to kill each other. When they're not trying to kill each other, they're trying to elude pesky teams of highly trained assassins (with remarkably bad aim) and to reignite the spark that brought them together "five or six years ago" in Bogota.
[Spoiler alert!] Needless to say, both of them--and their marriage--survive, while their house and their would-be killers do not. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie share some amazing chemistry and even some witty banter. But their most impressive accomplishment is that they manage to survive being shot and stabbed, having their home blown up, and their getaway car (aka the minivan they stole from their neighbor) shot up, and still look beautiful throughout.
My mom, stepdad, Victor and I concluded after the film that there is no other actress today that has the same sexual appeal and screen presence as Angelina Jolie. ("If I was Jennifer Aniston, I never would have let me husband do this movie!" my mom announced). The only other star we could come up with that might hold her own against Angelina was Sophia Loren (or maybe Brigitte Bardot?)--30 years ago.
Next, we went for an early dinner at a nearby restaurant where smoking was still permitted (in the bar), my stepdad talked the manager into lifting (at least temporarily) the policy of charging for iced tea refills and I sucked down some savory scallops in a rich cream sauce (all I'd eaten that day was candy and some dried cherries--I was starving). Then it was back to my parents' place for cake and tea. And Victor and I were off. This time we took the ferry back across the river. The sun was just setting and it was still warm enough to stand on the top deck. The wind felt good in my hair. The New York skyline sparkled with thousands of twinkling lights. It felt magical.
Then we were on a bus and a subway (back under the other river) and home by 9, ready for a second slice of cake.

Summer in the City

2005-06-12T23:46:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I know that summer doesn't officially start for another 9 days. But it sure feels like it's here already. For the past two weeks, the temps have topped out in the upper 80s and, occasionally, the low 90s. It's too hot to wear a jacket (even if it's thin cotton, as I discovered last Monday). Even a three-block walk in the city, wearing flip flops and a tank top and a loose-fitting skirt, will leave your newly exposed skin pink and covered in perspiration and grime. And if you're unlucky enough to find yourself on a subway car without A/C, as I did yesterday, you'll not only have to endure the stifling heat, but the complaints--and the B.O.--of dozens of other straphangers squeezed up against you. It's enough to make you want to splurge on a $20 cab ride. Even if the cab has no A/C, at least you'll be alone in the back seat and you can open the windows to allow a cross-breeze.
This is what I was thinking when, for the fifth time yesterday afternoon, I got on the A train, which did not have A/C--at least in my car--and was making all local stops because the local train was out of service for repairs (making my train ride nearly twice as long as normal). I was also thinking that normally I wouldn't even be on this [expletive] train anyway because the [expletive] L train would be working. But, due to "necessary track work," the L train was only operating to Union Square, two stops--and three and a half long blocks--from where I needed to be. I was also thinking that if I hadn't left my [expletive] make-up bag at the hair salon in Brooklyn Heights and forgotten about it until I got off the [expletive] A train in Chelsea and stopped by my gym for a quick workout, I could have spared myself two unanticipated rides on the A train (not to mention, an hour of my afternoon).
It's a good thing that I have an unlimited metro card.
When I finally got home at 7:45 Saturday night, I figured I'd spent about two hours and 45 minutes riding on eight different subways (or waiting for them on the platform). Calculations like that make me a little nostalgic for my car. Though, with the weekend traffic, I assured myself, I might not have saved much time in transit (though the ride definitely would have smelled better).
Victor and I had left the apartment at 9:45 that morning to attend a Jewish naming ceremony for Mike and Stacie's baby girl, Rachel. We'd never been to one before and didn't know what to expect. Stacie had written "9:30" on the emailed invite, but told me later that the actual baby naming part of the service would probably not begin before 10:30, and it was all right if we showed up then. Apparently, not everyone got that memo. When we arrived at 10:35, the inner doors to the temple were wide open and at least a third of the pews (the synagogue had formerly been a church) were filled with members of the couple's extended families and friends: parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, a half-sister, and two other girl friends of Stacie's who eventually moved back to sit with Victor and me. The service was long and almost entirely in Hebrew, with the notable exception of a tribute Stacie made to her grandfather in explaining how she chose her baby's middle name (Morgan). Once the couple's baby had received her Jewish names and been blessed by the rabbi, the three of them proceeded out into the lobby--and almost their entire contingent followed. It was about 11:40 a.m. The two other friends who'd attended made their apologies and left after the ceremony, but Victor and I decided to stick around for the reception, which we'd assumed (wrongly) would immediately follow the ceremony. Turns out the service was still going on, and would be for another 55 minutes. But in the meantime, we moved along with the family to the reception hall, where attendants were laying out piles of bagels alongside plates of egg salad, whitefish spread, cream cheese, fruit, and cookies on a long table.
By now it was after noon, and Victor and I had nothing in our stomachs but coffee and seltzer. We were starving. But we'd heard that no one could touch a morsel of the food that had been spread out on the table before us until the rabbi had blessed it. That didn't end up happening until 12:45. And, of course, just as the plastic cups were being raised to toast the food, my cell phone started vibrating. It was someone from the copy desk calling with a question about the story that had kept me in the office until almost midnight the night before. I had to sneak outside quickly since cell phone use was strictly prohibited (it was the sabbath after all) in the temple or reception hall. By the time I'd returned, the whitefish spread and the egg salad were gone and there were only "everything" bagels left. I smeared some cream cheese on one and grabbed a bunch of grapes, and Victor and I stood by the wall to eat (we'd given up our seats for the elderly and pregnant, both of which were well represented). We split soon after, giving Stacie and Mike big hugs and a gift bag with a ruffly cotton dress, a towel, and a couple sea creature finger puppets for the baby (who was upstairs with the nurse, per the pediatrician's orders to keep her away from the masses till her immune system had a chance to build itself up).
Then Victor went home and I went to the hair salon. And, well, you know the rest. Except that the make-up bag was not all I forgot. I'd left my umbrella at home too. It had been bright and sunny when we left that morning. But, you guessed it, almost as soon as I stepped out of the salon, the rain started falling and I had to run to the subway station--in heels (the ceremony was also formal). Did I mention that I was wearing a black, long-sleeved, though lacy cardigan over a matching sleeveless shirt and black pants (on Stacie's recommendation that I dress conservatively and cover my shoulders for the service)? And carrying 35 pages of notes, and a print-out of my story (on my editor's instructions, should someone have a question on the story while I was out that day)--along with a magazine, gym clothes, toiletries, daybook, and sunglasses?
This was the kind of day that tests your patience and endurance as a New Yorker. By the time I got home, I had blisters on my feet. My clothes were wet with rain and perspiration. My hair was frizzy. And my stomach was grumbling.
But it was good to be home. Victor greeted me with a kiss and a cold beer. And the A/C was on. And after I ate a burrito and showered, I slipped my feet into my padded J Crew slippers with no plans of taking them off again until I went to bed. And vowed that Sunday would be a day of rest.

In Case You Were Wondering...

2005-06-11T02:27:00.000-04:00

where I've been all week, this should give you a pretty good idea.
It's 11:27 pm on Friday night. And I am sitting at my desk at work, where I've already logged more than 52 hours this week--11.5 of them (and counting!) today--literally, sitting at this desk.
I'd love to update you on the only two events, besides the one detailed below, that I was able to escape my office long enough to attend this week. But my head feels like it's about to explode. And the story I'm actually being paid to write has gone through so many revisions tonight that I'm beginning to question whether I am able to even put a complete sentence together anymore--much less an entire blog entry.
But once I have regained my confidence and composure, or at least had a few hours of sleep, I promise to give you a proper update.

Whack-a-Mole

2005-06-06T22:33:00.000-04:00

For the past week, I have not had a drop of alcohol. No, I'm not expecting--though that was the immediate conclusion my friends drew last week when I passed up a martini for a club soda at a dinner party. I'm not pregnant, I told them, I'm pre-op.
I was finally scheduled to have my `abnormal' mole removed today, and I'd been advised to abstain for a week before. I thought that seemed a bit harsh, but I wasn't about to do anything that would give my dermatologist a reason to postpone the surgery yet again.
Instead, Victor and I decided to stock up on a couple six-packs of my favorite beers--Brooklyn Brewery's Monster Ale, an English Barleywine brew available only for six months a year; and Ommegang, a Belgian strong dark ale--so we could toast the successful surgical removal of my mole tonight.
Alas, as I learned today, the alcohol ban extends for 24 hours post-surgery as well. So writing about the beer is about all I'll be able to do with them tonight. Otherwise, we might be toasting prematurely, since alcohol apparently thins the blood (increasing the risk of post-operative bleeding and a return visit for more sutures), slows healing, and increases bruising. I was also instructed not to make any sudden moves, lift any heavy objects, or engage in any physical activity that might increase my heart rate too much or strain the stitches (located on my right side, midway between my waist and my chest)--all three of which I managed to do within minutes of leaving his office.
When I walked out the door, looked at my cell phone, and realized I had already been away from my office for nearly two hours, I instinctively picked up the pace en route to the subway station four blocks away. Before I realized it, my heart was pounding, and I had to force myself to slow to a stroll. Then, of course, I was lugging my Coach bag with me, which contained gym clothes, make-up bag, a galley of a book I had to review, an umbrella and sunglasses (both of which I'd end up using today--welcome to NY in June), among other things. I'm not sure what the weight minimum is to qualify for "heavy," but I can tell you my bag was not light. As for the `no sudden movements' rule...obviously, my dermatologist does not take the subway very often. The seats were filled when I got on the D train, so I had to hold onto a pole. And immediately, as we lurched away from the station, I was yanked back so forcefully that I nearly lost my grip on the pole. So much for stationary.
But I did take some of his advice. I've been taking it easy, and I'm on Day 8 of sobriety. With my editor's blessing, I left the office a half hour early. And I have kept my movements to a minimum since I got home, lifting my arm only to stick a burrito in the toaster oven and to type this long overdue blog entry.
The procedure itself was pretty painless. A nurse administered local anesthesia with a needle then left me alone in the room for 10 minutes with orders to relax and stay still (I nearly fell asleep). Then the surgeon came in and tried to distract me with questions about my job and my tattoo (or, rather, the remains of my tattoo) as he cut a 3/4-inch incision around the mole. I looked the other way. But I did catch a glimpse of the dissolvable 'thread' he was using to stitch my skin together after the surgery. And I felt a lump in my throat as I realized that the thread he was holding up was being sewn into my skin. Then he wove in a second set of stitches (as you probably guessed from the alcohol ban and long, detailed list of post-operative instructions, this dermatologist doesn't like to take any chances).
The entire procedure took less than 10 minutes--less time than it took the nurse to run through the post-op instructions. And, now, in just 16 and a half hours, I'll be able to toast the complete annihilation of my potentially cancerous mole. Not that I'm counting...

Babies and Busy-ness

2005-06-03T19:40:00.000-04:00

It's been a busy week again and I haven't had as much time to blog as I'd hoped to have.
But I know at least one person (and I'm sure there are thousands more who can relate) who has even less time these days to devote to her interests. Stacie has ceded control of her days to a pint-sized girl with a powerful set of lungs (and a penchant for projectile vomiting, apparently). Her nurse's tenure ended a few days ago, and it was a tearful goodbye. After the 10-day respite (a very generous gift from her family) Stacie and her husband have taken on round-the-clock child-rearing responsibilities. Though Stacie did manage to take a break long enough to email a photo of her daughter at one week old. I have a feeling such breaks will come less often once her husband goes back to work. Amazing how such a tiny little human being can have such a big impact on your life.

And Then There Were Three..

2005-05-31T20:23:00.000-04:00

Actually, there are four now, in my friend Stacie's home: she, her husband, her newborn daughter, and a live-in nurse. But as of tomorrow, the nurse will be gone. And next week, her husband will return to work. And then Stacie and her daughter will be left to fend for themselves. But Stacie is prepared. She has taken meticulous notes, documenting her daughter's eating, sleeping, and pooping habits. Rachel's room has been painted a light mauve (weeks ago, so the fumes wouldn't bother the baby) and fully furnished. Her drawers are filled with clothes sized from newborn to 6-12 months. Stacie and Mike have stocked up on stuffed animals and soft blankets, Baby Einstein audio tapes and bottles of formula.
For now, Rachel spends most of her time sleeping--in a bassinet or in the lap of one of her parents. But Stacie has vowed not to turn on the TV in front of their daughter for the next 12 months, unless it's a sports game (her husband is an avid Mets fan). And she has pledged to make sure her daughter gets outside every day, no matter what the weather, once she is old enough to do so.
There is plenty to see outside. Their two-bedroom, two-bath apartment is located in a pre-war, Tudor style building on a tree-lined street in Brooklyn. They live a few blocks from the East River. And there is a nail salon, gourmet grocery store, upscale Japanese restaurant and lounge, and--of course--a Starbucks within easy walking distance.
But the apartment is large enough that Rachel will have plenty of space inside as well to explore once she starts crawling. I actually took a wrong turn on the way to the guest bathroom, when I visited them on Saturday, and ended up at the baby's room.
I loved everything about their apartment, except for one thing. It is exactly one hour and five minutes from my apartment by subway, even though we live in the same borough. (That's because I have to go into Manhattan and then back to Brooklyn via subway. If I had a car, it would take less than half that long to get there). But I have a feeling I'll be making the trip a lot, despite the distance.

