the bigness of some people (lyn)

16 Handles is a zoo today.  I get there just as school is letting out.  The place is overrun with young kids and their nannies or mothers.  I fill my up my small cup, and find the one available seat on a very crowded wall bench.  People leave and other people come.  Soon I am sitting with no one on either side of me. 

A young family comes in.  Four of them.  Two sit on the cubes in front of the wall bench, and the other two, including the mom, try to squeeze into the space to my right.  The matriarch is clearly not going to fit unless I move, though she doesn’t ask me to.  She begins to sit down.  I slide over, or she'd be in my lap.  She ignores my gesture.  She is wearing big jewelry; she is talking loudly (at first I thought she was on a cell);  and she gestures grandly.  More than once her elbow is inches from my face.  She takes up twice the space she needs.  She is slightly overweight, but her bigness has nothing to do with pounds.

At least I don’t have to wait until the plane lands.  I finish my sorbet and leave.

our calls (lyn)

I speak to Alexander every day.  Zelia thinks it’s too much.  She says I’m in denial.  I don’t think so.  I love hearing his voice. 

He calls me often, but our conversations are brief, and never about his missing me.  In fact, when I ask him, he admits that he doesn’t miss me at all.  I actually am glad, as it means he is happy.

The reason he calls is never just to talk.  It’s usually to answer an important question, like:

• Can I put my terry cloth bathrobe in the washing machine?
• I’m applying to a club that helps people in Ghana; there is no specific person to write to.  How do I address it? 
• Can I buy new speakers for my computer and will you pay for it?
• I need to return a book that cost $200 and I lost the receipt.  What do I do?
• Can you send me my poker chips?
• Can I buy a bike?
• Can I change my meal plan if I want to? 

Although sometimes Alexander will call just to tell me things he must think I'd like to know, like:

• I'm trying out for the rugby club.   I mean really, could he possibly find a more injury-prone sport?  Fortunately, he changed his mind; or
• Did you know that Cornell is ranked 13th as the top party school in The US.  The only other top ranked school is Duke, and they came in 20th.  Such thrilling news!

When I ask Alexander a question regarding his having to do something, his immediate response is always, “I have to go now.  Love you.  Bye.”

There is one subject, though, where I have gotten answers: the food.  This is what I've learned:

• It’s very good. 
• I like using Big Red Bucks to buy food; it's better than the food at the cafeterias.
• I  go to Collegetown Bagels almost every day.
• I usually have a few handfuls of Special-K cereal for breakfast (it’s in his room, and no, he doesn’t need a bowl or silverware; I asked).

Without Alexander, I fear I am eating more.  Our conversations were filling. 

a nice, non-eventful day (lyn)

The thing about food is that you can never really escape it.  Temptation is everywhere.  And even after one year of being at my desired weight, I am acutely aware of what I put in my mouth.  I don’t like when the scale tips above 121 point anything.  Today I’m at 122.2.

It’s a humid, sunny day.  Shari and I spend it walking around the west side.  I meet her around 12:30, having eaten only a 100-calorie bagel with lox and cream cheese and a cut up peach. I’m thinking this will hold me until dinner.  It doesn’t. 

We walk through the park and end up at Loehmann’s--- for almost three hours.  I feel compelled to buy something after so much time looking, and settle on two Michael Starr white tops…down from $60 and $57 to $14.99 each.  The cotton is lightweight and comfortable; I see myself living in both of them.   

Next we walk over to the Sunday Flea Market at 76^th and Columbus; it’s been there for at least 15 years, maybe longer.  Shari becomes fixated on the antique jewelry and we are there for an hour.  I get restless and hungry and see only non-snacking foods for sale. Pickles, olive oil, and some kind of strawberry and nut preserve.  As Shari continues her quest for a vintage necklace, I see a man selling fruit on a stick, dipped in dark chocolate.  I choose mango over the other choices of banana and kiwi (which I imagine to be miniscule).  Not only is it delicious, but it's only 100 calories.  Maybe it's worth the $4 it costs.

We make one last stop, Zabars.  It’s been months since I’ve had Schick’s 7-layer cake.  I buy one.  By now I’m sticky and hot and don’t want the chocolate on the 7-layer cake to melt, so we take the bus home, instead of walking back through the park. 

