The Irony of It

Who doesn't appreciate dramatic irony? It makes you feel smart, smarter than the person who experiences it. But you're probably not.

One of my favorite activities is dramatic ironing. This is a joke my friend created years ago. Now I actually do dramatic ironing because I live on the 31st floor with a fantastic view to the east. It makes ironing tolerable.

On the subject of irons, my son Mark shocked us last night when he said: I have to stop at Columbia to get my iron. Marty and I went slack-jawed. What had happened to our son? He didn't pick up on our shock and just said: yeah, I need my iron pills or I risk becoming anemic again.

This isn't an example of irony. It's an example of the English language not having enough words to express numerous meanings. While it's true that irons used to be made out of iron and that iron is Latin for "ferrum" (hence the element FE), we briefly had serious doubts about our number one son who has never touched an iron in his life.

Soap Opera

One of my embarrassing little secrets is that I watch a soap opera every day, The Young and the Restless. I've been watching it since 1989, a year after my daughter was born. I'd watch the news at noon, and then what-ho! I unintentionally caught a bit of the show. I became addicted. I've watched it on and off ever since.

The reason I always give to people I reveal this to, is that I'm fascinated by the story and plot lines, how they are woven together in Dickensian fashion and how the situations although they might seem unbelievable, are extremely close to what happens in life. In my life anyway.

Here's a little story.

Her parents divorce when she's 6 and she never sees her father again. He is presumed dead, having fought his demons in a Veterans hospital, but not before remarrying and having more children. Her mother dies young, reiterating the story of her first husband and his untimely death, shortly before expiring. The young woman is now an orphan. Her brother, who has been searching death records all over the country, finally discovers the Internet is a much better place to find people, dead or alive.

It turns out that their father is alive and well and living in New York City. Her brother contacts and sees their father. She, now middle-aged, does not. She decides she has no relationship with him other than biological, and she isn't in the market for a dad. She does have an idea for a novel, and he's in it, so puts meeting him some day (to pick his brain) in the "possible" file.

The other day, the woman calls her brother, mainly to catch up on what's happened since they last saw each other. The she mentions their father. "You know he works as a concierge in a building near you," her brother said. "And he lives even closer."

The fickle finger of fate is pointing to a denouement that involves sheer luck--he opens a door for her at the building where he works, or she sees him in a neighborhood store--or a conscious effort to contact him.

She walks by the building where he works but if he's on duty, he remains inside unseen. She passes by where he lives but keeps walking.

The next day, she writes him a brief note suggesting they get together for coffee in the New Year. She includes her cell phone number.

How will this all end? In a soap opera, the writers like to keep their options open. I admit that some of their machinations are ludicrous. The writer of this story will keep her options open, for now.

3 Book Reviews

1Q84

Haruki Murakami’s latest book has an alluring cover. On one side, the closely-cropped face of Aomame stares at you; on the other is the similarly cropped face of Tengo.

The clever title plays with the year 1984, the “Q” in Japanese meaning the number “9.” Silly me, I first thought the book was about a person with a low I.Q. 1984 and 1Q84 represent two different worlds, the “actual” world and the world that has two moons. In 1Q84, Big Brother is watching you in ways you could never imagine.

Aomame is a killer hired by a shadowy dowager, at first to give her stretching lessons and then to kill men known to be wife-beaters. Aomame’s not a beautiful woman and she’s extremely shy, but she’s sexy and knows how to use her body to attract men. The love of her life is Tengo, a boy she briefly knew in elementary school. Tengo is brilliant, but is working at a low-level job at a “cram” school, a place students study to be able to get into better colleges. His real passion, however, is writing novels. An editor he knows gets him to agree to re-write a bizarre novel titled Air Chrysalis, written by a 17-year old girl. The novel wins a newcomer’s prize, and things go downhill from there.

Leader, Little People, dead goats, child rape and two moons are all part of 1Q84. Truthfully, I found this part of the novel dull. The love story of Aomame and Tengo is nicely done, if you can wrap your mind around pregnancy without sex.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

Interestingly, I read Murakami’s book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running in the middle of reading 1Q84. Murakami wrote this book prior to 1Q84 and there are hints of the novel in his memoir about running. In the memoir, Murakami writes about how running informs his fiction. Personally, as a writer who runs (although not at his level), this short book was a revelation to me, about one of my favorite writers and also about myself. In the book, he writes about his love for Raymond Chandler, who Murakami translated into Japanese. I went to the library and checked out a four-book series by Chandler. I read three-quarters of The Big Sleep but was bored by Philip Marlowe and his detective work. Maybe I’m just not a mystery reader. Mysteries, even when well written tend to give me a headache.

A Judgement in Stone

I picked up this little gem at the Crothers’ house in New Hampshire. Ruth Rendell, whom I’d confused with Ruth Reichel, the food writer, is a baroness who’s written literary mysteries for 45 years.

Didn’t I just say mysteries gave me a headache? Judgement (English book, English spelling) isn’t really a mystery, more a psychological thriller in which the reader knows more about what’s happened than the police. A monstrous woman, Eunice, who can’t bear the idea that anyone would know she was illiterate, will do anything to guard her secret. She murders her father, blackmails “friends,” and murders her employers and their children, the latter with no affect. Eunice is unloved and unloving—as cold as they come. The upper middle class family she murders, with the aid and encouragement of her lunatic, religious fanatic acquaintance, are pillars of the community. Ms. Rendell is wise to paint them in broad strokes that discourage the reader from becoming attached to them, but her intermittent reminders about the Valentine’s Day Massacre keeps one on edge from beginning to end.

I look forward to reading more Ruth Rendell when I finish yet another mystery plucked from the Crothers archive.

Turbo May 27, 1996 - December 1, 2011

Turbo, who was still turning heads until earlier this week, has died. He was our longest-lived Bouvier at 14 and a half. A master of many lifestyles, he was bi-lingual and engaging in the extreme.

Born in Costa Rica to Manolo and Lara, Turbo had a sister, Tica, and four brothers. They all pre-deceased him. His half sister Asta (by Manolo), was Turbo’s constant companion for 12 years. Turbo was very depressed when she died 2 years ago.

Turbo was a light gray brindle color with cropped ears and tail. He loved to smile, and had all his teeth until he died, even though we never had them cleaned. Except for other Bouviers of his acquaintance, he didn’t care for other dogs. When it came to interacting with people, however, he was a charmer. There was only one person he had contact with who so misread the dog that it was a wonder he trained animals for a living. This was back in the Costa Rica days when Turbo was one or so and already neutered.

Mr. Dog Trainer came to our house and asked to spend a few minutes alone with Turbo. His assessment: on a scale of one to ten, ten being the most aggressive, Turbo was a 12. He would need a lot of training. When I expressed my doubts about Turbo’s aggressiveness (he was always friendly to people, even strangers), the trainer turned to me and said, “Cupcake, I know what I’m talking about.” We told him we wouldn’t need his services.

At one point in Costa Rica, we had four Bouviers. Turbo was the only male, and not quite as bright as two of three of his sisters. He was a little goofy, and he loved to play. One day, Turbo showed how smart he really was. I had been given macadamia nut shells to use as mulch in my gardens. My gardener spread them around in the front of the house. The next morning, our three female dogs couldn’t lift their butts off the ground after gorging themselves on the empty shells. Turbo was the only dog who enthusiastically ate breakfast, having for whatever reason rejected the shells to which tasty tiny nut bits still adhered. I called the vet in a panic. He laughed and said to come to the office to pick up some castor oil. That quickly unplugged the blockages and the dogs were fine.