The Escalation of Rage

2005-05-27T22:37:00.000-04:00

It starts with minor annoyances at the office-a writer comes in with more changes to a story you've already edited. An interview you'd set up earlier is cancelled. You learn that your pre-cancerous mole will finally be removed a week from Monday--the only opening--at 1:50 in afternoon. Across town. Inconvenient, yes, but better than learning that your mole is cancerous (or, having to wait so long for an appointment that it becomes cancerous in the meantime). Though you're a bit disappointed to learn that this means you cannot have any alcohol or vitamins for the week before.
Then your husband calls to inform you that he's leaving work early (it is now 1:45 pm). He's kind enough to accompany you to pick up a sandwich for lunch before he takes off, and you joke about not going back to the office either. Just keep on walking and don't look back. For the first time in at least a week, the sun is shining and there are just a handful of clouds, and the temperature is in the upper-70s. You're actually warm in a sleeveless shirt and cotton jacket. And you are tempted to play hooky with him. But then you remember your purse upstairs, and the story that needs to be finished. And the phone calls and emails that need to be returned.
He kisses you goodbye at the entrance to your building. You head back upstairs to your office, and he heads down the street to the subway that will take him home. Then your friend emails to tell you she is leaving early. And another friend calls shortly after to tell you that she too has left work. And you are beginning to wonder if you and your colleagues (those that are still in the office) are the only people in Manhattan who are still working. You're getting voice mail messages when you return calls and automated "out of the office" email replies.
So you start thinking that maybe you'll be heading out soon too. You're hoping you'll get to enjoy at least a sliver of that sunshine before it slips beneath the horizon, or behind the clouds. Because there's no guarantee that it will make such a sustained appearance again this weekend. The weather reports are all predicting intermittent rain throughout the holiday weekend.
At the least, you think, you can leave by 5:30--late enough that you won't fear embarassment or reprimands. But at 5:30, as you're gathering your belongings, your editor calls to ask if you could pick up an assignment. A new hire has taken on too much and it's getting late and your editor wants to leave too. So you end up staying in your office for another hour and 15 minutes. And the sun is starting to slip in the sky. And the clouds are darkening when you finally shut down your computer and slip out of the office.
Now it's nearly 7pm. And you're carrying a double shopping bag heavy with books and a box of protein bars and a big bottle of lotion you picked up earlier. And it's still warm enough that your forehead breaks out in perspiration as you carry the bag down two sets of subway steps to the platform. You see subway lights and you hope that it's the express train you need (you can only take 2 out of 4 trains that stop here).
It is! You've parked yourself at the very front of the platform so that you'll be close to the stairway that takes you to the L-train when you exit a few stops away. But what's this? The lights are out in the front subway car--which is not unusual, just annoying since you'd hoped to finish the Esquire article on Ewan McGregor that you'd just started. But then the doors don't open either. And it takes you--and the dozen or so others who are waiting by the doors to the first car--a minute to realize that the other cars' doors are opening. So you bolt down the platform to the second car, your bag full of books banging against your leg (ouch). And just as you get to the first door to the second car, the conductor closes it. And the train sits there and you actully hear yourself say outloud, "C'mon! Open the doors!" (as you've heard many many other people yell at other times, but have never uttered yourself) and then, when the conductor doesn't, you mutter "asshole" loud enough that the woman next to you--who had also run from the first car--laughs. You can feel yourself blushing. But it's not clear whether it's from embarassment or anger. The train pulls away.
Time passes. Two more trains pull up: the B and the D. You need the A or the C. Finally--finally--a C local arrives. And as you're boarding the train, someone belatedly realizes this is her stop and nearly knocks you over trying to get off the train. More muttering (though softer this time).
It's 7:20 when you board the L train. You settle in with your magazine. You've managed to calm yourself a little with deep breathing. Also, you've been able to read more of the story, which is more about Ewan's large penis (and the author's fixation with his own shortcomings in this area and others) than the actor's personality or even his latest film (except for the occasional, and annoying, reversion to yoda speak). But before you can read any further, a woman holding a juice bottle with visibly shaking hands, starts in about how sorry she is for interrupting "all you kind people" but she just wants some money. Could you spare some? She parks herself directly in front of you and addresses the passengers. She's speaking loudly but all you can make out is "spare change" (the rest is intelligible). You feel a pang of guilt. But then you look at her. She's dressed well. She's holding a bag of food and a bottle of juice and, if she weren't asking for money, she'd look like any other commuter--but on drugs. Her voice is getting louder. And now you're just hoping she'll move to the next car, which she does eventually. But then she is immediately replaced by a woman who regularly begs for money on this train--and has yet to change her story (though she should really think about doing so). She lives in a shelter, she says, with her husband and young daughter (neither of whom could be here tonight--or any night that you've seen her). They have to leave each day to look for work. But now her husband's just gotten sick (again? you think) and they were kicked out of the shelter and she and her daughter (if she exists) must beg for food and money each day. Or some variation of the story. You've learned to tune it out--almost. You used to give her money, actually, until she kept coming back with the same story over and over again.
You pull into the station. It's 7:32. And as you step onto the stairs that will lead you above ground, steadying yourself and your bag, you realize it's just starting to rain. Shit. The umbrella is at the bottom of your bag and it requires shifting the heavy bag to your other arm and--well, it really isn't raining all that hard, you think. Now the wind picks up and it's blowing your hair in your face and there's no evidence at all that just 2 hours ago it was bright and sunny and warm.
You sigh and you start walking down the sidewalk when you spot the sign. Tied to the back of a bike that's leaning against a telephone pole is a hand-written sign on a piece of cardboard that reads: "Fueled by 100% pure, unfiltered, clean-burning rage."
You are tempted for a moment to get on that bike and see how far it can take you. But instead you laugh and you think about how close you are to your home and your husband--and the beginning of a 3-day weekend.

Against the Odds

2005-05-26T13:17:00.000-04:00

The temperature was in the upper-40s, the winds were gusting (maybe cross-field left to right), and my friend Jen and I were huddled under extra layers of clothing and a thick blanket. But the Yankees rewarded the fans who showed up with a 4-2 victory over the Detroit Tigers--the team's fourth win in five games, or 14th in its last 16. And the rain held off, amazingly, until 11 pm. Just after the game ended.
The highlight of the game--besides the warm pretzels and cold beers our husbands bought for us--was an amazing backhanded catch by shortstop Derek Jeter in the Detroit seventh. With two runners on, one run in, and only one out, Jeter chased a pop fly to center field, trampling over Robinson Cano, the rookie second baseman, while making the catch with his back to the infield. Both players lost their caps and went tumbling to the ground. And for a minute, the crowd thought Detroit had a hit. But Jeter somehow managed to hold onto the ball. The entire crowd started chanting his name and cheering. The Togers got one run that inning, but that's all they'd get.
What about Cano--who missed out on the big catch, and got trampled instead? The collision left him with a cut above the right ankle and a broken spike. But he stayed in the game. "I think I stepped on him," Jeter told the NY Times. "He's young. He's O.K. He's a kid."
He'll bounce back. Just like his team has.

Some Like it Hot

2005-05-25T17:58:00.000-04:00

And for awhile, I thought I was one of them. But then I spent a summer in Scottsdale. Arizona tourism brochures will assure you that it's a "dry heat"--so it is not as bad as, say, a summer in Baghdad (for more reasons than the weather). Still, when the thermometer climbs above 100 degrees, the air may be "dry," but you will be soaked with sweat. Not only that, but your lipstick and your favorite CD will be reduced to a molten mess should you happen to forget to remove them from the front seat for a few hours one summer day (before you invested in window tinting and a foldable metallic "shield" for your front window). Your friend's dog will literally burn his paws on the black asphalt parking lot--requiring medical treatment and the purchase of four leather booties. Hiking trails will be filled at 5 a.m. and empty by 9 a.m. Golfers will tee off when it is still dark. And outdoor misters actually spray patrons with water as they sit on the terrace of local restaurants and bars (the temperature so hot that most of the water has evaporated before it touches your skin).
I write about this now because it is unseasonably cold in New York, which has me thinking about that wonderful week in Arizona in April when the temperatures were in the 80s and I spent hours in a bikini lounging by the pool (even occasionally dipping in). But I'm not so sure I'd want to be back there now. While the cold has lingered in New York, it's prematurely hot in Arizona. As Del pointed out, this can be particularly unpleasant when your A/C is not in working order (and there's a daylong wait for a repairman). Meanwhile, back in New York, many residents were turning the heat back on this morning.
In fact, the temperature today in the city is literally HALF that in Phoenix (52 degrees right now in midtown Manhattan, and 104 in Phoenix, according to weather.com).
I'm not sure which is more uncomfortable. Though I can tell you that I am wearing boots, pants, a thick long-sleeved sweater and a jacket--and my friends and I are still planning to bring along blankets to the Yankees game tonight. And, as my husband wrote, not-so-secretly hoping that the rain will start soon and the game will be postponed. That's mostly because we do not want to end up getting soaked once we're there. But also for the Yankees' sake. As a handy little feature I discovered today on weather.com points out, the team doesn't do so well in the cold weather. The Yanks have won three times as many games on days when the temperature was above 70 than on days when it was below. The most favorable weather conditions for the New York Yankees, according to the experts at weather.com, are daytime games with temperatures between 74 and 83 and winds cross-field left to right. So not only will we be shivering in the stands, enduring 20 mph wind gusts, but the chance of rain showers tonight (60 percent) is higher than the chance that our team will win in these weather conditions. Though, of course, they've beaten the odds before.

And the winner is...

2005-05-24T01:03:00.000-04:00

First name: Rachel (What is the ethnic origin? Biblical. What does it mean? Sheep.) Middle name: Morgan. (What is the ethnic origin? Celtic. What does it mean? From the Sea.)
So, sheep from the sea?
Not quite. With parents like Mike and Stacie, she's definitely not going to be a sheep. Though they do live by the sea (well, a few blocks away).
I think the origin of Rachel they had in mind was more along the lines of the Hebrew meaning, "lamb of God" or "one with purity." (Rachel is only 47 hours old, after all). Morgan also means: bright.
Not a bad combo. A pure, bright lamb of God.
And she is.

It's a Miracle!

2005-05-23T00:31:00.000-04:00

It took more than 24 hours of labor, two additional pain medications along with the anesthesia administered through the epidural, and the threat that some of the pain medication would need to be stopped if this went on much longer (which prompted the final mind-over-muscles push that finally did the trick), but Stacie and Mike's new daughter arrived at about 11:30 pm ET on Saturday. She was three days late, which might explain why she was a bit larger than the other babies in the ward at 8 pounds 3 ounces and emerged with a full head of black hair, long fingers that were clutching her mother's hair and night shirt within hours, and neck muscles nearly strong enough already to hold her head up. One thing she did not emerge with, though, was a name. Her parents have narrowed it down to three choices, none of which I am at liberty to reveal here. But as my friends and I told Stacie today, she and Mike can't go wrong with any of the short-listed names. They're all beautiful and they all pass the playground test (e.g. they don't rhyme with anything tease-worthy).

Perspectives on Pain

2005-05-21T21:47:00.000-04:00

As I write this, my dear friend Stacie is either a mother--or damn close to becoming one. When she called me just before noon, the doctors had broken her water and given her an epidural and she was dilated and having contractions--all terms that have only become familiar to me in the last several months as I've heard them from my friends, my sister and my step sister-in-law (who just had her third!).
Apparently, the confluence of all these events indicate that Stacie's baby was about ready to come out and face the world--even if her mother just wanted a nap (she'd only gotten two hours of sleep last night). Stacie's doctor predicted she'd have a new baby within eight hours. That was seven and a half hours ago.
In the meantime, I told Stacie I'd call some of our other friends with the update while she tried to get in the last few hours of uninterrupted sleep she'll have for a long, long time.
When I called Joy to check in and let her know about Stacie's impending motherhood she sounded a bit muffled. I asked what was up. Turns out she got electrocuted at the dentist's office this morning! Q: What's worse than getting a root canal? A: Getting an electric shock to your gum when the wiring in a dental instrument misfunctions. Worse, her mouth--or at least her mood--was in such bad shape after the experience that she had to reschedule the filling she was there to get.
But hearing that Stacie was in labor, she says, helped put things in perspective. On a scale of 1 to 10--with a torture scene choreographed by Quentin Tarantino rating a 10--we agreed giving birth would rank slightly higher than an unintentional gum frying, if only because of the time element. Labor can last for several hours (more than 24 in the case of one good friend, who has actually blacked out entire hours of the experience in her memory) while an electrocution--though it carries a higher risk of death--usually lasts just a few seconds.
If the past is any indication, I should be well equipped for giving birth (though I've also learned from past experience and anecdotal evidence, that having an epidural is probably not a bad idea regardless). I seem to have a higher threshold for pain than some. A few beers and I didn't feel a thing when I got the tattoo just above my hip. The most painful part of getting a tattoo was the amount of money it cost to get it removed once I sobered up. But I endured the 10 laser treatments to remove same tattoo without any numbing cream, just a couple minutes with an ice pack beforehand (which, I'll admit, may be more reflective of my impatience to just get the damn thing off than of my tolerance for pain).
I once had surgery on my ear while I was conscious, a decision that meant enduring more than a dozen shots of local anesthesia. That was pretty unpleasant, I'll admit, but it was the tugging and snipping of my ear that really creeped me out. (I had to have some extra cartilage removed from my ear lobe and figured I'd save a few bucks by opting for local anesthesia. Note to readers: if you're going to skimp somewhere, anesthesia is not the place to do it.) Another time, I was accompanying a friend of mine to get his belly pierced. And then I decided, on the spur of the moment, to do it myself. After my friend watched me go through it, he chickened out.
But I had a relatively pain free day today. My husband, meanwhile, figures he got into at least 10 to 12 fights this afternoon. Amazingly, he walked away with hardly a scratch, though his right thumb is jammed and slightly swollen and he has bruises on his forearms and shins. That's because Victor's fights occurred at his karate dojo under the watchful eyes of an instructor, who usually stops the fights before there's any blood. Though I watched a video once with Victor called "Fighting Black Kings" that captured some training sessions at the dojo in the mid-1970s before a world tournament in Japan. In one particularly bad fight, a student took an accidental blow to the nose (punches and kicks to the front of the face are prohibited--even in full-contact fights) and started bleeding all over his once-white gi. But Victor assures me that is the exception. He is a first-degree black belt and goes to "fight class" almost every Saturday. The worst injury he's sustained in more than six years happened last summer (fortunately, a week after I added him to my health insurance) when he broke three toes during a fight--painful, yes, but the sort of injury even non-karate practitioners can get. Albeit, it sounds a lot better to say you broke your toes kicking a black-belt oppponent during a fight than kicking a jammed door, as I did my senior year in college. Trust me.

Subway Snippets

2005-05-20T14:19:00.000-04:00

The New York City subway has long been regarded as the great equalizer. Board the L train, for example, on any given weekday, and you're likely to share a car with Hasidic men sporting curls, black hats, and dark wool suits; Hispanic schoolgirls in skintight acid-wash jeans, metallic lip gloss, and high-top sneakers, smacking their gum and chattering in Spanglish; hipsters in low-slung Imitation jeans, flip flops, and CBGB tank tops grooving to their iPods; Polish women in thick-heeled pumps, polyester pants, and painted lips; and a handful of English-speaking commuters like me, in skirts and slingbacks or suits and ties, carrying a bag or briefcase and copies of the New York Times, the New Yorker or, occasionally, The Economist.
But on Tuesday, I shared the morning commute with a whole new category of rider (at least to me): the butt grabber. It was a first in my 5+ years of regular subway commutes. And initially I thought I must be imagining it. The morning trains are packed so tightly that you often end up pressed against total strangers. But when I glanced over my shoulder, this man grinned at me and on his way out at the next stop, tried to do it again! This time, I moved a little quicker. Still, I was in such shock I didn't even say anything. Though, of course, I ran through various alternative scenarios in my head for the rest of the day.
Other subway experiences are more benign, but still memorable. Last week, I shared an A train car with four well-behaved seeing eye dogs in training (two German shephards and two Golden retrievers) and their trainers, and about 20 kindergarten students on a field trip. You can only imagine the amount of love in that car. The dogs lapping up the kids' attention, the kids cooing over the dogs. The adults smiling at the interaction between the two.
The next night, Victor and I were alone in a car with two well-dressed guys, one of whom started belting out the title song from "The Neverending Story" at the top of his lungs, as his boyfriend harmonized. I might have said something, but he was a pretty decent singer. And he was having such a good time it was hard not to smile. (I might have even sung along if I could remember more of the song).