I have sushi again for dinner and then meet Zelia and Victoria for dessert at 16 Handles.  I’ll save the cake for a lighter eating day.

a change in plans (lyn)

I email Jill about getting together tonight and seeing a movie.  She’s free, but says there is no movie worth seeing.  I email her back with a list of seven movies, and she likes all my choices.  We decide to see Point Blank at a theater in the Village.  I check the times, and write back:  "We could go to the 5:20 (meet at theater at 5:10) and have dinner after."  She writes back, “Bingo!”  I love an easy plan.

We meet on schedule.  I arrive a few minutes after Jill and see her in conversation with the ticket taker.  They are discussing the schedule.  The movie we had come to see is playing at 3pm and 9:20pm.  Not at 5:20, as the New York Times had listed.

I google “movies playing 10003” and we decide to see The Debt at 7:15 instead.  We have two hours to kill so now we’ll eat before the movie vs. after.  I had imagined an inexpensive healthy dinner.  Only the first adjective of what I had imagined is realized.

We go to L’Express, a French bistro not far from the theater.  My brain tells me to order the nicoise salad but my stomach can’t resist the burger and fries with blue cheese.  The fries, while good, are not of the quality I’d expect from the French. 

As always with Jill, the conversation never lags, and while we are waiting for the bill, she tells me a story that delays our leaving the restaurant by a half hour. 

The movie is entertaining enough, despite its many improbable twists.  I walk the almost four miles home and feel slightly less guilty about dinner.

when it's worth it to pay more (lyn)

M and I are discussing the made-to order Fendi bags as she’s considering one too.   “I don’t get it, “ she says.  “If all the selleria bags are handmade anyways, why would there be a 38% upcharge just to have a different color leather?”  Good question.  I will pursue it.

I call Fendi and John answers.  He speaks politely with a sophisticated British accent.  He's made-to-order for his job.  I ask him about the upcharge.

John:  Well, ma’am, the bags are all handmade.

Me:  I know they are.  But they are all handmade even if I don’t custom order a particular color.

John: Yes, ma’am, but this way, you’ll have your own Fendi bag that no one else has.

Me:  Well that’s not really true.  I mean, someone else could order the same color I’ve ordered, couldn’t they?

John:  Well, yes, I suppose they could.

Me:  And besides, I hardly see anyone anyways with the small messenger bag.  And even if I did, it wouldn’t bother me in the least.

John:  Ma’am, we sell exotic animal skin bags that cost $36,000.  People buy these because they are one of a kind.

Me:  Well, John, I think it would be ridiculous to spend that much on a bag, regardless of how much money you have.  (And besides, I think but don’t say, as I’m sure I have already aggravated John enough, if they are all custom made anyway, by definition every bag is one-of-a-kind).

This morning I go to the Farmer’s Market.  Their fresh, one-of-a-kind corn is more than I’d pay at D’Agastino’s.  That upcharge is worth it.  I buy four ears.

lunch with the aunties (m)

The aunties call.  They are concerned about me.  "We read about your friend, Anne, in the Habituary page," which, given their daily obsession with this section of the newspaper, makes perfect sense they should call it that.

I tell them I can take them to lunch but have a narrow window of time given I have to run an errand and then take Harrison to an appointment.

"That's okay, we'll come with you on your errand.  We just want to spend time with you."

This ought to be a pisser.  My errand is that I have to return a tent to Costco.  You remember the tent.  I bought it in 2009.  We only used it twice.  Once at Sam's college baseball game and once at my home for my brother's 40th wedding anniversary.  It rained overnight that evening and the heavy rains bent the frame.

I first called Costco to make sure I could return the tent with no receipt.  They of course wanted to know how the frame got bent.  When I told them they told me I should not have had the tent in the rain.

Did you catch that?  I should not have had the TENT in the RAIN.

Then you should advertise it as a shade tent for sunny days only, I said.

They told me to bring it in.

Aunt Y cannot walk far, even with her walker.  It took forever to get from our handicapped spot next to the door to the person checking i.d.s.

Aunt Y stops at the first display and pretends to be interested, buying much-needed recovery time to catch her breath.  I know this because the display was for Lucky jeans.