When we shipped Turbo and his sister Asta to the United States (they were 3 and 4 years old), we had to pay by the kilo. Both dogs were obese, having lived their days munching fallen mangoes (and retching up the pit at 5 o’clock each morning), and other tropical fruits. The gardener gave them scraps of food, too. When we brought them to the vet in the States, he told us that they seriously needed a diet. We put them on diet dog food, didn’t feed them from the table (much), and within a year they lost 20 pounds apiece. The vet came out to the waiting room and told the other pet owners, “you see, you can put your pets on a diet that works. These dogs just added several years to their lives.”

Our daughter Mariel spent endless hours training Turbo and Asta to jump over obstacles. Mariel had competed in equine jumping competitions in Costa Rica, and went on to be a hurdler in high school and college. For large dogs, they were incredibly graceful. The only problem was, they discovered they could jump over the backyard fence, which they did on a regular basis. Eventually, we had to put up an invisible fence. I doubt they’d ever wander away, but they could easily be mistaken for bears or other shootable animals.

Turbo’s biggest adventure again involved Mariel. She had taken Turbo and Asta to the park near our house and let them off their leashes. Asta remained nearby at all times, but Turbo drifted off somewhere. In a panic, Mariel called us to say Turbo was missing. My husband and friends (who were visiting us) went off to search for him, taking our neighbors, who often cared for the dogs, with them. I stayed home to field phone calls. Our biggest worry was that Turbo would leave the park and get hit by a car. Finally, I couldn’t sit around anymore. I put on my sneakers and went to the garage door. There was Turbo, panting but sitting there and smiling, happy to be home. I called off the search party. There were several routes he could’ve taken, but we’ll never know whether he walked on the road, our usual route, or if he’d gone though the woods. I always said I wished my dogs could speak, which they did in a fashion. I’d love to hear how Turbo found his way home.

While Asta was “human-smart,” Turbo was dog smart. He instinctively knew what was harmful to eat, and he could use his nose-memory when he needed it. He was warm, loving and fun. Turbo, as his name implies, was full of energy and loved to run around out back. Whereas Asta was stand-offish, Turbo was ever-friendly. He barked at strangers when they came in the house, but this was more a reaction to Asta defending us and Turbo following her lead.

When we moved to Manhattan, Turbo became a city dog. Did he like it? I don’t think so, but he loved to soak up the attention of passers-by. “What kind of dog is that?” people would ask in shock. They’d never heard of a Bouvier de Flandres, so we explained that he was a Belgian cow-herding dog. European tourists were more familiar with the breed, but Turbo still had a magnetic effect. Kids and adults alike would ask to pet him. People took photos. It was a lot of fun to live in the reflected glory of such a head-turner. We used to joke with our sons Mark and Harry that Turbo was a chick magnet.

In his final year of life, Turbo experienced a number of old-age problems. He developed Bell’s palsy and had to be hospitalized for three weeks. He was already eating dog food for joint problems, and took Rimidyl and Tramadol on a daily basis. He especially hated the Tramadol so we had to wrap the pills in chunks of cheese or slather it with hummus or some other tasty sauce.

My husband Marty, who was Turbo’s primary caretaker, walked with Turbo to Central Park one day last summer. Turbo was 14 by then but could still walk pretty far if you took it slowly. They went to the dog area, where Marty took pictures and Turbo sat by his side. He loved to just sit in the grass and take in the sights ands smells. We have a small house in the Catskill Mountains that has a large lawn. Turbo loved to sit out there with us beside the brook.

Like many dogs, Turbo had many nick names. Named Turbo Dodger by Mariel, he was also known as Turbie, Tubsy Ubsy, Turbster The Turbonator, The Big Turbowski, and Baby. I called him Baby a lot in his final year. He was, after all, our youngest child.

After a wonderful Thanksgiving with the boys (I cooked all the turkey innards for him and doled them out a little at a time), we went back to Manhattan. By Tuesday I had to rely on Jimmy, one of our concierges who occasionally walked Turbo for us, to help me get him from the elevator to the door. He was okay on the street, but once we got into the building, Jimmy had to help me get him to our front door. Marty clearly saw the decline that occurred in a matter of two days. Early Wednesday morning, I woke up to find Turbo and Marty on the floor. Turbo had had some kind of stroke or seizure and couldn’t get up. We called a 24-hour veterinary hospital and they said to come right in. We spent Turbo’s final 15 minutes or so talking to him, kissing and petting him. The doctor came in and asked if we were ready. We were not ready but Turbo was.

Turbo has been cremated and his ashes will be interred on our property in the mountains. There will never be a dog like Turbo.

I Love a Parade and Other Holiday Stuff

Thanksgiving in Jville was great. We certainly missed Mariel, but we'll be seeing her in a month. In all modesty, it was the best Thanksgiving meal I've ever cooked. Mark's view of the centerpiece is worth a thousand words.

Turkey's End

Happy Family

Friday night was the big Christmas parade downtown. Downtown is 2 blocks away. We stood at the end of our block with other townies and visitors. The parade snakes through town and passes our street just before ending. We saw fire truck after police car after emergency vehicle after floats after Santas and other holiday symbols. The parade began with 3 musketeers firing into the sky, followed by the mayor's car. I've met the mayor--he's one of our mechanics. Much candy was thrown into the crowd.

Many of the vehicles are from other nearby towns, so they exit the parade a block past Maple. The other half mile's worth of diesel-spewing trucks line up along that road, turn left and then another left. We saw the part of the parade all over again.

Turbo loves Jville and Thanksgiving. It's easier for him to walk there, and he appreciates the turkey gizzards I cook up for him.

Turbo and Me on Our Block

Holiday Shoes

What to Do in Sleepyville

Yesterday, after a major supermarket sweep, we headed off to a music sale at a local fire department. WJFF, our town's music station, was raising money, selling CD's, records of many different rpms, sheet music, instruments, and anything music-related. They had thousands of old records. I didn't dare let Marty go by himself.

We hauled off 30 albums, including one by Paul Simon that was minus the vinyl. Didn't check for scratches? I asked incredulously. Marty said that for 17 cents, he didn't care. I selected a few, including a Stevie Wonder album with Braille markings on the cover. Marty stocked up on musicals, James Taylor and the Sullivan County Music Festival 1968 featuring Jeffersonville's Elementary chorus and Livingston Manor High School Band. We'll play it for you next time you come over. You don't want to miss March Mellow or Concertina for Shofar.

Today we went to the a local poultry farm to pick up our turkey. It wasn't ready yet so we enjoyed the beauty of the area on a mild November day. When the young man brought out the bird, it was still warm.

I plan to prepare for Thanksgiving a little at a time. Maybe I'll make cranberry relish tomorrow. We'll see.

A Break from a Break

I'm taking a break from life, snuggled into my little house in the country. I'm here totally alone, no humans or animals to intrude into the tranquility. I had enough of New York City last weekend, running the marathon, eating out, going to the Javits Center to collect my race bib. I do not like Convention Centers.

What do I do all day? Not much and a lot. I cook delicious meals, go to the Post Office, have a massage, go to yoga, the supermarket, and the library. I think I've mentioned that I was taking a break from Infinite Jest, substituting another but more readable tome 1Q84. When I went to the library Friday, I decided I needed a rest from that book, too, and scanned the new fiction section, looking for lighter fare.

I grabbed Chris Bojalian's latest silliness, The Night Strangers. I suppose it's meant to be a scary book, with ghosts, auras, murders, tinctures and potions. Turns out that these aging folks in a remote New Hampshire town have discovered how to tap into the fountain of youth. Mainly, it takes young blood and a lot of herbs.