Salon and the City

2005-05-14T02:34:00.000-04:00

These days, the word salon is often associated with shampoo and color treatments, manicures and massages. But there was a time--namely, the 1920s and 30s--when the word conjured up an image of a smoky lounge filled with artists and 'intellectuals' debating the depiction of Spanish bullfighting in Hemingway's "Death in the Afternoon" or Picasso's Surrealist, Bataillean revisions of classical art.
It's the last definition that the three co-owners of a two-story space on the far west fringes of the Village hope to recapture. Housed below the Riverview Hotel (where sailors from the Titanic,once stayed after the ocean liner sunk in the Atlantic), Salon audaciously bills itself, as "a restaurant and lounge for people of social, artistic and intellectual distinction."
I'd like to think that's why I received an invitation to attend a tasting there, and later the opening. But I think it has a lot more to do with my media affiliation.
Nonetheless, I took them up on the invites, bringing my foodie friend, aka Vittles Vamp, to the three-course tasting last week. I sampled squid over chicory salad with chorizo and roasted yellow tomato sauce, and a grilled salmon entree. She had a roasted beet and goat cheese terrine salad on baby greens and a steak (if I remember correctly--I'd had a couple cocktails before the entree arrived). The bartender was serving up an array of impressive concoctions, including a lychee and champagne cocktail called the White Star, a tribute either to the company that owned the tragically-fated trans-Atlantic steamship or the pier across the street where the ship would have docked--had it not sunk en route.
We ate downstairs, in a high-backed velvet booth. After dinner, our German waiter "Fritz" set down a mille-feuilles pastry filled with a thick vanilla custard (delicious) and a round plate with three scoops of sorbet (I can only recall the watermelon flavor) surrounded by crescent-shaped cookies. Two of the three owners wandered by during dinner, asking us what we thought of the menu. The Vamp pronounced it "well done"--with the exception of the sorbet, which she said lacked the flavor apparent in the other dishes. (We later learned it was the one item on the menu not prepared by the chef--but imported from a generations-old eatery in Queens).
After dinner, we ventured upstairs to the "lounge." Velvet curtains and settees, 20-foot ceilings and 10-foot-high windows with views of...the West Side Highway. And, beyond, the Hudson. And then, New Jersey. Still, when you sat in the booths, only the tops of trucks were visible through the window, and you could almost pretend, as the sun slipped below the horizon and the lights twinkled across the river, that you were sitting in a cafe along the Seine in Paris.
An 18-foot-long mural stretched along the wall behind the bar upstairs, inspired, according to the press materials, by Otto Dix (read: transparent flapper dresses, exposed nipples, and splay-legged, big-breasted women dangling from red-faced, cigar-chomping men). We preferred to look at the Art Deco clock, which, one of the owners confided, cost just $40. Money well spent, I think--though last night, when I returned with my husband for the opening, the clock was behind by about an hour and five minutes.
Last night's official opening bash ran from "9:3o till ?" according to the invite. (Code for: no one shows up before 11 but the hosts, the band, the PR people, and media types with day jobs). My husband and I arrived before 10. The band was still warming up. There were open spots at the bar and even empty booths. We slipped into one of the velvet booths upstairs that was built for six (at least). But as the place started to fill up, we felt a bit guilty monopolizing it and found two seats at the bar. We stayed about an hour--just enough time for Victor to down three vodka drinks (a martini and two vodka tonics) and for me to sip a cocktail (White Star) and a kir (which I enjoyed, Victor, really). The drinks were free, but we tipped generously.
When we went to collect our jackets and bag, the coat check girl (who was probably a decade younger than us, and was reading an inch-thick biography of Miles Davis) asked: "Did you not have a good time?"
"We did," we assured her. "But we're married," we said, as if that explained our unwillingness to stay out late. She looked at us blankly, so I added, "And we have to go to work early in the morning."
Truth is, we were hoping to get the L train before it switched to one track at 11 pm (of course, we missed it) and to catch the last half of "The Daily Show." We did see the last two minutes of Jon Stewart's interview with Tracy Ullman, who was hysterical. But that was the closest we got last night to any celebrity sightings.

O My Darling Publishing Deal

2005-05-10T18:13:00.000-04:00

I just finished a beautiful, poignant, and thoroughly engrossing novel by Chang-Rae Lee called, "Aloft." But don't take my word for it. In fact, while I wholeheartedly agree, those adulatory adjectives actually come from reviews in The Boston Globe, USA Today, and The Baltimore Sun (and, more specifically from the jacket of the book, which also lists excerpts from an additional 17 reviews). I liked the book so much, in fact, that I'm now planning to go out and buy Lee's first and second novels "Native Speaker" and "A Gesture Life"--well, right after I finish "O My Darling," a newly published novel written by my husband's cousin, Amity Gaige. I'm not just reading it out of familial (or extended familial) obligation--my husband already bought a copy of it--but because the first two chapters she read aloud at KGB in the East Village on Sunday were actually very good (not that I should be surprised: she is a graduate of Brown University and the Iowa Writer's Workshop). Still, she says the book took her six years to write, and was turned down by several publishers before Other Press accepted it.
I'm guessing the folks at Other Press will soon be as glad as she is that they took her on. She already has a second manuscript finished. And the reviews for her debut have been good so far.
Stories like this give hope to the rest of us who plan to seek a publishing deal in the not-so-distant future (my mom and myself included). My mom went to a writing conference a couple weekends ago and said the best thing she got out of it was Mary Higgins Clark's story of how her first manuscript got forty rejections. Even her first novel was turned down by two big book publishers, before another house agreed to sign her on with a $3,000 advance. That book, "Where are the Children?" is now in its 75th printing.

A Tale of Two Cities

2005-05-08T14:44:00.000-04:00

I know I'm long overdue in sharing my Arizona adventures. But, since this blog is primarily about life in NYC, I figured I could hit two birds with one stone with a comparison of two Girls Nights Out--NYC versus Phoenix.
For my Phoenix night out, I met up with three friends--Del, Michelle, and Beth--whom I'd known when I lived in Arizona in the '90s. Del was an East Coast transplant and friend from grad school, and Michelle and Beth are both reporters and former colleagues. It'd been months since I'd seen Del or Beth, and years since I'd last seen Michelle. Since Del lives in Chandler, a suburb of Phoenix, and I was crashing at her place that night, we opted to meet at nearby Kona Grill, "a stylish Pacific Rim restaurant that attracts lively bar scenesters," according to Citysearch. Actually it's one of five Kona Grills in the Phoenix area, which posed a problem you'd rarely have in New York (unless you were meeting at a Starbucks--a friend once mistakenly told me "the Astor place location" and I spent half an hour at a Starbucks across the street from the Starbucks where she was waiting, until she called to clear up the confusion).
Similarly, I had to specify which Kona Grill we were meeting at to Beth and Michelle, which proved especially confusing because I'm not at all familiar with Chandler and at least two of the locations are in similar-sounding suburban malls or "fashion centers." I gave them each the street address (which proved meaningless, since I later learned it belonged to the mall, so Kona Grill was one of dozens of retailers or restaurants with the same address). Both of them got lost at the mall and had to call me on my cell phone for more specific directions ("southside, across from Dillards"). Apparently, mapquest had mistakenly pictured it on the other side of the massive mall.
Beth arrived first, with a new pixie-ish haircut and tiny diamond stud in her nose, which intrigued the hell out of Del. By the end of dinner, she'd nearly convinced herself, and us, that she was going to get her nose pierced that night. In the end, we opted for cherry-apple flavored tobacco instead, but I'll get to that in a bit.
I drank wine. Del sipped at a stronger drink, but only one since she was driving. (Public transportation was not an option, and neither was walking. This was Phoenix after all, the largest metropolitan area in the country by size, where it took nearly 10 years just to get approval to build a one-mile-long light rail track downtown that has yet to actually be constructed). I kept peering over my shoulder to catch the final minutes of the New Jersey Nets game on one of the large-screen TVs that hung from the bar (they lost to the Miami Heat in a second OT, 108 to 105).
Michelle called from the bar a couple minutes after Beth arrived, and I directed her by phone to our table. It's a good thing she spotted me and waved because I hardly recognized her. She'd lost 70 pounds since the last time I'd seen her during a visit to New York, and she looked about 10 years younger. I'd barely gotten over the transformation in her appearance when she shared news of another major change in her life. After 21 years of marriage and four children, she was getting a divorce! And a new tattoo.
I'd just pulled out pictures from my wedding last year, and was sharing my plans to remove the belly ring I'd had for more than six years and my efforts--eight laser treatments, so far--to try and remove the tattoo above my hip (which, incidentally, have cost me about $950 more than the tattoo itself did, but that's a different story). Not only was I the only married person at the table, but I was the only one who had not recently had, or was currently considering, any piercings or tattoos. I found myself in the strange position of cautioning Michelle, who is a decade older than me, about the permanence (or painful reversal process, at least) of tattoos. I didn't need to dissuade Del from piercing herself. By the next morning, she had changed her mind--or at least, lost the urgency--about getting her nose pierced.
In the midst of our discussions on the pros and cons of tattoos, piercings, and marriage, smoking hookah somehow came up. And we all agreed it seemed like a good idea (better than heading to the piercing parlor that night, at least). So after dinner, we drove in three separate cars to a Middle Eastern place in a strip mall in central Phoenix, where a mostly college-age clientele clad in tank tops, T-shirts and flip flops sat on chairs or cushions around two-dozen tables, taking drags of flavored tobacco from two-foot-high water pipes. We ordered a combination of cherry and apple tobacco flavors, along with rice pudding and baklava. Alcohol, fortunately, was not on the menu.
Smoking hookah, I learned, is perfectly legal in Arizona (though smoking cigarettes is now prohibited in most Phoenix bars and restaurants). So is carrying a firearm, if it is not concealed. I'd forgotten about this law, which doesn't exist in NYC, when I initially spotted a 20-something guy in tight jeans and cowboy hat with a gun strapped to a holster on his hip. At first, I thought, "I gotta stop smoking this hookah."
Even after I'd been assured I wasn't hallucinating and he wasn't breaking the law-- well, assuming he had a permit--I had to question the logic of carrying a loaded gun in a place where half the customers were clearly drunk and the other half were high on the potent tobacco blends. Then again, this is the state that nearly passed a bill allowing residents to carry loaded firearms into bars.
By midnight, all of us were having trouble keeping our eyes open and soon decided to call it a night. So, there is at least one similarity between my night out in Phoenix and last night's festivities in Manhattan. They both ended--at least for me--not long after midnight (though midnight in Phoenix was really like 3am for me, since I was still adjusting from NY time).
Last night, back in New York, six girlfriends and I took our friend Joy out to celebrate her 32nd birthday. I headed out just after 7pm, taking the subway to 8th Avenue and walking down about six blocks to meet two friends, Laura and Jen at Employees Only, a relatively new bar in the West Village that is recognizable only by the subtle "EO" on the awning and a fortune teller in the window. The three of us were scouting out a potential after-dinner spot. And this was the perfect place--at least at 7:45, when it was crowded enough to be interesting but empty enough to find a place at the bar and get the bartender's attention in less than a minute. (Even he warned us that by 10 or 11 it would be "much beezzzier"). It's located in a narrow space that's dimly lit and Art Deco-ish with walls covered in wood paneling. My friends were sitting at the curved bar, looking over the cocktail menu. The bartender, a tall, balding man with a wide smile and faint French accent who introduced himself as Duchamps, fixed Laura a lovely gin cocktail infused with lavender. I opted for a peach cocktail, made with homemade peach bitters. At $12 the drink prices seemed a bit steep, but they were well worth it. Jen sipped ours then ordered a glass of Riesling.
At 8:15 we headed over to the appropriately named Macelleria in the Meatpacking District. Much of the menu at Macelleria, which means "butcher shop" in Italian, is devoted to different cuts of steak and there's a helpful drawing of a cow at the top of the page, with its various parts marked and labeled. Laura and Cindy split a prime rib. But I ordered baby squid in black ink and split a salad with Pam. Dinner was supposed to start at 8:30 but it was 9 p.m. before the birthday girl and Stephanie arrived, complaining that their cab ride from Murray Hill had taken twice as long as expected because several blocks had been closed off for a street fair in Chelsea and the detoured traffic was at a near standstill. (The rest of us had walked or taken a subway). By the time we got the bill, we'd gone through two bottles of sangiovese, several pitchers of water, three baskets of bread, a half-dozen cappucinos and an apple struedel, tiramisu, and almond tart--in addition to the appetizers and entrees. We lingered even after the plates were cleared, talking and trading "regifts" (Amy's idea--I gave away a copy of "Life of Pi" and the galley for a Candace Bushnell book and netted a shower rack with some sweet-smelling magnolia scented soap, body lotion, shower gel, and bubble bath). By the time we finally got up to leave, the restaurant was almost empty--and so was my wallet. But the bars in the neighborhood were just starting to fill up. There was little reason to trek back to our original spot, which was several blocks away, so I promised to go back with Joy another night. She was anxious to check out the rooftop bar at the Hotel Gansevoort across the street, and two other single girlfriends agreed to join her. Citing colds (Cindy), husbands (Jen and I), age (Pam) or plain exhaustion (Laura), the rest of us headed home. I took the subway and got back to Brooklyn at 12:58, just as Johnny Knoxville was signing off as the guest host on Saturday Night Live and the midnight munchies were catching up with me. I dug into box #2 of my chocolate Panda faced cookies while Victor entertained me with Jay Z videos from the AOL Music on Demand channel. And we were both in bed by 2--well before, I'd imagine, the birthday celebrations had ended.

Record Breaking Beer

2005-05-07T20:19:00.000-04:00

While my single friends hit the bars last night, wearing halter tops and hopeful smiles, my husband and I headed home together wearing wrinkled work clothes and weary expressions. In one of those strange NY coincidences--though really not all that surprising, given we both work at magazines--our offices are located across the street from one another. The stranger coincidence was that we were both able to get out of work by 6:30 on a Friday night, a rarity for either of us, much less both. Home by 7:15, after a brief stop at a gourmet deli for a chicken wrap and three boxes of chocolate panda face cookies (I basically bought out the stock--and I'd give you the proper name, but it's written in Kanji), I headed straight for the shower to wash away any lingering residue from work. My husband, Victor, headed straight to the bar, where he removed the strangest shaped beer bottle I have ever seen and put it in the freezer to chill. The Samuel Adams Utopias "extreme" brew is distinctive not just for its packaging--it comes in a commemorative copper-colored, brew kettle-shaped bottle--but for its alcohol content and its price tag, both of which are the highest of any beer in the world. My husband got #1090 of 8,000 limited edition bottles of the 2005 re-issue Utopias at work, where it had arrived along with a folder full of press material in the hopes of a magazine mention. He brought it home ostensibly to see if it tasted good enough to write about.
So how does a $100 bottle of 25% alcohol-by-volume beer taste?
Well I'll tell you this, it does not taste like any beer I've ever had. And I like malty, high-alcohol beers like the Brooklyn Brewery's Monster Ale (11.8% ABV), Canada's Fin du Monde (9% ABV), and strong Belgian beers like Duval (8.5% ABV) and Chimay Blue (9% ABV). Utopias, according to the Samuel Adams press release, is brewed with a "fine selection of Bavarian Noble hops" and different types of malts and yeast (including, surprisingly, a variety normally used in champagne) in oak barrels aged up to 11 years. The complicated process sounded to me a little like that used for making scotch, which should have clued me in to the fact that this was no ordinary beer. That and the pungent aroma that escaped when Victor poured the honey-colored brew into the special snifter that Sam Adams had kindly provided, along with instructions to "savor slowly in a two-ounce portion." This is definitely a sipping beer. Sweeter and stronger, and more complex, than I'd imagined, it tasted like a combination of plum wine (which is too syrupy sweet for my tastes) and a good scotch. And that isn't an entirely bad thing. It's just unusual. And definitely not something you'll want to sip too fast--and not just because of the intensity of the flavors, but because you'll be smashed before you know it. After one snifter full I was stumbling around the bedroom. Three more big sips and I was in bed. Sleeping. Soundly.
So, if you plan to drop $100 in July when this bottle hits stores, a few cautionary tips: This is a beer in name only. Sip it like a cognac. Slowly. And limit yourself. Utopias has held the record in the Guinness Book of World Record for world's strongest beer since 2002 (not that I'd imagine there's a lot of competition there, when you get above 15% ABV). After the way I felt this morning, I'd say it's a pretty strong contender in the category of world's worst beer hangover too.