I spot a wheelchair next to Customer Service.  I ask if we may borrow it.  "Of course, that's what it's there for!" the perky greeter says.

I plop Aunt Y down in the chair and off we go.  It's a whole new ballgame.

I don't think Aunt Y was been in a store in years.  She wants to see everything.  We go up and down every aisle, marveling at the new gadgets for the home, patio, etc.

Then we get to the food section.  Samples galore.  Chicken salad, lobster spread, salmon, popcorn chicken (regular and bourbon flavor), all beef hot dogs, Naan bread with melted Provolone cheese (a weird, but successful fusion of India and Italy), Tyson chicken sandwiches, granola with milk, cashew nut clusters, Pretzel chips, David's Cheesecake, Fuze strawberry-flavored drink.  And more.  She has at least one of everything and two of some things (bourbon popcorn chicken was a hit).  I look down at her.   She's a mess, crumbs everywhere.

Aunt X sees us and rolls her eyes.  "Y...you are not supposed to be eating that stuff.  You will spoil your lunch."

"What lunch?" she says.  "I'm full!"

And yes, I got a cash refund for the tent.

a royal farewell to Anne (m)

When my friend Anne ("A") was diagnosed with cancer just over two years ago, she used to talk about her death in a somewhat glib way.  One summer evening in 2009 in Kennebunkport, we went to a nice shoe store after a wonderful dinner and Anne bought three pairs of pretty sandals.  "Put them in my coffin so I can take them with me," she said and laughed.

She envisioned a big, beautiful funeral.  "Big ass.  I want a huge funeral," is how she put it.

Well, she got her wish. 

The wake on Tuesday night was enormous.  At least 2,000 people.  If you don't believe me, ask my husband--the master of understatement.  He came up with the estimate.   The line to get into the funeral parlor was two hours deep from 2:30 p.m. until 8:30 p.m.  The cops managing the traffic were exhausted. 

The flowers were abundant and gorgeous despite the "in lieu of flowers" instructions to us all.  Anne liked flowers.  Anne got flowers.

The family ran a video of her life with photos of her with family and friends.  No matter what time period they chose or what the fashions were at the time, she looked beautiful.  I made a mental note to myself to start pulling photos of me --for when my time comes-- that would not be hideous.  It will be a short video.

The funeral on Wednesday was the like something out of a royal palace protocol book.  Bagpipe players honoring her Scottish/Irish heritage.  Four musicians and a soloist.  Standing room only.  Three busloads of boys from her younger son's class and football team.  Alumni from all over the country from her eldest son's prep school (Sam's class) and fraternity brothers from his college.  An exquisite eulogy by her brother-in-law who touched upon all the key themes and graciously thanked the doctors, friends, and hospice workers.  People dressed up big time for this sad occasion.

I wore a Steve Fabrikant knit dress that I bought in the Wrentham outlets' Off Fifth store five years ago.  It was $750 marked down to $149.  It didn't fit by a mile when I bought it but I loved the dress and stored it in my closet.  I had never worn it.  I tried it on and asked my husband--the master of understatement--how it looked.  "Good. No wait.  You look terrific, in fact." 

I guess the dress and I were waiting for a momentous occasion.  I wanted to look my very best for Anne.

The funeral procession took us up a beautiful hill to a brand-new cemetery that looked like a gorgeous field in the English countryside.  No headstones (only footers), stone gates and stone walls.   Even the weather was perfect.  Sunny, dry, not a cloud in the sky.

There, in a particularly beautiful spot, my friend was laid to rest. 

We all cried like babies.  Even the boys cried and hugged each other and their parents.  It was an outpouring of love for one of my all-time favorite people.

A group of us made a pact to come back to Anne's grave in the Fall and have a visit with her and give her "the scoop" about what's going on in our lives.  She loved hearing "the scoop" as she called it.  We will bring a picnic lunch and share our stories with her.  She will hear us, I'm convinced.

Anne's husband held a luncheon reception at their country club.  It was incredibly generous of him given 500 people showed up for it.

I visited with lots of friends and acquaintances and then went home.

I took to my bed at 4:30, exhausted by grief.

I miss her so much.