The book's not badly written, and you learn more than you want to know about airplanes crashing, but it ends with the parent accepting the murder of one of their twins and buy into the fountain of youth crap. Who wants to live to be 100 or more when they know they were responsible for the death of their child?

At least it was a quick read. Break's over. Back to the bizarre world of 1Q84.

Winter Wonderland

Our little brook flows through the snow

Swinging in the snow

Sun-lit snow-glazed Catskills

We were lucky to spend the weekend in the country. Marty took these photos during and after the storm. It really was this beautiful.

Local TV said to expect power outages due to snow weighing down the still-leafy trees. The only precaution I took with trees was to shake my little red maple off. Most of the other trees were already leafless, although several branches did fall overnight.

We were prepared for power failure, but it wouldn't be fun like Costa Rica. There, temperature wasn't an issue. In the Catskills, it would be very cold but we have a lot of blankets. We also have candles, flashlights (batteries included!), and a propane stove. If you have matches to light the pilot you can cook and eat the cold away. We only had about 6 inches of snow, and we never lost power. Still, that Italian Wedding Soup was delicious, and easy to make.

I read all weekend, went to Yoga and tried to watch a Coen brothers movie with Marty (Burn After Reading) but ended up falling asleep somewhere in the middle of the craziness. We drove home in record time because so many people were dealing with power failure caused by downed trees. We were lucky. Our street in Manhattan looked the same as always.
Two or three cars had some snow on them, but that was it.

Don't Read This Book

One of the other books I checked out of the library was so bad I didn't want to finish it. I kept with it, regrettably.

Zone One by Colson Whitehead wasn't the worst book I've ever read but it's on my top-10 list. Many of the loser books I didn't even finish, unless they were short. Whitehead's book is nasty, brutish and short, mercifully short.

If you enjoy humorless repetitious drivel about the end of the world, this book's for you. I thought the plot was going somewhere, or that some explanation for the plague that kills most of the Earth's population would be revealed. I just read last week that humans are mainly immune to the plague or black death. This must be a different plague.

To be fair, I chose the book because I've read other books by the author. John Henry Days is a keeper, as is The Intuitionist. Last year's beach book, Sag Harbor, wasn't great, but it wasn't duller than dish water.

Before I go back to Infinite Jest, I'm reading a book I had to buy today, 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami. He wrote Kafka on the Shore, which I loved. It's another 900+ page tome, but seems more readable than Jest. We'll see.

A Reading Break

I decided to give Infinite Jest a rest. I went to the library to look for something lighter. I'd heard an interview with Walter Mosley on NPR and although I new the writer and his basic genre, I'd never read one of his books. The Jeffersonville Public Library is a marvel, at least to me. Their new books are ones I actually want to read. But I was looking for a classic Mosley book and found several in the stacks. I checked out A Fortunate Son, a tale about two brothers who are separated at age 6 and reunited in their early 20's.

Eric is the blessed athletic blond boy whom Thomas comes to live with as a sickly infant. His mother brings him to the posh house, having attracted the attention of Eric's father, a doctor at the hospital where Thomas spends his first six months in a bubble. Love and good doctoring save Thomas's life. He becomes friends with Eric, his polar opposite, and they live together until Thomas's mother dies and his biological father shows up to claim his son.

Thomas goes from wanting for nothing to nothing to want. His home life is a diasaster. Yet his spirit allows him to cope with anything thrown his way. And it's all thrown at him: dropping out of school, abandonment by his dad and other relatives, living wherever he can, and eventually becoming a runner for a drug dealer. He gets arrested, thrown in jail and wanders the streets of L.A., walking away from a youth facility he is transferred to. Along the way he is raped, beaten, starved. Whatever bad, ugly thing you can think of happens to Thomas. But Thomas keeps on keeping on.

Mosley writes about poverty and racial injustice so matter-of-factly that it seems like a normal condition. The difference here is that the character who endures the nightmare is such a gentle soul who holds no grudges and never becomes like his tormentors.

Eric's life is perfect except that Eric is void of feeling. He goes through the motions of the lush life but doesn't participate. It's as though when Thomas walked out the door, he took Eric with him, leaving only his perfect body behind.

Through numerous twists of fate, which keep the reader slack-jawed, the boys reunite. Clearly, Thomas is the fortunate son, a true survivor. He took all the good things the world had to offer him and was able to endure misery after misery. He gets his brother back, and presumably a life devoid of horror. Eric on the other hand, who was handed life on a platter, is unchanged. He's happy to be reunited with Thomas, but will never have his lust for life.

Sports Bra Gone Bad

Even the jaws of life couldn't extract me from this bra. After running a few miles, I returned to my apartment to shower and change for an appointment with my doctor. Removing sweaty, tight clothing is a challenge for me--it just won't budge. If Marty's around, I have him extract me from the sticking item, usually a bra. But this was mid-day, I was running late and so did the only thing I could think of to save the day.

I got the kitchen scissors and cut my way out.

If you look closely, I cut along a seam, thinking I might sew it one day. That'll be the day. I threw the damn thing in the trash, but it kept taunting me with its vivid color and mutilated strap. I decided to immortalize the offending bra here, reminding me that I am impatient, a slave to schedules, and quick to judge.

Bad girl. Bad bra. Bad to the bone.

Ah, Jeffersonville

Harry and I were talking about how to write a literature paper. He's always gone with the reliable five-paragraph format: thesis, three supporting points, summation. He's taking his first college literature course, The Harlem Renaissance. His professor told him he needs to ditch the his usual format and be more free-flow. This makes for more interesting writing, but will it make sense?

If you're a writer, you know how to craft a story or essay. It's like building a house, which flows naturally from a blueprint that's embedded in your head. This is the Jack Kerouac approach. Had he had a word processor, he might have built different houses.

I always like fictional writing that has a few warts and blemishes. The structure isn't perfect; some words might be made up (but always understood); there's a seamlessness to the narrative that allows the reader to relax among the words. Creative non-fiction, a favorite genre of mine, just needs to make sense. You don't need a five-paragraph structure to do that. Just make sure that the house you're intending to build isn't a pot of soup.

In Jeffersonville, you can have conversations like this. Harry wrote his essay the way the professor suggested, even though it made him feel uncomfortable. We enjoyed the Fall weather, the house, the food, the company. We stayed for dinner Sunday, which we almost never do. I had a little time to read Infinite Jest (past page 300!), which is most-assuredly a house I enjoy visiting but wouldn't want to live in.

A Tree Grew on 80th Street

Two months ago, this was a tree. A dead tree, but growing out of the cement, arching over the sidewalk, and causing much neck strain. The most astonishing thing about this tree was the pipe growing from its side. That's it on the right. I don't know if the tree grew into the pipe, or the tree was dead and the pipe was installed later on. Either way, it looks like it caused the tree's demise. At least now it's not in danger of falling down and doing damage. It's still a curiosity though.

A Time to Kvell

Dune buggying in Peru

Mean streets on the Upper East Side

These are recent photos of my kids. Mariel is working in a slumburg of Lima, Peru for a year. Here you see her (always in control) driving the volunteers around a "desert oasis" some four hours from Lima. So far, she seems to be loving her experience there, noting that where she lives there's constant dirt everywhere. Like Pigpen, a cloud of it follows you around, and as soon as you step out of the shower, you're a dirt bag. She's learned how to play chess and to "fix" a broken refrigerator. She's perfecting her put-downs of creepy men on the street who try to engage her in conversation. She failed to learn this at Swarthmore.