Blast from the Past

2005-05-05T13:40:00.000-04:00

This morning at 3:35 a.m. ET (8:35 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time), two "novelty" grenades packed with explosive powder blew up outside the 14-story building in midtown Manhattan that houses the British consulate, ripping a one-foot chunk of concrete from the planter where the explosives had been buried in dirt and shattering a plate of glass from the front door. No one was injured or killed. Had this happened four years ago, the detonation of two toy grenades in the pre-dawn hours might have been dismissed as the work of teenage pranksters. But post-9/11, the taped off area was soon swarming with FBI agents and firefighters, as well as members of the NYPD's bomb squad, counter-terrorism bureau and intelligence divisions.
The placement and timing of the blasts--in a planter in front of the British consulate offices shortly after polls opened in England--made the incident more suspicious. Nonetheless, I doubt that an errant explosion hundreds of miles away will affect the outcome of England's national election. Tony Blair is widely expected to win a historic third term as prime minister, despite dissatisfaction with his decision to support an invasion of Iraq.
I'd imagine that the explosions are the work of a British expat, or maybe just an American anti-war protester, who figured an early morning explosion would help him (or her) avoid injuries--and probably detection--but garner headlines in the U.S. and the U.K. just after polls opened.
But I admit when I first saw the headlines, I thought: "Not again." And even when I learned that the explosion had happened in the dead of night with no one around, I wondered, "Is it a practice run?" I don't think there is a single person in New York who doesn't believe the terrorists will try again. We just try to push it to the back of our minds and go about our daily lives, hoping that when the next attack occurs here, we will be lucky--again.

Vacation and Proscrastination

2005-05-04T19:59:00.000-04:00

You'd think I'd actually have more time to update my blog on vacation, but I didn't get a chance to write a single entry while I was in Arizona. This is partly because the few times I did get online, I was under pretty tight time constraints: I went with a friend (who didn't have a computer at home) to a local library one day to log on, and we got an hour limit and an annoying on-screen ticker that counted down the minutes while we surfed. And when I was staying at my dad's place(I split my time between family and friends), he and my stepmom wanted time on their PC--and with me--so I'd barely have time to check my email (and read my husband's blog, of course) before someone was tapping me on the shoulder. The more time passed, the more daunting the thought of bringing my blog up to date. So I admit to procrastinating a little bit.
Now I've got more than a week's worth of happenings to catch you up on, and about half an hour--and one interview to finish writing up--before I have to split for an event tonight (more on that tomorrow), so I'm hesitant to play catch up now. But I do promise to fill you in on all my Arizona adventures this week.. Stay tuned.

A Poetry Break

2005-04-24T23:17:00.000-04:00

Outside
the sun strains to slip through the cracks in the clouds
Inside
Victor has turned the lamp so the bulb casts its spell over me
I can close my eyes and pretend
We are back in Jamaica
My face in the sun, protected by the thinnest layer of SPF
I am drawing careless circles in the sand with my fingers
He is stroking my hair, his fingers turning pink in the sun.
He lies in the shade, still slathered with sun block.
He warns, my nose is pink. New freckles are sprinkled along my Irish cheeks.
But I just smile.
My mind is far away. My body feels light.
Like the clouds. I count them. One, two, three.
And then they are gone.

Through Good Times and Bad

2005-04-21T18:45:00.000-04:00

My best friend and I were swapping stories today about silly arguments we've had with our spouses lately. And I thought about how easily and how often we fight with those we live with and love--sometimes, just because they're there. All day long (and sometimes all night), we show our best face to the world, suppressing our frustrations or fears. So when we get home after a long day at work and all the feelings we've been suppressing all day come to the surface, we risk spilling them all over our unsuspecting spouse. Poor guy.
I'd always thought that marriage meant sharing everything. But I no longer think that sharing every thought and feeling we have with each other is necessary to have a strong, successful relationship--in fact, it may have the opposite effect. Sometimes I think back to when my husband and I started dating, how much care I took to look my best and to be in the best frame of mind when I saw him (which wasn't hard, just seeing him lifted my spirits--still does, most days). When you're married, it's a relief to be able to be yourself and not to have to worry about being at your best all the time. But I think it's important to remind ourselves of what attracted us to each other in the first place. Sometimes it's better to vent your frustrations and feelings to a journal or a therapist (this is NYC after all). And save your saner self for your spouse. Course that's easy to say today. I'm on vacation, it's sunny and springlike outside, and I'm feeling fabulous. The true test comes when the rain clouds return.

Animal Crackers

2005-04-20T14:44:00.000-04:00

They may weigh a helluva lot more than lemmings do, but apparently elephants tend to behave pretty much the same way--as evidenced by the recent escapades of a herd in Seoul, South Korea. The six elephants were being paraded outside their enclosure at the Seoul Children's Grand Park when one was startled and bolted, according to a zoo official. Five more followed "because they have the tendency to do that," the official told MSNBC. The pachyderm posse roamed the streets of the South Korean capital freely (unlike their counterparts in the north) for hours--even visiting a local restaurant--but were apprehended before reaching cliff's edge. Five were herded back to their enclosure, while one was "briefly detained at a police station." (I can only assume that was the ringleader). No word if they got a confession out of him.
And while we're on the topic of strange animal stories: here's a tip for you pet owners out there. When you enter a contest, don't use your pet's name. That's what Vancouver carpenter Kevin Strybos did, and he paid $500 for his frivolousness. That's how much he would have won had he been able to cash the winning check in the drawing at a local gas station. But since it was made out to his dog, "Mr. Jengels," his bank refused to cash it. And the gas station owner refused to write another in his name. (In Strybos's albeit meager defense, he claims he'd used the name of his miniature dachsund-pinscher cross in the drawing to avoid telemarketers. So, hey, on the bright side, at least he won't have to worry about being bothered by telemarketers--just reporters).
More on my life later.. Suffice it to say, no elephants have wandered into my neighborhood (though there was a parade of pachyderms up the streets of Manhattan one night in late March, en route to Madison Square Garden for the annual Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus show). And I don't have any pets, or winning raffle tickets (unfortunately).

Flu (or something) Times Two

2005-04-19T16:25:00.000-04:00

The weather in New York was beautiful this weekend. Sunshine, summer-like temps in the 70s. And my husband and I spent the entire weekend in bed... sleeping. I went to bed Friday morning and didn't get up until Friday night. My husband came down with the flu Friday night. We had different symptoms, but the same result: we were both feverish and too exhausted to do much but get up to take our temperature, pull back the shades, cringe at the sunshine and curse our bad timing. All weekend, we took turns taking care of each other and taking our frustrations out on each other--both of us wanting to be able to do more and angry that we could not.
I'm feeling a lot better today. And Victor is feeling, well, just good enough to drag himself to work (the bar is a bit lower for him, since--as he explains on his blog--he's on contract, not full-time, so a 'sick day' means no pay).
I'm actually off this week and next, so I can still enjoy the weather. Though I'm spending much of this week at home working on a book proposal (the project I mentioned earlier) and finishing up a story for work that's due next week, when I'll be in Arizona, where the weather is not much better than it is here. But that's a good thing.
Now that I'm free from fever and work restrictions, I'll try to update the blog more regularly.

Scotch and Cigars

2005-04-13T19:57:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I know I said that the scotch-cigar combo is best left to the boys. But I couldn't pass up the invitation last week to attend the launch party for Glenlivet's newly released 15-year-old French Oak Reserve, which was hosted by the Club Macanudo, a restaurant and cigar lounge on the Upper East Side. I did pass up the Macanudo Vintage Cabinet Selection 1997 cigar (actually, I passed it off--to my husband). But I'll admit the scotch was pretty smooth, especially watered down a bit and sipped slowly (served straight up, or "neat," it was too strong for my sensitive feminine tastebuds to be smooth).
Note: Scotch connaisseurs (and master distillers like Jim Cryle from Glenlivet, who attended the launch) stress that there is no substitute for water--not even ice--if you want to maintain the quality of the whiskey. Apparently, adding ice in lieu of lukewarm water "kills" the flavor. There are several other rules too, I'm sure, about the type of glass and the temperature of the bottle, and so on. Fortunately, the Glenlivet folks took care of all that.
In addition to the box of hand-rolled cigars, Macanudo served up a three-course dinner. Victor and I were seated between a gossip columnist for the Daily News, writers for Golf Digest and Cigar Afficionado, and a "senior brand manager" from Glenlivet, who'd driven down from Connecticut. It was an interesting mix, like the meal, which consisted of Caesar salad, champagne salmon, and warm chocolate truffles infused with--what else?--single malt scotch. The servers called it "chocolate ecstasy," and it was.
But at that point, between the scotch and the wine and the cigar smoke, I was starting to feel a little overindulgent. So I stopped at two. And we gathered ourselves and our personalized party bags and stumbled to the subway.
Thanks to the generous gifts, we can host our own cigar-scotch pairing party now. Or, at least, we could have. Each gift bag contained a large bottle of the 15-year-old scotch and a small box of cigars--most of which, my husband and his friends finished off during their weekend trip.

No Excuses

2005-04-12T21:27:00.000-04:00

I can't believe it's been more than a week. I started to write a few times at work last week, but then realized I was in such a state of frustration that I risked writing something I might later regret (it's easy to forget sometimes that I'm writing on a public website that's accessible to anyone with Internet access).
But the sun is out today, the temperatures have stayed above freezing for a week, and I've got a vacation coming up. So I'm in much better spirits now.
My husband went upstate last weekend with some of his buddies, so I spent Saturday with my girl friends. This is not a bad exercise for couples, I think. There are just some activities that are more easily enjoyed with members of the same sex. Shopping, for instance, is much better with girls. Same with brunch. But cigar smoking and scotch? Or being doused (albeit in wetsuits) by buckets of 29-degree water? I'll leave that to the men, thank you.
So while my husband and three of his friends rafted down the Indian River rapids on Saturday, I walked through the temporary "Nomadic Museum" on Pier 54 with three girl friends, checking out Gregory Colbert's haunting exhibit. "Ashes and Snow," is comprised of several photographs of Asian and African adolescents posing in prayer or provocative positions with leopards, elephants, and whales--none of the images, as we later discovered to our astonishment, the result of digital manipulation or montage.
After successfully negotiating their way through the Hudson River Gorge, my husband and his friends returned triumphantly (if a little wet) to the Bear Trap Inn to indulge in some Scotch and cigars on their porch (well, on their porch chairs in the parking lot). Meanwhile, I was soaking up the sun with my friends over mimosas and egg-white omelettes at a sidewalk table at Florent in the Meatpacking District in Manhattan. That night, as my husband and his friends knocked back beers at the Adirondack Mountain Grill, I was sipping my way through four course's worth of wine--along with a three-cheese plate with toast and fig jam, roasted chicken with stuffing and asparagus, a dried fruit platter, and chocolate souffle with Earl Grey ice cream--at my friend Laura's "wine pairing" dinner party.
Needless to say, both my husband and I woke up hung over the next morning. I finally dragged myself to the gym, then sat on the porch in the sun for awhile while I chatted away on the cordless with my friend in San Francisco and then my sister in Chicago. Meanwhile, he and his friends hiked their way up and down a trail in the Adirondacks then piled into the jeep for the four-hour ride back to the city.
By the time Victor got home, we were both sun-burnt and sleepy, but we were still eager to swap stories of our weekend adventures (if not to trade places).

For What It's Worth

2005-04-02T18:55:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry I've been remiss in my updates. It's been a very busy week at work (RIP Pope John Paul II), and I've got a couple extracurriculur projects that have been taking up a lot more of my "free" time than I'd expected (more on those soon).
A week ago, I wrote about my dinner at Plate NYC, whose name embodies one of the city's current culinary trends (serving up various sized "plates" in lieu of "appetizers" or "entrees"). On Monday, three friends and I took advantage of an even stranger trend that's popped up in the last couple of months: restaurants that let the diner decide what he/she pays for the meal.
First came Babu, a candlelit restaurant that serves Calcutta-inspired cuisine, which intentionally left the prices off its extensive and eclectic (fish, for example, comes fried with "chips" or steamed with mustard and green chilis and wrapped in a banana leaf) menu during its first few weeks. Some diners, as Rebecca Mead reported in the New Yorker, responded by paying nothing--others were overly generous (one couple paid $200, over the owner's protestations). Eventually, the prices were written onto the menu: a three-course meal with wine now comes to about $50 a head.
That's a little less than a three-course meal without wine will cost you at Wildflower--unless you dined there on a recent Monday night, when the West Village bistro let the customer decide what dinner was worth. Though not without full knowledge of what the meal would normally cost: the server printed out the prices of each item you ordered on a faux receipt, then asked you to mark down--or up--the price accordingly in the space beside it, along with reasons for the change. Wine was not included. The server also added on a 20% gratuity for herself, and tax based on regular menu prices.
In the end, each of us paid about $37 for a total of three appetizers, two entrees, and two bottles of a $32 Australian shiraz (one of which was initially omitted from our bill, then added on five minutes later by our apologetic server). Though we paid about $8 less apiece than we would have had we adhered to the prices listed, we still felt we'd overpaid a bit. The half-portion of Mac & Cheese sauteed with mushrooms and lobster meat in black truffle oil sounded fabulous, but the mushrooms were so shriveled they were barely visible, and I couldn't taste the lobster at all. The arugula salad, served with dried figs, beets, and goat cheese was good. But the Dixie Duck Quesadilla--made with swiss cheese, cumin, onion, corn, peppers, and "sassy" salsa--was a little soggy (perhaps because it was drowning in a layer of dijon mustard). My foodie friend and blogger, a.k.a. Vittles Vamp, split a steak and prosciutto-bundled asparagus with our friend, Pam. Neither were impressed. Joy and I split an ostrich entree, which tasted pretty good to me; but, as Joy pointed out, we had nothing to compare it to as neither of us had ever had ostrich before. Still, we agreed it was probably not worth the $26 price tag. At the end of the meal, we wrote as much on the comment card, then declined a free round of dessert wines (we'd already had 2 bottles of wine, after all, and were feeling a bit bad about taking free booze after our critical review of the meal). VV vowed not to come back--at least, until the chef lowered his prices. Part of the problem was that she and I had dined at a nearby spot a week earlier that was twice as good and almost half the price. Ironically, we all agreed that the best parts of the meal were those that weren't on the menu: the bread (which was warm, fluffy and glazed with butter and herbs), the wine, and the service.

Subway Suicide

2005-03-29T15:23:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-27T18:03:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-26T14:56:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-22T16:45:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-20T16:38:00.000-05:00

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!

2005-03-17T14:09:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-16T13:48:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-13T21:43:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-11T21:54:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-08T20:56:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-08T15:27:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-06T17:51:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-05T14:23:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-04T16:33:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-03T00:49:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-02T01:22:00.000-05:00

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

2005-03-01T23:26:00.000-05:00

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.

The Best-Laid Plans...

2005-02-28T23:06:00.000-05:00

My friend Mayumi and her new boyfriend, Kevin, came to New York on Thursday. She had to pitch a financial education program she developed to the New York City chapter of a national non-profit organization Friday morning, then figured she'd extend her stay through the weekend at our apartment in Williamsburg. They stayed with us until Sunday afternoon when they flew home to San Diego, missing a major snowstorm by less than 24 hours. It was Kevin's first visit to New York. And they had an ambitious agenda that included: visiting midtown monuments from the Empire State building to Rockefeller Plaza; walking along Wall Street and around Ground Zero (the site of the 9/11 attacks) on the lower tip of Manhattan; shopping in SoHo; and, of course, seeing "The Gates" in Central Park before they were dismantled yesterday. In between, Kevin said he wanted to visit all the cool neighbordhoods below 14th Street (which is just about all of them) from Little Italy to the Lower East Side (where we gnoshed on spinach, sweet potato and cherry cheese knishes at Yonah Schimmel then walked down the block to Katz's for some NY hot dogs). And that's Manhattan. We also had big plans in our borough (Brooklyn) of bar-hopping our way through Billyburg.
Here's what actually happened. On Thursday, exhausted after an overnight flight sitting across the aisle from a mother and screaming infant, Mayumi and Kevin slept until 2:30, when I called them to see when they were meeting us for "lunch." The plan had been to meet for lunch and then visit The Gates. Needless to say, the plan did not happen. Mayumi spent the rest of the day (and part of the night) on my computer perfecting her Power Point presentation for Friday's meeting. We ate slices from Sal's Pizza, which is located three blocks away from our apartment, for dinner. And drank Guinness and Brooklyn lager from the bodega on the corner.
On Friday, they hit midtown while my husband and I went to work. Then we all met at home and nearly changed our minds about going out. But we had a reservation for 8:30 at a French bistro in East Village and two other friends from school meeting us there (my husband stayed home, nursing a bad cold). On Saturday, we slept till nearly noon (our dinner had lasted more than three hours, three courses, and two bottles of wine). And didn't get out of the apartment till 2. My husband brought home bagels and lox spread for breakfast.
We skipped lunch--unless you count the jelly bellies and Swedish fish Mayumi and I picked up later during a shopping trip through the Village. Mayumi and Kevin went to see The Gates. I went to the gym and Victor went to karate. Then I met up with them at 14th Street and we walked through the Meatpacking district and the Village--bouncing from boutique to boutique, ostensibly in search of a dress for Mayumi to wear to an upcoming black tie dinner, though, in the end, she only bought a bag of jelly bellies, while I netted two necklaces, a red turtleneck sweater, and a purple and black strapless shirt with hand-embroidered flowers.
We didn't get back to the apartment until nearly 8. And it took us another two hours, and a few beers, to go out again for dinner at Plan Eat Thailand--which is mistakenly spelled "Planet" in nearly every review and guidebook (rumor has it that the restaurant owner was forced to change it to "Plan Eat" to avoid a lawsuit from a certain Planet-something restaurant chain that, believe me, would never be confused with this place, but I digress..)
Our only Brooklyn bar-hopping consisted of hopping back and forth between the bar at PlanEat Thailand and a couch where Mayumi and I had secured seats while we waited for our table (yes, even at 10:15, there was a half-hour wait).
We didn't fare much better on Sunday. My husband and I got up around 9:30 but our guests slept in another hour and a half, despite the noise we were making in the kitchen beside them (they slept on a pull-out couch in the living room), grinding and brewing the coffee, toasting a bagel and washing dishes.
It took us another three hours to leave the apartment, which left us with exactly one hour and 30 minutes to get into Manhattan, walk--briskly--through SoHo, Chinatown, Little Italy and the Lower East Side, and have brunch. Which, in the end, consisted of us standing at the counter at Yonah Schimmel scarfing down napkin-wrapped knishes then hustling down to Katz's to scarf down some hot dogs (which Mayumi and Kevin impressively managed to finish before we'd even made it from the counter to the cash register).
Sure, we missed a few items on the list of Things to Do (hell, I still haven't done all the things I want to do in NYC). But the way I figure, that just gives them one more reason to come back.

The Gates and the Numa Numa Dance

2005-02-27T19:35:00.000-05:00

"It's only the gates. A work of art of joy and beauty. We do not build messages. We do not build symbols. It's only a work of art. Nothing else."
-- Christo's wife, Jeanne-Claude

"It made my heart smile--not just my face."
-- bewtiful's "review" of the Numa Numa Dance video

"This ain't going to change the world, but...the guy has some creativity and isn't afraid to throw himself out there. Regardless of your intention, thanks man for brightening my day, if just for a moment."
-- sha987's review of the Numa Numa Dance video

Today is the last day to see The Gates before volunteers begin disassembling the 7,500 saffron-colored, fabric-draped gates that were set up just 15 days ago in Central Park. According to New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg, the large-scale installation was expected to draw "hundreds of thousands of international visitors" this month. And at least as many domestic visitors drove in for a day or flew in for a few days--as my friend, Mayumi, did last Thursday from San Diego--and walked through The Gates.
Not everyone liked The Gates. But there are few who could claim that they were not moved by the experience of walking through them. Central Park was the perfect canvas. And the fabric curtains--which really resembled orange shower curtains more than the robes of Hindu saints and Buddhist monks evoked by Jeanne-Claude's insistence on the term "saffron"--nonetheless stood out against the stark winter landscape, changing shape and shade depending on the strength of the wind and sun.
"I liked it, but where was the art?" asked Mayumi's boyfriend, after his initial pass through the southwest corner of the park.
"You were in it," I told him (though it was a legitimate question).
He'd been looking for paintings in the park initially. He didn't realize that he was walking through the canvas itself.
Another friend suggested that the $21+million could have been much better spent. What was the point of creating an art installation only to take it apart 16 days later?
Someone else asked me: "What do they mean?"
In fact, it seemed several people sought deeper meaning in the color and context of The Gates. The New York magazine art critic even remarked upon the similarity between the artists' names and a certain Biblical figure (“Christo” sounds rather like Christ, and Jeanne-Claude’s initials are J.C. The couple claim to have been born on the same day of the same year), and called the pair of artists "the Pied Pipers of art."
But the whole point of The Gates is that there is no point to putting thousands of fabric covered steel rods in a park--nor is it intended to be permanent. Though The Gates may be captured in sketches and renderings and hundreds of thousands of digital and print photographs, and in the memories of all those who were a part of it, it's existence is ephemeral--"useless and delightful in a society where everything must have a purpose and a price" (as the New York critic added). And that is what drew so many people to the Park: the shared experience; the simple joy of walking through a line of saffron curtains hanging from horseshoe-shaped gates in the middle of Central Park; the evanescent nature of the exhibit.
Those same factors might explain the strange story of Gary Brolsma's sudden rise to fame. The 19-year-old amateur videographer from New Jersey (whose day job is at a local Staples), made a brief clip of himself lip synching and dancing along to a Romanian pop song and posted it online. In less than two weeks, more than two million people had watched the homemade video--and then, in most cases, forwarded it on to several friends. And Brolsma's video was soon appearing everywhere from VH1 to the Today Show to the New York Times online.
Not everyone who watched it thought it deserved the attention it's been getting (and incidentally, according to the Times, Brolsma himself is "distraught and embarrassed" by all the attention and has stopped talking to the media). "The popularity of this video I think just goes to show how retarded people are. AnyBody [sic] could have done this video. You're just sitting in the chair singing and dancing and the video quality isn't even any good," wrote one naysayer on newgrounds.com, where the video clip first appeared, in a review that gave Brolsma a "0" out of 10.
But the vast majority of viewers seem to have enjoyed his clip--as Mayumi and her boyfriend, and my husband and I did. (We've watched it at least a dozen times, and caught ourselves humming the tune when we were out this weekend). The song itself, a Romanian pop tune called "Dragostea Din Tei," makes no sense (even with English subtitles)--nor do some of Brolsma's actions (the fake beard stroking, the double eyebrow lift). Except that they gave us a reason to laugh (and, Gary, we weren't laughing at you, but with you--for the most part, anyway). There was absolutely no point to the video--no symbol, no message. It just let us all share a smile.
Is it any wonder that Gary and the Gates have been so popular?

And the winner is...

2005-02-24T16:20:00.000-05:00

One creative clothing line, a two-hour episode, three final contenders, four semi-celebrity judges (if you include host Heidi Klum and you count Elle fashion director Nina Garcia as a celebrity), and five months of preparation later... And the flamboyant, fushia-shades-wearing Jay McCarroll, 29, was finally declared the winner of Project Runway last night. The former "porn industry worker" and vintage shop owner from tiny Lehman, Pennsylvania, wins a management contract, an apprenticeship with Banana Republic, and $100,000 to launch his own clothing line.
Jay beat out long shot Wendy Pepper, the 40-year-old "mother from a small town in Virginia" (as she kept reminding the TV audience and judges over and over again), and resident villain, who barely slid into the final three by winning the final challenge. And Kara Saun, 37, the L.A. costume designer who seemed well on her way to winning--particularly after two of the judges pronounced her clothing line "amazing" and her execution "perfect"--until Michael Kors mentioned offhandedly that her dresses were "too Gucci-like" (judge for yourself). In the end, Jay won on originality, and rightly so, with his "Stereotypes" line, which featured oversized headphones painted to match his brilliantly colored concoctions, distinctive in their detail, design and difficult construction (a hand-quilted wrap, for example, and delicate scarves woven with beads).
Can't wait for season 2! Though I might have to--assuming it happens at all. It seems that Bravo executives aren't sure who will have the rights to "Project" next year if Disney and Miramax split up as expected. So there's no guarantee that the show will go on--especially since the first season started filming last summer, and had all the cast, challenges, and prizes in place beforehand.
But it's hard to believe that Bravo would let a hit like this slip away without sequels. And this is one reality show that'd be worth repeating.

The Millionaire Mind

2005-02-23T14:15:00.000-05:00

I'm reading "Secrets of the Millionaire Mind" by a self-made, multi-millionaire named T. Harv Eker I'd never heard of before I received a review copy of his book. But I liked the title. And I always appreciate advice from people who've achieved the kind of success I want.
Plus, the timing was good. The book arrived on my desk last week, just as I was feeling completely overwhelmed from overcommitting at work. Of course, most of the pressure (as always) was self-imposed. After I read the story on mommy madness, I started thinking about all things I'd need before I was ready to start a family (namely, a higher position and salary and a lot more money in the bank). I'd wondered if I'd be able to earn (or save) enough money before I got pregnant. Or would I have to choose between spending time with my baby and having money to spend on him or her, like my friend who quit her job to stay at home then struggled to cover the costs of raising (even outfitting) her child? Would I be forced to go back to work before the baby was even old enough for daycare like several of my colleagues have? Could we afford a nanny? Or even daycare? Would we have to give up our apartment?
Then I came to a great chapter in Eker's book that addressed some of my questions. Eker argues that poor people see every situation as either/or. Rich people say, I can have both.
Now, we're not poor. We're not rich (yet) either. But I do know that I want the answer to be both, not either/or. I want to be able to have a successful career and to spend at least the first few months at home with my baby (without fear of losing income, promotion possibilities, or my sanity). And I want to have enough money to afford a decent daycare when I do choose to go back to work--or, preferably, a nanny. I want to have the freedom to be able to work at least part-time from home (or set my own hours) so the baby will spend as much time--or more--with me or my husband as she/he will with a daycare attendent or nanny.
Achieving these goals won't be easy I know. But I feel fortunate that I've still got time to make sure that I can have both a fulfilling and financially rewarding career and a family too.
If I start working harder (or smarter, at least) now, while we're still young and newly married without a mortgage or family but with plenty of time and energy to devote to making that money, I can get a lot closer to being able to answer "both" and no longer having to ask, what will I have to give up?
I may not have a lot of money (yet) to invest now, but I certainly have the time and the energy to invest. Now, I just need to figure out where to invest them for the best returns.

Through the Gates

2005-02-21T21:43:00.000-05:00

On Sunday, my stepbrother, Jay, my husband and I went to see The Gates, the Christo and Jeanne-Claude installation in Central Park. It took $20+ million and nearly 26 years for the husband and wife team to complete, and get approval for, their latest project: 7,500 free-standing, orange-painted steel "gates" with matching vinyl curtains strewn along 23 miles of walkways through the park. The effect is somewhere between surreal and superfluous.
I was a skeptic, I'll admit. I've always thought the park, whose chief architect was Frederick Law Olmsted , was distinctive in its design and hardly needed accountrement.
And when I first viewed the installation from my vantage point on a co-worker's terrace on the 17th floor, the dotted orange lines created by The Gates seemed as out of place and intrusive as traffic cones lining a hiking trail. But walking through them is an altogether different experience. You're walking through a living canvas. You become part of the art itself.
When we approached the entrance at Columbus Circle, I saw The Gates as exactly that: 7,500 "gates" of steel frames with orange flaps. But as we walked through them, the fabric changed shape and shade with the wind and setting sun, and The Gates were transformed from objects to art.
The saffron fabric flaps became waves against a grey-white sky, then flames lapping at the skeletal branches of the leafless trees that line the pathways of the park.
I thought of the way Jay depicts the landscapes he paints. The world divided into bold, broad bands of color. Triangle trees and shadowy seas. And I wondered how he would paint The Gates.
Before we'd begun our walk, Jay had presented us with one of my favorite paintings of his--a wedding gift, he said. It's his view of the ocean off the coast of Newfoundland, one of a handful of paintings he did last summer during a four-week trip to Canada he embarked on the day after our wedding.
I will hang it beside a painting of the New York skyline by my stepsister-in-law, Leanne. Now, wherever we live, I will always have a view of the ocean and of New York.

Miles to Go

2005-02-21T14:26:00.000-05:00

A quick addendum to Saturday's "Sideways" post.
There's no question that Miles is a wine geek. But I think the question raised in the Times story was an interesting one. If Miles had been drinking martinis--or malt liquor--instead of wine, would it be easier to believe he had a drinking problem?
As the Times writer points out, "Behind its veneer of glamour and sophistication, alcohol treatment professionals say, wine can be the perfect cover for alcohol dependence because many people do not associate it with alcoholic behavior, not even drinkers themselves."
Even Paul Giamatti, the actor who plays Miles, said he saw Miles as an alcoholic but didn't want it to be the "focus" of the film. I agree, it shouldn't be.
My point is only that Miles feels like a failure in so many other areas--his love life, his career, his ability to attract women. The one area in which he can compete with his best friend, Jack, is in his knowledge of wine. His best friend is a dog. And yet he gets (spoiler alert) laid and gets away with it and still gets the doting--and wealthy--wife. Meanwhile, Miles gets dumped. Gets his car wrecked. And his novel rejected. Ouch. The tragedy to me is that Jack gets laid, gets rich and gets married. While Miles is left drinking his bottle of 1961 Chateau Cheval Blanc from a plastic cup alone in a burger joint.
Of course, who's to say that Miles doesn't get the girl and the publishing deal after the credits roll? Maya does open the door to him after all. And she liked the book--even if the publishers didn't. And one weekend of binge drinking does not necessarily indicate an addiction. Though the fact that Miles stole money from his mom for booze, and drank alone and often, and to the point of total inebriation seem a pretty good indication that he might have a problem. But that problem may not be alcoholism. The problem is that he's 40-something and has nothing much to show for his life so far (at least, in his eyes), but an impressive knowledge of wine.