That's Harry and Mark outside my apartment building, wearing Columbia blue. Harry spent the summer living with us, unable to find a job that didn't involve biking around the treacherous streets of Manhattan, delivering food. I nixed that idea and lived with the consequences. He's a lovely young man, but our apartment isn't that large, and he's used to his privacy and sloppy sprawl. Mark, who's in disguise, spent the summer road-tripping, doing odd jobs here and there (mostly in Maine) and training endlessly for the cross-country season. He dyed his hair black, because as a blond, his facial hair seemed non-existent. It's all shaved off now, but I do wonder what his next makeover will entail.

I didn't brag nearly enough. Next time.

Barcelona

La Familia Sagrada cathedral, Gaudi re-design

Man and creatures by Gaudi on Las Ramblas

Gaudi building on Las Ramblas

This was my second visit to Barcelona, and again, I didn't wake up early enough to go inside the Gaudi Cathedral. The outside frippery is one thing (an magical); the inside is supposed to be spectacular. The architect took a Gothic cathedral, removed the light-blocking arches and filled the building with light. You must arrive by 7 am or stand on a line that's in the sweltering sun, patiently waiting behind 200 people. The trouble is, who can wake up so early in a city where you don't eat dinner until 10 pm? Mea culpa. La proxima vez.

The old city in Barcelona is not to be missed. Sure, it's touristy, but it's amazing to walk around the snaking streets that are either blocked to traffic, or not. There are several stores where you can find good prices and Made in Spain goods if you have time to look. Just a few of the specialties include leather, ceramics, and espadrilles. If you want another thrill, I recommend going to the beach and having lunch as you body-watch. You will see every body-type imaginable, mostly Europeans with a penchant for small swimsuits regardless of age. You can also tattoo-watch as it seems everyone in Barcelona is inked. After you've had your fill, you can walk to the sea and get your toes wet, go in up to your knees or totally immerse yourself in the warm green water.

Old City or Ciutat Vela in "Catalan"

I'm saving the best photo for last. As Mariel and I were walking back from a day spent beaching, shopping and endlessly walking, we stumbled upon this specialty store as we were waiting to cross the street. NB: Crossing the street in Barcelona is risky business. When the light turns red for pedestrians, you MUST stop unless you're already in the crosswalk. I could not get the hang of it after navigating New York City streets. Back to cocktails. Unfortunately, we only saw the stock in the window because the store was already closed. I wanted to buy my husband, who thinks he's William Powell to my Myrna Loy, a shaker or two. My husband prefers stirred to shaken by the way. I agree.

And yes, that's Ms. Fatso in front of the window, heavily inflated with tapas, red wine, and other things that are a lot less fun.

Shaken, not stirred

PJ's Books of Note

Summer is over, astronomically speaking. I've already seen color in the Catskills, and I've worn pants and socks for 3 days.

I think I did a lot of reading this summer, but since I only record my thoughts here, I forget most of the titles. Here's a list that's most likely missing something.

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, a very good historic novel about not-so-merry Olde England circa 1500-1536.

State of Wonder by Ann Patchett, in which American drug researchers get tangled in the Brazilian jungle and are faced with interesting moral quandaries.

Zeitoun by Dave Eggers tracing one New Orleans family's nightmarish journey through the post Katrina landscape. If you believe half of what Eggers writes, you will be outraged, embarrassed, sickened and have less fear about "Terror" than about ourselves.

And yes, I'm beginning my third attempt to read Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace. The first time I tried, it was a library book that I could no longer renew. For some reason, I only got to page 80 or so. I bought a paperback copy so I could spend years reading it if necessary. The second attempt was last winter when I had big plans to read it while snow fell on maples. Twenty-five pages was all I could do. Last week, I picked up the 900+ page tome once again and considered sawing it into 3 or 4 sections that were more portable. Marty discouraged this idea because I'd lose pages, and I don't even want to miss a word.

I'm pleased to tell you I'm on page 91. The book is dense but not difficult, and it's hilariously funny. Review to come soon, whatever that means.

Country French

Fleurs

Mariel and I flew through the night from NYC to Paris. I watched, jealously, as Mariel sat down and immediately went to sleep whereas I needed a little medical help to take a longish nap. Bleary-eyed, we arrived in Paris and took a bus to Gare du Nord where we meandered through the streets looking for a cafe where we could have lunch. We didn't have much time before we had to head back to the airport, but we wandered into a beautiful park outside a municipal building. On our way back to the bus, we did the obligatory stop at a cafe and for a much-needed libation. NB: a glass of red wine in Paris costs a lot less than a soft drink.

We arrived in Toulouse at 10:30 pm. Peter and Mecca picked us up at the airport and drove us to their house in the countryside. At this point, we were beyond exhaustion and happily fell into bed.

Over the next few days, we walked, talked, ate, drank, and tooled around the area. We went to a fair one evening where a traditionally-dressed dancing troupe from Gervais whirled around to the accompaniment of accordions, saxophone and guitar. We lunched one day in a quaint little village pictured in the collage below. You just don't get more French than this.

Photos by Mariel Feigen and Patricia Jempty

The photo of the swimming pool and long-distance view of the Pyrenees was taken at Chez Culbert-Ross. Mecca, who is an excellent cook, kept us well-fed with chicken and lamb during our relaxing stay. Peter, the host with the most, kept our glasses full and our minds humming with his encyclopedic knowledge.

Coming soon: Barcelona.

Vacation Reading

I'm sitting next to the brook outside our house in Jeffersonville reading "Unbroken" by Laura Hillebrand. We spent 10 relaxing days there, with visits by Jim and Karen who flew in from Orlando, and Dianne and Sandy who drove in from their house in the Poconos with Sadie, a two-year old bouvier in tow. The weather was wonderful, and even the two rainy days were nice. On one of the rainy days, we had tropical downpours that transformed the brook into a roaring river of mud. It was amazing to watch. We'd seen something like this before, but this time, the water level went beyond anything we'd experienced. There was flooding all over the region, but we were high and dry.

All week, we ate, drank, and were very merry. Turbo enjoyed reclining in the grass and going for long walks. One night, Marty and I ate at the Welsh Cabin, four miles up the road. We had really good food, and the atmosphere was rustic, complete with antlers, animal rug hangings and three flat-screen TV's. Mostly, though, I cooked and we did a lot of grilling. We spent as much time as possible outside reading, talking, hammocking. We did some very minor home and garden projects. We knew vacation was over when we packed up all the trash and recycling and hauled it off to the transfer station.

Marty read a Tom Clancy novel and I finally finished "Unbroken," a non-fiction book about an Olympic-quality runner (4:14 mile in 1942) whose career is halted by World War II. He enlists in the Air Force and ships out to Hawaii. On one mission, his plane is shot down and crashes into the Pacific. Only three men survive and he is one of them. They spend 47 days on rafts with little water or food. Sharks and Japanese planes threaten to kill them but two survive long enough to find land, which turns out to be a Japanese-held island. The POW's are treated horrifically. It makes Abu-Graib seem like being sent to the corner for several minutes. The runner is liberated by US troops some two and a half years later. I don't want to give away what happens in the rest of his life (he's still alive). Much of it is disappointing, but he does manage to overcome his demons. Read it and weep.

Breaking News ...

We no longer have 12 chairs! (See yesterday's post.) We pawned off 6 of them (the ones to the matching defunct table) at a consignment shop. We also ran a few other errands, buying a couple of ceiling fans and a shoe rack so we don't have trip over Marty's massive shoe collection.