Rosé-Tinted Glasses

2005-02-19T23:26:00.000-05:00

"Is Wine-Soaked Film Too, Um, Rosé?" asks the New York Times, in what may be the first story on "Sideways" that asks "alcohol treatment professionals" what they think of the movie. Their conclusion, not surprisingly, is that most "Sideways" viewers (which, at this point, includes just about every American 17 or older) don't recognize that the protagonist in the road-tripping, wine-filled comedy is an alcoholic. Audiences might laugh at Miles's missteps with Maya, Merlot phobia ("If anyone orders Merlot, I'm leaving!"), and memorable--if miserable--musings ("I'm a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage").
As Roger Ebert puts it, "He's not an alcoholic, you understand; he's an oenophile, which means he can continue to pronounce French wines long after most people would be unconscious."
For recovering alcoholics and the people who treat them, though, his behavior is no laughing matter, apparantly. (Stephan Gonzalez, coordinator at an adult treatment program of the Council on Alcoholism and Drug Abuse in Santa Barbara, Calif., says in the Times story that Miles's behavior shows a lack of control that makes him, if not an outright addict, an alcohol abuser, "all under the wonderful guise of sophisticated social drinking.")
I think they've got a point. But to me, the real tragedy of Miles's life is that drinking is all he's got. As Mireya Navarro writes in the New York Times, "Miles may be all thumbs when it comes to writing and women, but when the subject is wine, he is a poet of pinot noirs and just about every other grape he meets on an alcohol-fueled road trip through the Santa Barbara wine country."
Drinking and describing wine appear to be the only things Miles is good at. So it shouldn't be much of a surprise that he does a lot of both. Whether his drinking keeps him from achieving the success he wants in his professional and personal life isn't clear. In fact, it is his love of wine that helps him find common ground (and woo) his love interest, Maya. As for his professional aspirations, alcohol seems to have been more of a balm than a barrier.
And look at Hemingway and Bukowski--both of whom Miles cites as writers he admires (or, at least, quotes). Alcohol doesn't seem to have hindered--and, in fact, may have helped--the writing careers of some of the most-esteemed writers of the last century.
Ernest Hemingway reportedly drank a quart of whiskey a day during the last 20 years of his life. And in “A Brief Life of Fitzgerald,” Matthew J. Bruccoli writes "the dominant influences on F. Scott Fitzgerald were aspiration, literature, Princeton, Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, and alcohol." (He adds: "His reputation as a drinker inspired the myth that he was an irresponsible writer; yet he was a painstaking reviser whose fiction went through layers of drafts.")
During World War II, beat poet Charles Bukowski was a skid row alcoholic. "If you are going to write, you have to have something to write about," he said. "The gods were good. They kept me on the street."
But alcohol has turned Miles instead into a 40-something man who steals from his mother to buy booze, sits alone at a bar drinking until he stumbles home half-blind, and swallows wine straight from the spit bucket. "No wonder his unpublished novel is titled The Day After Yesterday; for anyone who drinks a lot, that's what today always feels like," writes Ebert.

If I'd Known Then What I Know Now

2005-02-18T17:57:00.000-05:00

While I was at the dermatologist's office today for a barely perceptible but annoyingly itchy rash I'd developed on my legs (which turned out to be a form of dermatitis that many people get in the winter and required a change of soap, shower temps, laundry detergent, and $32 tube of cream with cortisone), I figured I'd also have him look at a mole I noticed on my stomach that's grown and changed shape recently.
I've been a little paranoid about any new moles or abnormally large freckles because my great uncle got skin cancer, and I spent a lot of time in the sun as a teenager and in the tanning salon as a 20-something. I was a bit more reckless then, and a bit less knowledgeable about the potentially deadly consequences of my sun worshipping.
In the dermatologist's office there was plenty of information, of course, about all the negative health effects of spending time in the sun--assuming you're not hiding under a hat and long-sleeved shirt or re-applying (as my husband does) SPF 45 lotion every hour.
Helpful hints like: "If you're fair-skinned, blue-eyed, freckled and have light-colored hair, you're at particularly high risk of skin cancer of all kinds, not just melanoma. Avoid overexposure to sunlight and protect your skin from sunburn and blistering. The majority of lifetime sun exposure for most people occurs before age 20."
Now you tell me.
Better late than never, I guess. Though it's not as if my mother didn't warn me--or try to--numerous times. She even left pamphlets on skin cancer (subtle, huh?) on my bed before I went to North Carolina with some friends for spring break.
I have cut back on my time in the sun now--if for no other reason because I live in a city where the sun does not appear as often. And it looks weird to be tan here in the winter--unless you're one of those New Yorkers who has the money and flexibility to split their time between Florida and New York. And I'm not. I'm a fair-skinned, blue-eyed, freckled full-time New Yorker with light hair and a scary-shaped mole, which--as it turned out--required a biopsy today.
I was hoping my dermatologist would assure me that it was harmless and nothing to worry about. But instead he agreed with me that it was an unusual shape. Two minutes later he was scraping it with a needle and instructing me to clean the site daily with alcohol and to come back in two weeks. It was only as he was leaving the examination room that he looked at my face (which must have reflected the sudden panic I was feeling) and said, "But it's probably nothing."
I hope. But it's enough to keep me from wanting to spend any more time in the sun without layers of lotion and long-sleeved shirts.
Mom would be proud.

When Less is More

2005-02-17T18:57:00.000-05:00

Victor, Sandi, Del... thank you for helping me put things in perspective.
I talked to a colleague of mine this morning (who is a few months from fatherhood himself) who said his first thought upon reading the "Mommy Madness" story was: "Get Over Yourselves!!"
And it's true, of course. We impose these ridiculous standards on ourselves. We tell ourselves (or allow marketers of expensive children's toys, books, games, clothes, furniture, etc etc. to convince us) that we have somehow failed if we don't give our children the best toys, clothes, trips, etc. But if we work ourselves to death so that we can afford to buy our chidren the latest and most expensive eletronic game or Phat Farm jacket or [fill in the blank] and send him/her to the best preschool (And is there really such a difference between public and $18,000-a-year preschools? It's preschool!) and the result is that we are utterly exhausted and unhappy and hardly have the energy to enjoy our children and our spouse... what kind of message are we passing onto our kids?
I'd bet most kids would prefer to have a happy mother (or father) who is able to find some fulfillment in their job--or through friendships or volunteering or parenting itself--and who has the energy and time, if not the millions of dollars, to spend on their children.
Of course, this is all hypothetical because I'm not even pregnant yet! But, I can speak from my observations. I've been thinking a lot about parenthood because so many of my friends are experiencing it--or will be shortly--and I'm watching them grapple with these issues.
A close college friend of mine has 2 young children already. She has a Masters degree in social work but stopped working (after cutting back to part-time during her second pregnancy) after her second daughter was born. She realized she was paying almost as much in child care as she was earning in her job. And it wasn't worth it to her.
But she and her husband still wanted to live in Manhattan and in a building with an elevator. (Ever try carrying a baby and stroller up a five-floor walk-up?) So they're in a one-bedroom apartment in a doorman building on Park Avenue--and they're sleeping in their living room (albeit behind a screen) so their kids can have the bedroom. It seems like a strange arrangement to most, I know.
If they moved to New Jersey, as they've threatened to do many times in the past year, I'm sure they would be able to afford a home with three bedrooms--and probably as many bathrooms, and a backyard as well. And probably for the same or less than they pay now for their place. But they love being in the city. While some may not understand their living arrangement (though anyone who's ever lived in Manhattan on less than $100K a year can definitely relate), it works. For them, it's a small price to pay to stay in the neighborhood they've lived in for years. And the city they call home.
And they're happy. And when it comes down to it, that's what really matters.

The Choices We Make

2005-02-16T18:28:00.000-05:00

I took the day off. After rereading yesterday's post, I figured I needed it. So it's 3:28 pm on Wednesday afternoon and I'm sitting back, eating Jelly Bellies and listening to the rain and Haydn's Symphony No. 88 in G Major, and the occasional burst of Italian from my landlady and landlord. They are standing on their back porch, surveying the rain-splotched, concrete-covered area between their home and the rear apartment we rent, a space they somehow manage to transform into a flourishing, flowering urban garden each spring.
Of course, I've already gone to the gym, run some errands, worked on my taxes, researched a book idea, emailed my editor three times, and finished up and filed my freelance piece. (And I wonder why I get stressed out?)
I'm beginning to think I've got to relearn how to relax. How have I gotten to the point where I'm having anxiety attacks about motherhood--before I'm even pregnant?!
A good friend of mine (who I hope doesn't mind me repeating her words), told me that she'd read the "mommy madness" story too--and had a completely different reaction to it. "I thought, all those women were driving themselves crazy--for what?" she wrote me in an email.
Good question, I thought. Exactly whose expectations are we trying to live up to? And why do we act as if we're in it alone when we have a husband and the support of friends and family? Why do view motherhood as something we must learn to master--as if it were a game of golf, or a challenging work assignment--rather than the amazing and predictably unpredictable experience it is? Why do we worry about preschool (as Malcolm pointed out) before our baby is even born? (Well, in part because in NYC, it is not unusual for parents to add their unborn child's name to sometimes years-long waiting lists at the handful of public preschools...then again, the fact that I've come to accept that as normal is a little worriesome).
"I've learned to take it one day at a time," my friend added, and advised me to do the same. "It's about choices."
Yes, it's hard for someone in America to complain too much about their current circumstances when we have the freedom to choose where we live/work/play, who we marry, and how we spend our money (or use our credit cards).
I could live almost anywhere (hell, I've lived in 10 different cities already). I choose to live in NYC. I could work in PR and make a lot more (and don't think I haven't been tempted). But I choose to work in journalism instead. I've even chosen, lobbied for and gotten the beat I cover. I know how fortunate I am to have the friends/husband/job/life I do. So why can't I just relax and enjoy them? Am I afraid that if I take the time to enjoy what I have already, I won't want more? That if I don't review my goals--and how to reach them--every day, I might never achieve them? Or is it just that the bar keeps getting higher?
I might be perfectly happy with my salary--if we didn't live in a city where 500-square-foot studios sell for nearly $1 million. I might be happy with my job--if I had gotten the promotion and raise I'd expected or hadn't accepted the position with the expectation that it would turn into something it hasn't. I might be happier with my apartment--if I knew I could afford to buy it now (or even fully furnish it).
My husband and I do ask ourselves sometimes: For what? For what do we stay here and struggle? Just to prove that we can? Or is it the hope that if we stay and struggle, one day we'll find success (and we'll be able to answer the "For what?" definitively)? Why don't we go somewhere else where the homes cost less and jobs come with less stress? But always, we talk ourselves back to NYC. Because we truly love this city. And it is our home. And for now, at least, it's worth the trade-offs and the struggles.
There's a passage in "Reading Lolita in Tehran" in which the author, Azar Nafisi, contemplates whether she should leave Iran. Her husband argues that they should stay. I love this country, he tells her. This is our home. They should stay as a form of resistance against an oppressive regime "to show that we are not out-maneuvered."
Besides, Azar adds as she thinks about the life they have created in Tehran, it's much harder to dismantle their world and to rebuild it somewhere else. "I guess the point is we all have to make our own choices according to our potentials and limitations," she adds.
On that day, Nafisi and her husband chose to stay. But they would leave Iran less than two years later and come to America, where she would publish a best-selling book about her life in Iran. So, in the end, both choices made sense. If she didn't move to America, she might not have been able to publish the book. But if she hadn't stayed in Tehran, she wouldn't have been able to write the book.

Adult Anxiety

2005-02-15T20:46:00.000-05:00

In episode 63 in Season 4 of "Sex and the City," Miranda convinces the newly engaged Carrie Bradshaw to try on some "bad" wedding dresses, figuring the exercise will ease her pre-wedding jitters. But when Carrie sees herself in the three-way, full-length mirror, she starts to panic and screams at Miranda to just rip the dress off her when she is unable to undo the back-length buttons fast enough. Freed from the bodice, but gasping for air and clutching the ripped wedding dress that she knows she'll never wear again (but must now pay for), Carrie notices she's broken out in hives across her chest and back. Later as she recounts the wedding dress break-out (and breakdown) over brunch with her friends, Carrie wonders why she and Aidan need to get married at all when things are "just great" as they are. "Do we really want these things or are we just programmed [to want them]?" she asks.
When I first saw that episode, I remember thinking, grow up! Do you have any idea how many women dream of finding a man like Aidan to marry? I felt no sympathy for Carrie's character, only for Aidan--since it was clear she was about to break this man's heart again (she'd done it once already when she cheated on Aidan with Big--and also managed to break up Big's marriage).
But then this afternoon, I had an anxiety attack as I was reading an excerpt of Judith Warner's new book "Perfect Madness," about the madness of motherhood, in Newsweek.
I read one mother's quote--"About once a year I just end up in tears, telling my husband 'I can't do this anymore'."--and my heart began racing. I was short of breath. Tears actually welled up in my eyes when I got to a quote from a married mother of 2, a Dartmouth grad working as part-time physician's assistant in Denver, who said motherhood was nothing like she'd imagined. "It's stressful, lonely and tiring," she said.
Now I'm not even pregnant. My husband and I haven't even celebrated our first anniversary yet. And yet, just reading an article on motherhood was enough to make me panic. Suddenly, I sympathized with Carrie's predicament. It's not that I don't want to be a parent. But I don't want to be a bad parent.
And I already have a hard time balancing my career with my social and marital obligations (or needs). Last fall, I developed a strange rash on my legs--barely perceptible (just small red bumps) but really itchy--and it seemed to flare up every time I was stressed out at work. Suddenly, in the last two days, the rash has spread to my chest and upper arms and so has the itching. Yesterday, I spent more time scratching my arms, snacking nervously on chocolate, pretzels, and soy crisps (anything I could get my hands on, really), and searching for flights to Florida (where my mom is until late April) than I did working on the 1,800-word freelance assignment that my best friend compared to a "masters thesis on child development," which is due Wednesday. And that's on top of my regular job duties. Just as I was getting down to business, I looked at the clock and realized it was 7:30 pm and Valentine's Day. And my husband was waiting at home for me with a bottle of prosecco, pizza and a box of Valentine's cookies.
So I headed home. And enjoyed a romantic candlelight dinner, trying desperately not to think about the impending work ahead or the itchy rash that now seemed to be immune to Cortisone. And it worked (especially after a couple glasses of prosecco and a couple kisses from my husband).
But today I woke up even more stressed. Fueled by five Valentine's cookies and a large cup of coffee, I finished up a draft of the story (I'll take another look after I finish this) and then went for a walk outside to experience the strangely springlike weather we got today (58 degrees and sunny). I stopped by the gym late this afternoon, where I got on the elliptical and pulled out my copy of Newsweek to read the cover story ("The Myth of the Perfect Mother"). And I realized that the sudden shortness of breath had less to do with my workout (I'm at the gym at least 5 times a week) than with lines like "Because there is right now no widespread feeling of social responsibility--for children, for families, for anyone really--and so mothers must take everything onto themselves. And because they can't humanly, take everything onto themselves, they simply go nuts."
So there we have it. I'm working my butt off to become successful enough in my career in the next 12 months that I can afford to have a baby--and to take some maternity leave without fear of losing my chances at a promotion. I'm juggling freelance assignments with my full-time job, cutting back on nights out so I can pay down my debt and put more into my Roth IRA and 401K. I'm reading parenting books and preparing (mentally) for pregnancy. I'm trying to drink less, eat better, exercise more, and cut back on caffeine. I'm devising ways to earn enough this year to pay off my credit card debt so we can qualify for a mortgage--or, at least, afford daycare. In short, I'm driving myself nuts now. And I haven't even had--or even conceived--a baby yet.
I realized when I was reading the story today that I'm not so concerned about whether we have enough money or career stablity to have a baby. I just wonder: how am I going to be able to handle a child when I can't even handle my life now?
When I'm overcome--and it's happened a few times in the last two years--I sometimes allow myself a "sick day" from work to recover (a mental health day, as my friend refers to it). But you can't take a "sick day" from motherhood.
In the SATC episode, after Carrie's recovered from the panic attack in the bridal boutique and is enjoying a romantic night out with Aidan, he suddenly suggests the pair fly to Las Vegas and tie the knot that night. Carrie demures. And it becomes clear to both that only one of them is ready to get married. "If you don't want to marry me right now, you'll never want to," says Aidan. And the next day he moves out.
Thirty episodes later, Carrie is in her late-30s and back with Big--but without a ring, a job, or any talk of marriage--much less of a family. And that is how the series ends.
But in real life, the story doesn't end when we find the love of our life. You might say that's when real life begins.

Dancing in the Dark

2005-02-12T20:09:00.000-05:00

I don't want people who want to dance, I want people who have to dance.
--George Balanchine
Dance is the hidden language of the soul, of the body
--Martha Graham

I could talk about "The Apprentice"--or about how I ate half of a broccoli roll (think rolled-up calzone) that my husband brought home Thursday night after my blog posting, despite my best intentions. But suffice it to say, I wasn't impressed with the ad campaigns that either Apprentice team came up with for a new Dove body soap (nor was Donny Deutsch, chairman/CEO of the 2.4-billion eponymous ad agency, who was asked to judge the teams' TV ads and pronounced them both "terrible"). And I wasn't impressed with my willpower--or lack of--in sticking to those federal dietary guidelines. (Did I mention I had a hot cocoa with Bailey's for "dessert"?)

But that was Thursday. And Friday was a new day and the end of a very long week at work--and I awarded myself with a long overdue night out, all dietary restrictions lifted.

My friend Laura and a friend of her's Maureen, who runs an art gallery uptown, met after work at a bar called Tom & Jerry's in Nolita for a couple rounds (we'd initially planned to start at Von on Bleecker, but it was overrun with alt-media types who'd gathered for some Gawker-sponsored drinkfest and it was nearly impossible to get a drink, so we bolted). At Tom & Jerry's, we sipped $4 glasses of pinot grigio and munched on wasabi-coated peas and slightly stale Japanese rice crackers from a bowl on the table. A little before 8 we bundled up and braved a fierce wintery wind to walk the 4 blocks to the Joyce Theater, on Mercer Street just below Houston, for the opening night of a weekend-long performance by the Rocha Dance Theater. The dance company's manager and one of its principal dancers is a woman named Christine, who dances by day and at night manages Five Front , a regular restaurant stop in Dumbo. When I was there last week for dinner with Laura and two other friends, Christine had asked if we wanted to come to the performance. It was only $15 a ticket--and that also covered wine and an array of fruit, cheese and other finger foods after the show. Not bad.

The show, "not so soft," included six pieces--two of them solos (one by Christine). The choreography reminded me a little of Mark Morris, but with a feminine touch. There were underlying themes of abuse (a solo accompanied by minimalist music interspersed with voiced over phrases like "You're my pretty baby" and "You aren't enough"), letting go of inhibitions, growing up (and apart), vanity, and isolation. The dances were beautifully choreagraphed, if a little long and occasionally repetitive (with the exception of Tiny Matters, Christine's solo which, as Laura pointed out, continued to surprise as it unfolded).

I used to be a dancer. I took ballet for 10 years and pointe for four (and have the "hammer toes" to prove it). But when it came down to the choice of spending each school day afternoon at the studio or at home (or with friends), I quit dancing. Hey, I was only a teenager. What did I know? My mother was more upset than I was, I think. She spoke of my natural dancer's arch as if it had been wasted on me (my foot naturally arches, even when it's relaxed, which, strangely enough, means I am actually more comfortable in high heels than in flats). My mother had been a serious dancer, commuting from Metuchen, N.J., into NYC for lessons. She dreamed of dancing for Balanchine but ended up choosing college instead.

So both my mom and I get a little wistful (and sometimes unduly critical) when we watch professional dancers. But I really lost myself in the dancing on Friday and tried to suspend any judgment. And I enjoyed it. After the performance, the three of us congratulated Christine, had a glass of wine and then walked over to Nolita House for dinner. Over more white wine, an orgasmic artichoke dip with warm slices of soft pita, and a warm duck salad with tomatoes and pine nuts, we debated "Sex and the City" (and concluded that Miranda was the only character who demonstrably grew over the six seasons), top Texas towns (I'm from Dallas and Maureen is from Houston, but my pick was Austin, which she dismissed as being "too hippy"), and Oscar nominees (conclusion: Don Cheadle probably deserves it most, but Leonardo DiCaprio will probably get it).

I got home after midnight. Victor was waiting up for me. He'd gone to a bar called Blue & Gold earlier to have drinks with a colleague who was moving from Esquire to Marie Claire (which is actually just 3 floors down). Our friend Marty met him there with some newly burned CDs (Jumprope and Brazillian Girls). Victor was playing the Brazillian Girls CD on my computer when I got home, and we started dancing around the room to it, twirling around in the semi-darkness (he had the overhead track lights on dim) until we both collapsed, laughing.

Diet Day 2

2005-02-10T23:47:00.000-05:00

Well, maybe I just needed a little time to adjust. I'm feeling a little better today (read: less bloated). Today's menu (a close approximation of the federal dietary guidelines, with some creative substitutions): half a protein bar, 1/4 glass of OJ, 2 bananas, sliced turkey and lettuce + tomato (hey-every veggie counts!) on 9-grain, BBQ-flavored soy crisps, vegetable crackers, black-bean burrito--and, well, I'm not sure I can explain away the chunk of white chocolate I had (so instead I'll blame my colleague, who's still) getting free chocolate in the mail for this feature she's working on).
Maybe this isn't so hard after all.
Except that it's 8:51pm and I'm hungry. Hopefully, "The Apprentice" and my husband (who should be arriving home from his senior kata class any minute) will be able to distract me.

Austin's Powers

2005-02-10T02:30:00.000-05:00

Okay, spoiler alert for anyone who missed tonight's episode of Project Runway. Wendy not only made it to the final three, she won tonight's challenge, so Nancy O'(-what-is-she-thinking?) Dell--the brown-eyed blonde co-host of Access Hollywood--is wearing her orange mini muu-muu-like top + ruffly iridescent orange chiffon micromini skirt disaster to the Grammy Awards on Sunday "with some modifications." (I can't wait to see what it actually looks like by the time she's done with it). And Austin--whose dreamy blue and lavender chiffon dress was deemed "too Oscars"--is out! (Though Nancy did ask him--after he was told he'd been cut--if he would design her dress for the Oscars). My only consolation is that he is only 23. And gracious and talented. And I have a feeling he'll have a job by the time the PR finale runs, which incidentally is not next week. In an effort to stretch out the suspense--and the suprisingly successful series--PR is instead inviting all the original competitors back to the studio in the next episode for a critique of the finalists' designs and a candid discussion about the show thus far (the teaser promises "previously unaired" moments from earlier tapings, including what appears to be a cat fight between two of the models).
But I wasn't planning to dedicate my posting to tonight's episode (though I'm apparently worked up enough about it to sit down and write this at 11:30 pm, after walking home through the rain from my friend's place in Murray Hill).
I was actually going to write about a little eating experiment I did today.
I was working on a story today about the new federal dietary guidelines, published last month, and offering suggestions for healthy food choices that fit under the recommended categories: fruits and vegetables, whole grains, low-fat dairy, small servings of fat. So I decided to see if I could follow the new guidelines myself for a day.
That meant 4.5 servings of fruits and vegetables. So I had 2 apples (gala and fuji) and two bananas, and a couple tomato slices and lettuce (on my sliced turkey sandwich--protein, check--on, yes, nine-grain bread). I ate a Kashi peanut butter granola bar (really, more of a peanut-buuter-flavored rice crispy treat--with puffed rice) and half a protein bar.
I had a handful of almond flakes, a cup of Kashi puffed wheat cereal and 2 cups of Cheerios with sliced strawberries (which appeared to have been freeze-dried, judging by appearance and taste), from boxes in my office left over from a feature I'd done earlier on cereals. I figure I got my low-fat dairy from the skim milk and vanilla creamer I poured into my coffee (one cup regular, one decaf). And that, um, small serving of fat: well, the sliced almonds qualified as a 'healthy fat,' but there was coconut in that small chunk of white chocolate I broke off of the oversized bar on our conference room table (a colleague is doing a feature on chocolate).
Oh, and then there was the small square of "no pudge" fudge brownies my friend picked up the recipe for at Weight Watchers (two points). And the glass of red wine. BUT, until I'd even gone there, I'd pretty well followed the HHS dietary guidelines to a tee (okay, there were those 3 dark chocolate Hershey's kisses and 2 packs of mini Menthos.. but they hardly count!).
So how was I feeling? I should have been feeling effin' fabulous with all those whole grains and whole fruits inside me.
But all I felt was bloated! And that was before the brownie and wine. The black slacks that hung loosely around my waist this morning were cutting a crease across my belly by this evening. And my stomach was gurgling through PR.
Okay, maybe it's just the shock of so many fruits in my system at once. But aren't bananas supposed to aid digestion? And whole wheat is supposed to be packed with fiber. I suppose it could be the fat-free vanilla creamer or chocolate--and, okay, the brownie/wine combo probably didn't help. But I walked 11 blocks between the subway and my friend's apartment and my apartment. And I still felt bloated.
I'm willing to give it another shot, and even to abstain from chocolate--for a day, at least. But all the long-term cancer/heart-disease-fighting health benefits of this diet won't amount to a hill of beans if I feel this bloated and uncomfortable each day. Actually, maybe a hill of beans is what I need.

Project Runway

2005-02-09T23:00:00.000-05:00

Another late night at work. And now (well, soon) I'm off to watch the prelude to the "Project Runway" finale at a friend's house (this is a weekly event, usually accompanied by a couple other friends and at least one bottle of wine).
I'm not just interested in the show because I fancy myself a budding fashionista (albeit, one who can name the top designers but can't afford to actually buy anything they send down the runway). This is one of the best reality shows out there. And, yes, I know that's not saying much. But I'd put it right behind Mark Burnett's creations in terms of creating characters we care about, as well as compelling drama. And three of the four designers left are truly talented (I think Wendy's style matches her personality--alternating between blah and bizarre).
It's also a chance to revel in our fabulous femininity (PR, as my friend points out, has become the new "Sex and the City" in terms of its popularity among 30-something women in NY and its accurate depiction of a certain slice of life in NYC). We usually keep a running commentary going on the characters and couture throughout the show. Meanwhile, my husband can't stand to watch the show for more than five minutes. So I'm happy to have a friend whose willing to host the weekly screenings.
Gotta get going, if I'm going to pick up some wine. Stay tuned for the recap tomorrow.

Rilke's Wisdom

2005-02-08T23:55:00.000-05:00

"Works of art are indeed always products of having been in danger, of having gone to the very end in an experience, to where man can go no further." (Rainer Maria Rilke -- from Letters)
I don't think Rilke meant danger in just the physical sense, but emotionally, spiritually, morally (that's what made Hunter S. Thompson's writing as compelling as his lifestyle was repugnant). In order to produce a real work of art--one that forces a re-examination of the views we hold--the artist (or writer) must either explore new territory, whether that be artistic or emotional or geographical, or forge a new path through familiar territory.
But it's hard not to ask: what if no one follows? Or you get lost? Or the demons you've tried to lose catch up with you? Or the ones you love get left behind?
Rilke once wrote to a struggling poet: "A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it."
He advised: "Go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take the destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside."
I told my mother a long time ago that I had a book inside me, waiting to be written. In the years since, I've left it on the shelf, untouched. I convinced myself that my book would come from outside me--from my experiences, not from my self. I think it's time I went into myself to see how deep the place is from which my words flow.

A Neighborhood Tour

2005-02-07T14:12:00.000-05:00

When I fell asleep Friday night, still feverish, after downing a mugful of apple cinnamon flavored Theraflu, the temperature outside was in the mid-20s. When I woke up Saturday morning, my fever was gone, my appetite was back--and so was the sun. And NY1, our local news channel, was forecasting temperatures that day in the mid-50s. For a moment, I felt as if I'd slept straight through winter (wouldn't that be nice?). But I still felt a little groggy. So I spent most of the day watching the sun through the window.
By Sunday, I was feeling stir crazy. Though I was still feeling a little under the weather too and had a nasty, cringe-inducing cough, I couldn't stay inside another day--at least, not on a day like Sunday (another sun-filled springlike afternoon).
I cancelled my brunch plans with friends for fear 1) that I might still be a little contagious (especially since one of the other guests was pregnant), and 2) that I might still be in need of a little rest. I have this tendency to go from 0 to 60 the moment I start perking up after an illness.
So my husband offered instead to take me on a slow cruise through the neighborhood (on foot--we do live in NYC after all). If I felt sick at any point, we would turn around.
It had been a month or so since I last walked down Bedford Avenue--the main drag through Williamsburg (at least, if you're hip, or think you're hip, and under the age of 40)--and through nearby McCarren Park. The park's main track and field, and many of the buildings that overlooked it, were under construction. There were at least four different apartment buildings in various stages of completion. And as we walked up Bedford Avenue, I noticed two new stores (a vinyl record shop and a tiny cafe) as well as several signs advertising "loft space." After we picked up bagels and lox spread and a chocolate croissant from the bagel shop near Grand Avenue, we turned back toward the BQE to walk past an earlier multi-use development I'd admired. All the floor-level retail space was leased, to a salon, a Scandanavian coffeehouse, and an art gallery. The second and third floors--reserved for residential units--appeared to be filled too. All the mailboxes had names written on them. One scruffy-haired tenant was carrying a painting under his arm up the stairs when we passed by.
I'm not surprised by all the activity. Williamsburg's giant converted loft spaces attracted waves of artists in the late 90s who had been priced out of the East Village and the Lower East Side--as well as recent college grads willing to share subdivided floor space with a dozen of their closest pals. The neighborhood is close to Manhattan (three subway stops from Union Sqaure). It's got all the amenities of an old Brooklyn neighborhood (butchers, bakeries, bodegas, a fish market and fruit stands) as well as at least a dozen new art galleries, bars and a burgeoning music scene. And it butts up to the waterfront. All "desirables" in real estate terms.
So it's not surprising that all the big NY developers--even Trump--have been staking out any unclaimed property and squeezing in as many apartments as allowed by zoning.
I just hope that we can afford to buy one of them, once we decide to stop renting.

Ode to My Mother

2005-02-05T16:35:00.000-05:00

It's funny how childhood memories can creep back into your consciousness when you've got a fever and a few hours to yourself. While I was lying under a pile of blankets on the couch yesterday, drifting in and out of sleep, I flashed back to a bout with the flu I'd had as a child in Dallas 20 years ago. I remembered how my mother set up a tray table beside my bed and left a bell on the table. If I needed her, she said, and I felt too weak to call, just ring the bell. I tried not to abuse the priviledge. But I remember ringing the bell and she would bring me tea or a steaming bowl of Campbell's chicken noodle soup and a grilled chedder cheese sandwich on wheat bread. I still get cravings for grilled cheese sandwiches and Campbell's chicken noodle soup when I'm sick (even when I don't have the appetite for anything else). I imagine it's not the food I crave so much as my mother's presence. When I was young, just knowing that she was as close as that bell was comforting.
So I called her yesterday at her home in Florida, where she's spending the winter with my stepfather, doing aerobics, taking tennis lessons, and working on a book. I didn't even have to tell her I was sick. As soon as she heard my voice, she asked "What's wrong?"
I told her how I'd come down with the flu and how my fever had reached nearly 102 degrees and the irony of not taking my own advice about getting a flu shot. She didn't give me a hard time about it; she just gave me a sympathetic ear. And though she was hundreds of miles away, just hearing her voice made me feel better.
My husband had to go straight from work to a dinner last night for karate black belts (he is a shodan, or first-degree black belt). So he didn't get home till after 11 p.m. I was dozing on the couch upstairs when he arrived. He bent over and kissed me and asked me how I was feeling. "I brought something home for you," he said.
Then he set a grocery bag down on the table beside me and pulled out a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup.