After the work, we went for felafel and to see Midnight in Paris. If you are an English or an art lover or degree-holder, you will love this film. It's old-style Woody Allen, but he uses so many references to writers and artists, I don't know if the film would appeal to non-readers. Sorry to be snooty--I'm sure I didn't get every reference--but I want to save you money. Kathy Bates is perfect as Gertrude Stein. I wish T.S. Eliot didn't have such a cameo role. Woody's message: don't be a Miniver Cheevy.

The 12 Chairs

The 4 new chairs.

3 old chairs.

Adopted chair with junk.

We have a lot of chairs. The photo on top shows our new dining room set which isn't a set at all, but an old pine trestle table with four new folding chairs. It's quite petite and really opens up our living area.

The second photo shows just a few of the chairs we have in the second bedroom/office. We could really get a good game of musical chairs going.

The third is the modernistic chair I found abandoned near the service area. I felt so bad for it, I brought it up to my apartment, scrubbed it all up and buried it under Mark's stuff from college.

There are a lot of chairs in Jeffersonville, too, about 18. The 6 from my old dinette set (shown in second photo, and matched to the ill-fated table)) are going to join those 18 and we will open a small theater.

Popcorn, anyone?

Spending Time with My Sons

Mark spent three days alone in our country house. He wanted to see how it feels to be without human companionship, someone to make him food and shaping a day how he wanted it. This wasn't the wilderness of course. He had Internet, an X-box and his phone, which had no reception at the house but could get a few bars if you went up the hill. He survived on cereal, Harry Potter and taking walks. He even cooked himself some pasta and made omelets. He does a good job cleaning up, too.

Harry and I arrived Wednesday afternoon. I went into Mom mode, cooking dinner and washing dishes. The boys happily played on the X-box, just like in the old days. I was industrious; they were slugs. Big, hungry slugs. If I asked them to help me do something, they gladly obliged, but that was the extent of their activity. They did go on a run together, more to check their messages than anything else.

While they read and snoozed, I weeded an area of the garden and planted perennials. I re-did the mulch pile which keep getting attacked by animals. Now it's an open pile and seems to be mostly untouched. I guess the critters like their challenges, too. I ran, I went to yoga and I did a fair amount of shopping. I bought a summer outfit for $25 and shoes to match for $45. Embarrassing. I saw a sign for a huge garage sale to benefit the rebuilding of the Briscoe Dam. This place is amazing. I bought a Hudson Bay blanket for $10, a picture frame for $2, a white deck chair for $5, and odds an ends for 25-50 cents. It's going on all summer and gets its donations from estate sales, and folks just wanted to get rid of stuff. I'm going back to look for furniture. I thought about buying a Captain's Table but I thought too long. Someone else bought it while I was looking at a cheese slicer.

We had dinner at a great Thai restaurant, an oddity in a small town like Jeffersonville. A Thai woman does all the cooking and as I've said before, makes the best pad thai I've ever had. Even Mark liked the food, and he was hesitant about going there. As it was Friday night, I had a martini, which I've trained the bartender how to make. This time, it was perfect except warm. She came to the table and asked if it was as I liked it, and I said it was great except it wasn't cold enough could she bring me some ice? Mark and Harry were deeply embarrassed by this, thinking I should've had a warm martini. They will learn that when you get to be my age, anything less than perfect is unacceptable.

We drove back to NYC to celebrate Fathers Day. Mariel is coming and taking Marty to see Wicked. Then we'll all have dinner together. Mark started talking about marriage, how it's really dumb to get divorced because you spend so much money on the wedding and then you spend more on the divorce. Harry suggested it might be better not to marry, especially since it would be impossible to spend all your waking hours with one person. This is where I chimed in and said that couples spend lots of time apart, and can choose to have different friends and pursue different interests, and that this was healthy for most marriages. Then I thanked them for spending time with me because I mainly interact with people my own age, not college students.

We listened to Mark's ipod all the way home.

Table in the Woods

We really and truly wanted to legally dispose of our dining room table. A few bites on craigslist, lukewarm interest from a consignment shop, but still the table sat in our apartment, filling most of the living area with its hugeness and making it impossible to complete our move because we don't know how we'll lay out the room.

Marty always liked this table. Even after a toilet overflowed above it and covered the top with water for hours, Marty nursed it back to health with a rag and lemon oil. I never liked the table and it hated me. When we moved to Rhode Island, we had to get a table because our shipment of household goods wouldn't arrive for a month. We went to a nearby furniture store, looked around for an hour and settled for the dining set that has been giving me so much agita. Several weeks after we purchased it, I went to sit on one of the commodious and sturdy-looking chairs only to have it collapse. I fell to the floor, unharmed and thankful it hadn't been a guest who'd taken the tumble.

We moved the set to our first New York City apartment where it took up space but seemed to work with the room's layout. When we moved to our current apartment, we realized it didn't fit very well. We saw a perfect drop-leaf table with four chairs one night at a thrift shop but when I returned the next day it was marked sold. I spent a lot of time in thrift stores the next few weeks looking for the perfect answer to the dining table blues. Antique stores would set me back $4000. Thrift stores carried furniture from the 60's paid for with S&H green stamps--remember those?

There is a store in Jeffersonville that has odd orange chairs around a table in the entryway. They are quite ugly but good conversation starters. They look like Gumby. They look like something on a Star Trek set. They will never sell but they'll sell everything else in the store because these bizarre chairs draw people in and start conversations. It was in this shop that I found my table. It was small, narrow and dark, a "harvest" table which would be more apropos in our farmhouse than our apartment. I put a deposit on it and brought Marty back the next day to see it. He was underwhelmed. We couldn't take this table until we removed the other one, so I spent the next week scouring shops in New York for similar ones, perhaps with "matching" chairs.

Last week, Marty took the legs off the table, and on Friday loaded it on the roof of our car. Two blankets and a tangle of bungee cords seemed to secure the table top. We discovered that driving faster than 50 miles per hour was a no-no. The trip took a little longer than usual due to the slow speed and stopping a few times to check on slippage. We were about 20 minutes from our house when it happened.

Words can’t do this justice. A car came to an abrupt stop in front of ours. Marty hit the brakes and the sound of moving furniture and then the sight of it flying off the roof and crashing on the road was jaw-dropping. The car in front escaped damage. I wonder if the driver even saw it. Marty and Mark jumped out to check the mangled table. The aprons were cracked, although the top looked okay. Our car had a few scratches and a windshield wiper looked funny, much like a broken arm. The table was now worthless unless you’re a fabulous carpenter. Marty, looking helpless, asked what he should do. I told him to chuck it into the woods along with the legs. We can’t do that. Oh yes we can.

The deed done, Marty and Mark climbed back into the car and we drove away. I burst out laughing. This was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen. Marty was less sanguine. We’d forgotten to toss the nuts and bolts to attach the legs, but it seemed like a moot point.

We’re still going to try to sell the chairs, which are huge. We’re going to have a yard sale in Jeffersonville this summer. We’ll sell them for a song, but first we have to safely transport them to the country. In the meantime, we went to the shop where our new table awaited. It is small, kind of chunky and 150 years old. A maximum of four people can sit at this table, uncomfortably. Marty and I, however, will be comfy and cozy. Last night, we had dinner with Harry and there was plenty of room.

Beware of flying tables and other hazardous objects, especially if you're headed to the Catskills and driving anywhere near our Subaru.

Odd Sightings in Jville

You think that the little town of Jeffersonville would be all about Mom and apple pie. Marty and I have been observing some strange, quaint and ingenious happenings.

I have to mention the Poker Run, which we still don't understand. Motorcyclists from near and far wearing all their regalia come to eat donuts and coffee, play poker and then have a big BBQ. There were bikes and trikes and a sea of tattoos. Do-rags ruled the day. Marty observed there were no young bikers. Obviously it's an old man's sport. You need bucks to buy one of those machines.

Throughout the weekend we repeatedly saw a very large black man (not too many in this town) strolling around talking to himself and wearing a purple wide-brimmed hat. Harry had a a hat just like it when he decided to be a pimp for Halloween. This dude must have said hi to us a dozen times.

Marty saw a couple of teenage girls driving around on a golf cart watering the plants on Main Street. Next weekend is the Chalk Art Event in which anyone who wants to can draw on the sidewalks with chalk. Actual artists are involved and they sell their works on the street. This should be a fun event.

Just like NYC, only much much smaller.

Please Give

I'm running the NYC Marathon in November in honor of Dori Brown. Please consider contributing to My effort through my TNT website. Thanks a million!

http://pages.teamintraining.org/nyc/nyc11/pjempty

Memorial Day

Today's the day for remembering those who lost their lives defending this country. For the most part, it's a 3-day weekend that kicks off the summer season that includes BBQs washed down with beer, family gatherings, a cheerful goodbye to winter. I had a boyfriend in college and I went to spend Memorial Day weekend at his house in East Rochester. His mother had lost her husband and oldest son in WWII. Memorial Day was a big deal in this family. We did the BBQ thing, too, but it was a little more somber than most.

We arrived in Jeffersonville at 9 pm on Friday, a bit later than planned. We decided to eat out because it was so late. At the first restaurant, the kitchen was closed. At the second, they were just about to close but did our order. The Chinese restaurant stays open until 11pm but I had a bad experience there with shrimp toast.

I actually slept until 6:40, the equivalent of my son's noon. After some light work and a few errands, I went off to yoga. Then I had a massage. Limp as a dishrag , I hopped into our car and we drove to PA for a BBQ. We arrived to find 10 people who had started their warm-up drinking at 10 am. We had a lot of catching up to do. The food and company were great, and we left around 9:30.

Sunday was another hot and steamy day. I started with a 4-mile jog along the river, and collapsed in the hammock when I got back. Marty made me breakfast, and then we went to a garden center to pick up a few plants. After planting most of them, I took a long-awaited shower and we had lunch. The rest of the afternoon, I took it easy, reading the newspaper and my book.

Our neighbor Lorraine came for dinner and we had a nice time. She's an Israeli woman of Belgian background who was orphaned in WWII and eventually emigrated to Israel where she served as a combat soldier in the army. She spends half the year in Israel where she has a family, and half in Jeffersonville, from which she commutes to NYC and works as a lawyer in the Israeli government. Somehow, the topic turned to politics where she expressed her belief that Obama is a very bad president and terrible for Israel. She likes Mitt Romney. I explained that the American people would never elect him president because he's a Mormon. Mormons are too exotic for American tastes, even weirder than Catholics and Jews. Forget Muslims.

We drove Lorraine up the hill and made plans to see her in 2 weeks. I came home and had some chocolate. I was in bed by 10, awakened only by a thunderstorm that raged sometime in the night.

Sweating in the City

Seattlle weather finally dissipated yesterday and we were treated to our first taste of summer in all its humid glory. I didn't hear too many complaints. Off came the fleece and rain shoes; on came the tank top and sandles.

Harry and I did a little retailing before heading to Gyro II, my favorite place for gyros since 1978. Then we steeled ourselves and went to the DMV. Harry's license expired when he turned 18 and he got a temporary one in December. The new one never made it to New York, and when I tried to call the RI-DMV, I got busy signals and hang-ups. So, armed with every document Harry possesses, we anxiously entered the land of barking DMV workers who have as much sympathy for their fellow humans as a tiger eviscerating its helpless prey.

We waited on line for an hour. Harry gave in his form, his temporary license (now also expired), his social security card and birth certificate. The clerk asked for Harry's RI driving record (whoops). We didn't have that doc. I suggested we use the orignal expired license and he agreed. Then he asked for a student ID and grades (!), a credit card (which he doesn't have) and something else. I suggested that perhaps his medical insurance card would do. Bingo! Another hour of waiting and we were finally called to a window to finish up the transaction.

The woman left for a minute--that made me nervous. When she returned, she asked Harry if he was 18. Duh, it only says it on the skatey eight pieces of ID he turned in. It was then we realized she was hearing impaired. She couldn't tell if a number was a 1 or a 7, and in addition to her speech being incomprehensible, she had a difficult time hearing what we said. To ask for payment, she presented us with a card that had the amount on it. I charged it, Harry got his temporary license and we were on our way, 2 hours later.

Two hours isn't such a bad wait. The DMV has streamlined its process over the years. The workers are the same, probably due to genetics.

We arrived home to find the water was still off (the tank was being replaced). I'd filled pots with water, so we were okay. I've certainly survived days without water before. I thought I'd have time to relax before my first workout with Team In Training, but I had to get to 72nd and Cenral Park so I had no choice but to grab a bottle of water, change and go. I decided to jog there. In a few blocks, I had a wardrobe malfunction--my bra unzipped. I dashed into a store and asked to use a dressing room. The clerk was amused. I arrived at the meeting spot 10 minutes late and they had already left for their warm-up run. I was all warmed up and ready to go.

We did some cross-training exercises, some stretching and some yoga poses, which I was pretty good at. I never did meet my team (there were hundreds of people there training for various events all over the country) but I did receive my TNT jersey which says New York City Chapter on front. That was a proud moment for me. I thought, I'm home.

Euphoria Begins With a Good Night’s Sleep

After eight hours of shut-eye (one on the couch), I got up and followed my usual morning rituals of meds, coffee, checking my email and seeing if the world was going to end today. For the latter I turned to the Times. Stay tuned …

I wrote a dull post on my other blog, read more of the Henrietta Lacks book and then had reconstituted homemade banana bread and a cranberry muffin, finishing the coffee. Then I walked into town and got the mail, and went to Peck’s for a few things I needed for dinner tonight. Doug is joining me.

Yoga was next. I admit that I’m not a very good yogaist. I can’t disconnect my mind no matter how I breathe or which twisted agonizing position I force my body into. Today was different. Today I didn’t think about what I’d be eating for lunch and dinner, what I’d be doing next week or how I was going dig myself out from under a pile of debt. I was floating in the moment, my mind a blank. This lasted for one and a half hours. Nirvana was mine.

What a breakthrough. I wish I could repeat this at home when I’m trying to sleep and my mind is flitting about like a butterfly on steroids. I’m going to try for a little more euphoria when I have my hour massage later.

After that, I plan to sit back and enjoy the ideal weather and calming brook sipping an ice-cold martini and wondering if Doug will serve the dinner.

Jville Wears Green

We drove up to the country Friday and only had a little traffic on the FDR to the GWB. This was our first trip in our new car, a graphite gray Subaru outback with black leather interior and every bell and whistle you can imagine. It was getting dark as we arrived, so we couldn't see the yard. We unloaded and started on dinner, spaghetti and white clam sauce. I fell asleep at the table, while Marty went into the living room and crashed on the couch. I put the perishables away and went to bed.

What a surprise in the morning to look outside and see how lush and beautiful everything was, just spring in neon green with touches of color from the blooming trees and small flowers carpeting the edges. It was raining, but that only made the brook more vociferous.