I've Got the Flu

2005-02-04T17:37:00.000-05:00

...which is ironic, since I just wrote a story last week about the surprise surplus of flu vaccine, and recommended that readers get a shot now since February is traditionally the worst month for the flu bug.
But did I take my own advice? Nope.
So, when I started getting the chills at work--and I seemed to be the only one in the office who was cold (despite my thick turtle neck)--I had a feeling it might be the flu. But I knew I was sick when we opened a box of See's chocolates at the news meeting and I wasn't even tempted. I finally forced myself to eat half a turkey sandwich at about 3. Turns out, that'd be the last thing I'd eat all day.
I went home at 5 (which is very early compared to my normal work hours) and my fever was 101.8 degrees by 7. Can't remember much more about last night. I slept through most of the NBC line-up. Though I did rouse myself enough to watch "The Apprentice" and the Magna team, who all have college degress, get their butts kicked by the Net Worth team, who don't (but do have triple the net worth of their opponents collectively, as my husband points out in his blog--hence the name). For those keeping score, that's Street Smarts 2, Book Smarts 1.
I'm a college grad (and magna), but it was still kinda nice to see the Street Smarts team wipe the cocky grins off their opponents' faces.
Then my husband made me a hot mug of cherry-flavored Theraflu and I was out cold before Jon Stewart had even finished his "Daily Show" monologue.

An Endurance Game

2005-02-02T14:59:00.000-05:00

For those who weren't sufficiently motivated or inspired by Mark Burnett's story yesterday, this is for you.
In a piece posted on MSN.com today, Kiplinger's Personal Finance shares stories of how a dozen people--from a singer to a student athlete--made their first million (italics intentional).
I was drawn immediately to the "struggling actor" story of Scott Patterson, star of the "Gilmore Girls" TV series (NOT to be confused with Scott Peterson). Not only did he have to wait 14 years for his big break, but his filmography doesn't even start until 1993--when he was 35! I have to tell you, for those who've hit that 30-year mark and wondered that the hell they're doing with their lives, stories of successful 30-something career transitions are a real source of comfort and inspiration.
Patterson started as a baseball player with big league ambitions. He pitched for several seasons in the minor leagues during the early to mid-1980s and then--success!--he was traded to our own New York Yankees...where he lasted about--oh, maybe a game or two. And then he was cut. (In a 2001 interview, he puts it this way: "It was really bad. I got to tell ya, I threw hard but I had no idea where it was going. I once delivered a pitch to the third base coach. So... you can tell I have a bad sense of direction.")
By the time he decided to start his second career--moving to New York to study acting--he was 28. He moved between NY and L.A. He got bit parts in commercials to try and pay the rent. Sometimes he had to crash with friends or sleep in his 1966 Pontiac Le Mans. "I knew I would have to really, really earn this," Patterson said in the story. "It turned out to be an endurance game."
And, in the end, he won. In 1999, he read for the part of Luke Danes, the male lead in "Gilmore Girls." And he got the role. As the show became more popular, he became more well-known and more wealthy. Now he's making enough to help pay for a new wing at a hospital in Baltimore.
Patterson's advice: "Even when you've been pounded for 20 years, don't give up. If you stay in the game long enough, you get lucky."
Fabulous. By that measure, I've only got 14 years to go until I "get lucky."

Survivor Skills

2005-02-01T22:42:00.000-05:00

Part of the appeal of living and working in New York is that the city draws such a confluence of over-achievers, creative talents, and intellectuals. Being among so many talented people who are determined to 'make it here' provides a constant source of energy, inspiration and competition. But the downside of being surrounded by so much ambition is that there is always someone else who's more wealthy, successful, famous [or insert any attribute here] than you are. And it's easy to feel discouraged in a city of super-achievers. There are plenty of examples in every profession--from fashion (Zac Posen) to finance (Zachary George)--of people who are younger than I am who have already made it big.
I confess that there are times when I wish I'd applied myself just a bit more in high school so I would've gotten into an Ivy League school. It sounds cliche, but I can tell you from experience, that having a Harvard degree definitely opens doors in this city, probably in part because so many Harvard grads occupy powerful positions here and are only too happy to hire someone else from their alma mater. Of course, an Ivy League degree isn't a prerequisite (or even a guarantee) for success. Persistence can open doors too--eventually--if you've got the patience and the confidence to keep knocking. That's why thousands of people come here each year to find their fame and fortune, and why I'm still here.
Still, sometimes you need a little reminder of how far your own personal drive can take you. So I've been reading Mark Burnett's new book "Jump In!"--a mix of anecdotes and advice drawn from his own experiences. Burnett is best-known as the creator of Survivor and The Apprentice, two of the most successful reality shows ever aired in the States. He's a multi-millionaire producer with another show on the way that's bound to be another hit, The Contender.
But when he arrived in Los Angeles from London in 1982, he had only $600 and a few years experience as a British paratrooper. He had no TV experience--he didn't even have a college degree. Burnett's first job in the U.S.? He was a nanny (and, not suprisingly, he has even been able to turn this experience into a new show, a WB sitcom called, yep, "Commando Nanny").
He went from cleaning homes and driving kids back and forth from school and soccer practice to selling insurance and then T-shirts on Venice Beach. With the money he saved, he invested in real estate and made a handsome profit, which he used to start his own marketing company. Then, on a whim, he decided to compete in the Raid, an international extreme sport/globe-trekking competition. His team placed last. But he lined up sponsors and TV coverage and the experience gave him the idea to launch the Eco-Challenge, which went on to become a top-rated show on the Discovery Channel and then the USA Networks--and led to his being asked to take an idea about throwing together a group of 'castaways' and having them compete for a prize and turn it into, yes, "Survivor."
Sure, Burnett's obviously got skills. But he didn't have any TV experience when he first pitched the idea of an Eco-Challenge show. Yet he never let the fact that he had no college degree and no experience and no family connections (his parents were both factory workers) keep him from dreaming BIG and reaching his goals.
Pretty inspiring stuff.

Self-Expression or Self-Absorption?

2005-01-31T20:06:00.000-05:00

"I don't know about blogs--sounds like reading someone's diary," my mother wrote in an emailed response to my invitation to check out my latest writing project (a.k.a. my blog).
Actually, I think that's the appeal of many blogs. It's virtual voyeurism. Blogs can also provide reassurance to readers that they're not the only ones stuggling with dirty diaper messes, dieting, haircuts from hell, etc. If you click through the blogs on Google's blogspot, as I've done a few times, you'll find bloggers from all over the world, writing (and in every language from Portugese to Punjabi) about their lives, their struggles, and their dreams. It can be pretty interesting stuff actually. For someone who loves Paris, and hasn't been there in a decade, I was fascinated to read a day-by-day account written by a friend of my husband's while he was attending business school there. His blog provided insights and observations on life in the city that I wouldn't find in a guide book. Of course, not all blogs are so interesting. But you don't have to read all blogs (nor could you, at this point, with the hundreds of thousands that exist these days). Just pick the ones that interest you. I'd be happy--honored, really--if mine made it onto your regular reading list.
Anyway, I think my mom may have been a bit turned off by the Sunday New York Times article about the growing popularity of parental blogging. "For the generation that begat reality television it seems that there is not a tale from the crib (no matter how mundane or scatological) that is unworthy of narration," writes David Hochman. "Today's parents - older, more established and socialized to voicing their emotions - may be uniquely equipped to document their children's' lives, but what they seem most likely to complain and marvel about is their own. The baby blog in many cases is an online shrine to parental self-absorption."
Ouch! So what does that make my blog? An online shrine to marital self-absorption? I'd like to think that my entries are a little less mundane (and definitely less scatological), at least, if for no other reason than the fact that I interact with a lot more people than a baby and a husband on a daily basis. And I live in New York City, which may be many things, but it is not boring.
But I'll let you be the judge. Now I'm off to meet some friends for dinner in Brooklyn Heights.

Speaking Out

2005-01-30T16:44:00.000-05:00

Well, I just sent the URL for this 'blog to my parents, sister, and great aunt and uncle (welcome!). True, this site has always been accessible to anyone who happens to stumble across it (though, with a URL like "myupsilamba"--an obscure reference to a made-up word that Nabakov uses in one of his novels--I doubt too many people are going to Google their way here).
"Violin in the Void" is an ode to Vladimir Nabakov as well. In the preface to his "Invitation to a Beheading," he compares his words to the music of a “violin” that fills the “void.” But, he also acknowledges that no matter how beautiful the writing, it can never be as perfect as the ideas it embodies.
I have been a little hesitant to spread the word about my 'blog lest I offend/bore/disappoint anyone with my postings whose opinions and feelings I really care about(not that I don't care about Victor's, but he was the one who encouraged me to start this, so there was no hiding my blog from him even if I'd wanted to). And I wanted to give myself a few weeks to get the gist of this.
I started this 'blog as a means to fulfill one of the New Year's resolutions I made for 2005: to find my literary voice. Yes, I know, I write for a living. But journalists by definition are not encouraged to insert their opinions, or their 'voice,' into their stories. It's impossible, of course, to be completely objective in our coverage. We all approach stories with our own biases. But we are taught to suppress any preconceptions or prejudices we might hold about the subjects on which we write.
Ideally, journalists are taught to learn and write about both sides of an issue and allow the reader to draw his or her own conclusions. Unfortunately, I think that over the years I have become so accustomed to suppressing my personal feelings and opinions about the subjects on which I write, that in some cases, I've discouraged myself from forming (or voicing, at least) any opinions at all. But I've come to realize that being a good journalist doesn't require that you have no personal opinions, only that you are able to maintain an open mind and to keep your personal opinions from unduly influencing the way you cover a story. I also recognize that many of the journalists I admire appear regularly on TV, espousing their own opinions. And those opinions are particularly valued because, it's assumed, they have been drawn from an immense amount of research into the subject on which, these days, reporters are considered "experts" (at least, to TV audiences). I also realize now that even the most widely acknowledged "intellectuals" like the late Susan Sontag were wrong now and then--and admitted as much. Sontag vacillated wildly over the years in her opinions on everything from politics to pop culture. And, while I strongly disagree with some of her positions, I admire her for having the courage to put her opinions out there in the public sphere (and to write intelligent, well thought-out arguments supporting them) even when she knew that many would disagree with her.
So think of this as my first tentative step into the public sphere, alone--not as a journalist, but as myself.

This Space for Sale

2005-01-29T12:19:00.000-05:00

Today, a U.S. teenager was sentenced to 18 months in prison for unleashing an Internet worm that crippled 48,000 computers in 2003. The Iraqi government claimed to have captured three top operatives of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi's terrorist network, while five U.S. soldiers were killed by bombs planted by other terrorists in Baghdad. And a third columnist admitted to being paid to promote Bush administration policies.
Mike McManus, whose column appears in about 50 newspapers (none of which I read regularly), has admitted to being paid $10,000 to train marriage counselors. Armstrong Williams, a conservative columnist and commentator was the first to admit he'd been paid $240,000 by the Department of Education to promote President Bush's No Child Left Behind law. Then Wednesday, nationally syndicated columnist Maggie Gallagher confirmed she was paid more than $21,000 to advise the Department of Health and Human Services on promoting marriage. And I'm sure we'll hear more admissions in the weeks to come.
It's no secret that publicists send `swag,' along with personal pleas, to writers and editors to try and promote their clients' products and make sure their clients are portrayed positively by the press. I've gotten everything from boxes of cereal and chocolates to body lotions to bottles of wine and vodka. But my publication has a $20 limit on what we can accept. Each December, we hold a holiday sale in our banquet room, offering higher-priced items the editorial staff has received for discounted prices. The profits are donated to charity. I've kept the occasional bottle of wine or box of chocolates, but, under no circumstances, would I--nor could I--accept money from any company or person I write about.
I find it difficult to accept the excuses and explanations Williams and the other columnists/commentators have given for taking what is essentially a bribe. He claims he's a commentator, as if that exempts him from the ethical standards that apply to journalists. But he's a columnist, and while that certainly entitles him to inject more of his personal opinions into his writing, there is a big difference between promoting your own opinions and promoting those of someone who's paying you. By accepting that money, he basically became an employee of the Department of Education, one who was hired specifically to promote the department's controversial policies. It's impossible to believe that $240,000 (an amount that is several times the average salary of a newspaper writer) wouldn't influence a columnist's coverage. If you looked back at Williams' columns or transcripts from TV appearances, I'd bet $240,000 that he stayed 'on message,' parroting whatever the president has said about the NCLB Act.
Unless Williams wants to add a "sponsored by the Department of Education" ad to the top of his column, he ought to return that money. Otherwise, he should get out of the journalism business and parlay his promotional skills into a more lucrative--and more honest--PR job.
It's ironic that he got that money from the Department of Education because his one-sided portrayal of the policies doesn't do much to educate the public about the pros and cons of the administration's education policies. A good teacher--and an honest journalist--offers all sides of an argument and lets the student (or reader) draw their own conclusions. By accepting the bribe, and by refusing to acknowledge the payment for months (and even after the admission, demuring when asked if it might present a conflict of interest), Williams has lost his credibility and perhaps his audience. Let's hope he's learned his lesson.

So How Long Have You Been a Trapeze Artist?

2005-01-28T02:19:00.000-05:00

That's the latest addition to my "Top Ten Lines Overheard on the L Train" list. Overheard it tonight on my way home. Unfortunately, I couldn't make out the woman's answer. But, of course, the 20-something hipster couple got off the train at Bedford Avenue, the first stop in Williamsburg--and, as Victor pointed out when I told him about the trapeze line, the closest stop to Galapagos: "art, music, dance, theater and performance space, gallery and bar" and host of the famous "Galapagos Floating Vaudeville Night Tango on a trapeze".
Only in Williamsburg.
Me? I was on my way home from a dinner and a movie with my married friend Jen. We'd seen "Ray," the Ray Charles bio-pic. It was good, but dragged on a bit too long, particularly since we'd skipped dinner to catch the 6:40 show. Then we had pseudo-panini sandwiches and tea at a Cosi down the street (I was feeling too cold, hungry, and cheap to venture much further). And I was home by 10:45 pm. And sober--unlike just about everyone else as on the L train with me.

I Have Seven Minutes to Write This

2005-01-26T04:53:00.000-05:00

Before I have to do an interview for work. But I think this will be a good test of my typing skills (and ability to come up with something good to write about, quickly). So, here's what's going on in NYC, or in my head at least, today.
It's damn cold (and dropping to 15 degrees tonight). There are still piles of dirty snow on the streets and sidewalks. And I was late to work because the subway line I usually take is operating at a fraction of its normal capacity thanks to a homeless man's attempts to keep warm by lighting a fire in--of all places--a subway signal-relay room built during the Depression and apparently not upgraded since. Needless to say the fire knocked out SIX HUNDRED relay signals, and service on the C train for at least 6-9 months. And the A "express" train that I can also take to work will only be operating at one-third its normal capacity for at least the next week or two. Initially, the MTA said it would take three to five YEARS to get the A and C trains back in service. But, after the dailies called for the resignation of both the head of the MTA (Lawrence Reuter) and Mayor Mike Bloomberg in ensuing editorials, the MTA, um, re-assessed the timeline.
Still, it's pretty scary to think that a single room that controls at least two major subway lines used by nearly 600,000 people daily could be entered--and destroyed--that easily. If a homeless man who was only seeking solace from the frigid temps outside can do that much damage unintentionally, just think what a terrorist seeking to wreak some real havoc could do.
Oops -- outta time..