I went to yoga and picked up a book at the library, the Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Marty installed pantry shelves, and we geared up for guests. Doug came with his crew and plenty of ice, limes and tonic. We had ensalada caprese and spanikopita to start. Well, there wasn't any spinach in the spanikopita because they were really knishes. It became the running joke of the evening, harking back to an earlier mix-up where Doug was going to make ice cream in his ice cream maker and there was a bug zapper in the box instead. Dinner was great, grilled veal chops with spice rub, shrimp on the barbie and asparagus risotto. We took a walk to town after dinner and had ice cream, then returned to the house for coffee and German butter cake. A new German bakery opened in town and they bake whole grain rye bread and yummy pastries.

I called Mark to see how he did at his track meet. He'd run a PB, 3:43 in the 1500. He's ranked 9th in the Eastern region and 30th in the country. He also proudly reported his grades: 2 B's, 2 B+'s and an A in Spanish. He's one happy boy and I'm a very proud mom.

Sunday was more of the same weatherwise. I painted a curio cabinet we'd found on the street near our old apartment, we put a deposit on a "harvest table" for the apartment and picked up some things for lunch.

We went to the gym when we got back to NYC. Marty did a spinning class and I biked for an hour. We ordered in pizza and watched part of the Yankee game. I went to bed when they were losing 5-4

The Best Laid Plans

We made it to the train just in time. We were going to New Haven, CT to watch Mark run in the Ivy League Championships. Our luck was running, as the highway we would've driven on was closed. Oscar the taxi driver took us to the Stadium after getting lost (we even tried Spanish--he's Cuban), but even then we couldn't make him understand us. He gave us his card and told us to call for the return trip, he was desperate for business.

A sunny day soon turned threatening. We'd already seen and chatted with Mark and his teammates, when lightning struck. The track and stands had to be cleared and everyone was told to go into the baseball stadium which they'd deemed more secure. There we sat for hours, waiting for the third and final cell to pass by. This three hour delay wasn't good for the runners and made us nervous about our evening plans, which included a 7 pm pick-up to go to a Russian nightclub in Brooklyn where we were meeting a group of friends.

Heat 1 of the 1500 meter race went off, and lightning struck again. Mark was in heat 2. Argh! We trudged to the baseball stadium. Suddenly someone said: the race started! We' already missed lap one. We ran to the finish line area and cheered Mark on through the last 3 laps. He lead the whole way, but eased up at the end and took 2nd, qualifying for today's final.

We knew at that point we weren't going to be drinking vodka with our friends, so we called and canceled. We also called Oscar to pick us up, but he was off duty. Oscar's not going to make it in New Haven. We called Metro Cab at the advice of a police officer. They called back and said our car was waiting for us, but we didn't see one. Then this little girl and her Dad walked by. We'd spoken with this adorable child, whose name is Mary, so she smiled and said hello. Her dad then offered to take us to the station. Turns out that his nephew was in Mark's heat"Speedy Stevie" and had come in 1st.

We had almost an hour until our train so we went for a nosh at Sbarro's. We had chicken wings and some beer. We also realized the Kentucky Derby would be on TV so we asked they change the channel. We got to see the entire race. This was fun, although without the mint juleps we'd planned to have, it wasn't quite as atmospheric.

Home by 9, we picked up Chinese menus along the way. Marty walked Turbo, and came back to make the Juleps which we drank listening to jazz. We had delicious dumplings delivered and watched the news. I crashed at 11:30. Marty slept in his chair for a while. He still has dishes to do.

Back to New Haven in a couple of hours. We're meeting Harry and Mariel there and spending Mother's Day together. New Haven is reporting a 30% chance of showers ...

New Woods

We moved Thursday to our new 31st floor apartment on the Upper East Side. Like David Byrnes, I wonder: How did I get here?

A few fun facts about my new neighborhood:

More restaurants than I ever thought possible.
Parking is not so bad.
Services are awesome. You can basically get anything you want at any time.
It's not ethnically diverse but it is age diverse, something many NYC neighborhoods are not.
It's cheaper than my old neighborhood.
The library is 2 blocks away, which is where I'm writing this.

A few not-so-fun facts:

Verizon doesn't serve my building so I have no phone, internet or cable. Worse, they canceled my email account.
You can easily get fat here and must join a gym. Yoga at my new gym is really hard, like you have to be a yogic master to not kill yourself.

Being out of the Ground Zero hub-bub is welcome. Last night, we never would have slept. All those hipsters with a good excuse to get bombed on Sunday night. I didn't get the news until early this morning when I was able to filch an internet connection from a neighbor.

I have to polish my pearls and get my face lifted, perhaps buy a lap dog. Really, dahling.

Rhode Island Roots

We pulled up the long snaking driveway to our old house Saturday afternoon. The only thing in bloom was the forsythia hedge. Inside the house it was freezing. I left Marty to install smoke detectors while I went off to do some errands. I bought a huge bag of dog food, some cheese and a soft-serve ice cream. Of course you can get these things in NYC but they're way more expensive.

Next, it was off to Gold Farm where we were staying for the next two nights with David and Marcia Gold. I took a nap while Marty and David had a nice visit. We had dinner plans in Providence at Bacaro's, the Gold's favorite restaurant. Mariel joined us. Dinner was great. I even had a fried smelt. Just one because it wasn't so good.

On Sunday, we finished cleaning out the house. Marty drove back to NYC. Mariel picked me up and we went for coffee and then dinner at a vegetarian/vegan restaurant. The food was delicious. Mariel drove me back to the Gold's where I spent another deeply slumberous night.

Marcia took me to my friend Sue's house in East Greenwich because we had plans to go out for breakfast. She'd forgotten about out date so Marcia took me to my friend Patty's house. We had breakfast and did some shopping. My broker was supposed to pick me up for closing at 3 but never showed. When I called him, he told me the closing was tomorrow. What? I had dinner at Patty's and then we went to play mah jongg.

So today's the day. At least I think it is.

4:04 !

Mark ran the mile at Princeton last night, a personal best of 4:04. He told us he was running the 1500 meter because he didn't want to get us too excited. In a rabbited race of 8 competitors, Mark placed 4th, coming from behind, his favorite tactic. I'm still shaking.

Today we head to Rhode Island to walk around 355 Moosehorn, say goodbye to neighbors and install a few smoke alarms. Closing is Monday. I can't wait,

It's 12:12 PM and I Need a Nap

I've been up for 6 hours but it feels like 6 days. After coffee and computer-gazing, Marty and I went to the gym. We were both feeling fat from our Chinese feast with Mark and Harry, topped off by red velvet cake. We came back and had another round of delicious calories. I put Marty to work on packing up one of our gargantuan walk-in closets while I tried to do Harry's financial aid forms. There's always some glitch and today was no different. The pin wouldn't work. Well, it's done but for that. After showering, I decided I needed to get out for fresh air to clear my head.

I walked to Duane Reade to pick up a prescription and then stopped off to have my nails done. I almost tipped over in my chair. I returned home to Marty sweating after his shower. He got dressed and went off to Queens to pick up his turntable and have lunch with Andria and Scott.

When I couldn't do a banking transfer, log on to my health insurance or get my new pin to work I gave up and woke Harry who's recovering from mono. I made him strong coffee, asked which of 3 identical movies he wanted to see (Insidious, Limitless, Source Code) and sat down to write this. Maybe I'll nap at the movies, although there's likely to be too many explosions.

Al Fresco

The trees aren't in bloom yet but it's 60 degrees and sunny, enough reason to be outside writing. After raking sticks, walking the dog and looking around for new growth, I dragged a chair outside and wrote some emails. I arrived Tuesday when it was cold and rainy. I thought I wouldn't have to turn up the heat but it was just too cold. I ran a few errands, had a massage and came home for a long hot bath. What a life.

Wednesday wasn't much better. I took my van in for an oil change, stocked up on groceries for the next week and did a lot of writing on my Costa Rica book. As of today, it's all done except for two essays I need to finish. With a few adjustments, it'll be agent-ready.

Today I head back to Manhattan early. Marty and I are being interviewed by a co-op board member to see if we are suitable residents for their hallowed building. Should I wear pearls? Then we're heading to the Irish pub across the street to celebrate. More at 11.

Pinafore and Pio Pio

Yesterday, we joined two friends to see H.M.S. Pinafore at the Barrio Theater. We've seen Pinafore before, even have the record. It's one of the most tuneful and erudite dialogues of any play I've ever seen. It's hard not to sing along. Costumes were gorgeous; singing was fabulous; production was perfect.

After Pinafore we cabbed it to Pio Pio, a Peruvian restaurant on the West Side. We had Pisco sours and delicious food. I spoke Spanish with a Peruvian woman, who thought the weather was cold and that Machu Picchu was too touristy.

No guinea pig on the menu, but classic cerviche dishes, lots of fresh fish and chicken. It was a great day in New York.

The Elephant on the Roof

We won't need Freud to analyze this dream.

I was looking up on the roof when something caught my eye. It was the slightest movement by the stone elephant perched where the chimney would normally be. I looked away, focusing on making sandwiches for the kids. Then I heard a loud noise resembling a rock slide. I looked up to see the elephant's trunk break free from the statue. Slowly, it came to life and started running all over the roof, trashing it.

Our house in Rhode Island needs a new roof. We're getting estimates as I write. It's being ruined by the elements and old age. My dream roof is being wrecked by an elephant stampede. It should be cheaper to replace the real roof.

Weekend Wonders

Friday, we drove to Princeton, NJ to watch Mark run the 5000m. The traffic was mind-numbing, and we arrived with 15 minutes to spare. It was seriously cold on the track. We huddled in a blanket and cheered the Lions on. Mark came in 3rd at a PB of 14:25. After the race, we went over to congratulate him, only to meet an old running buddy of Mark's, now at Boston College. Running the second heat of the 5000m was Nick Ross, Mark's running partner and son of East Greenwich friends.

Saturday, we left the apartment early and drove to Douglaston, Queens. More traffic psychosis. We were bringing two turntables in for estimates. We only have five turntables at the moment, three of which actually work. Then we drove to Mahwah, NJ to see Harry run the 5000m. It was a little chilly, with a brisk wind. Lunch consisted of hot dogs. It was great to see Harry. We also saw two other Rhode Island runners. Harry didn't finish his race due to a pain in his hip. On the way home, we went to Stop & Shop where we went wild scooping up deals. We must be nuts to get so excited over buying paper towels, seltzer, tonic water and Bitter Lemon, a rare mixer Marty hasn't been able to find in 15 years. The drive home was sensible.

We were starving so we immediately had cheese and crackers and cocktails. Home-made meatball heroes were our dinner.

Sunday, we again got up early and after eating our Queens-bought bagels, hopped on the subway to look at apartments on the Upper East Side. We walked for hours, becoming demoralized at non-availability and high rent. Finally, a broker we'd contacted called us. We saw one apartment in our price range. I was the most impressed by the view from the 31st floor. Other amenities include a doorman, a rooftop garden, a new kitchen, 800 square feet of space, air conditioning and good closets. If approved by the owner (it's a condo), we'll move in May 1st.

Dinner was a success. Doug joined us. The menu? Tortilla pie appetizer, beef braised in beer, perogin, salad, baguette and lemon-lime custard. I crashed around 9:30, but a wild party on our floor woke me at 1 or so. Marty went out to walk Turbo and they began screaming about his cuteness. Turbo's.

Oysters, Scallops, Octopus, Lobster, Black Bass, Monkfish

That's what we feasted on last night at Le Bernadin. Known for its inventive fish preparations, fine service, and exquisite prices, the restaurant holds a special significance for us. It was the site of our 3rd anniversary dinner many moons ago.

We had a reservation last summer on our anniversary but it was canceled due to a power outage at the restaurant. We went somewhere else instead. A recent confluence of celebratory events worth spending a little cash for encouraged me to make a reservation at Le Bernadin. If I wanted to dine there before my next anniversary, however, I'd have to wait months for a weekend spot. I took a Monday evening instead, only 3 weeks in advance.

When we arrived, the Maitre 'D welcomed us and referred to our canceled reservation. When we sat down, we were offered reparatory glasses of champagne. After taking a course on how to order from the prix fixe menus, we requested our signature cocktails, which were made perfectly according to our elaborate instructions. The waiter brought over the bread basket which offered a choice of 6 different items. I just wanted something to put the butter on. I just wanted to eat the butter, likely produced by the happiest cow in the French countryside. The first course was raw. Marty had oysters with 6 levels of spice and I had sea scallops in a tangy emulsion of I forget. The barely cooked second course was fried octopus for Marty in a sauce so complex you need several high degrees to understand it. I had plain old lobster medallions with hearts of palm and a citrus sauce. Marty chose the crispy black bass for his main course. I had the monkfish. At this point we were so blissful, we could have been served a can of Fancy Feast and been delighted. I almost forgot: Marty had a glass of red with his dinner and I had white, I believe a chardonnay.

Dessert was small and rich. Marty had the coffee construction carefully built from 4 or 5 coffee-flavored components. It was a work of art that tasted good, too. I had the chocolate peanut tart with a tiny scoop of lemony ice cream. The waiter brought us a lemon tart with "Happy Anniversary" written in chocolate, a nice touch.

We walked out into the chilly Manhattan night and took the subway home. Who could afford a taxi after that dinner? Plenty of people but not us.

Sold!

The albatross is no more. We sold our house in East Greenwich to the lowest bidder, the only bidder. Unless you count the higher bid we spurned a year ago.

The house has been vacant since September. In addition to paying the mortgage, taxes, electric and oil bills, we have the anxiety of worrying about leaks, trees hitting the house, flooding--the usual suspects. Recently, my insurance agent informed me that a vacant house requires different and expensive insurance. Our total costs have been running about $3500 per month. Ouch.

We're due to close on or around April 26. I haven't been to the closings of my last two houses so this will be a treat. If I'm lucky, I'll get to see the crab apple tree in bloom one more time.

Snow Different

For the first time since December, there's no snow in Jeffersonville. The brook is flowing freely and there is no mud. There would be mud, but it's still too cold for that. It was 20 degrees Saturday night.

We began the weekend on the Upper West Side where we met Mark for dinner. The food was excellent. I had pappardelle noodles with wild mushrooms and black truffles, washed down with a fruity Riesling. Mark had lamb chops from lamb raised on the owner's farm. Marty had a trendy and delicious thin-crust pizza. Then, it was off to the country.

As soon as the house warmed up, I went to bed. I slept until 7:30! I did the usual morning rituals and headed out to yoga at 10. It was a great class. I walked home and got Marty for a trip to the market. While inside Pecks', my cell phone rang. It was the masseuse someone had recommended. The call was dropped so I went outside and she called me back. We made an appointment for next weekend. Do you know where I'm located? Look past the fire department and look for a woman waving. I waved back. I love this town!

I took a nap while Marty read. Then it was time for tea and babka, followed by cocktails and hors d'doeuvres, followed by grilled rib steak, baked potatoes and asparagus with home made hollandaise sauce. I didn't have lemon so I used grapefruit juice. Here's the recipe:

3 egg yolks
1/4 cup butter
juice of one lemon or other citrus fruit

Melt butter
Put yolks in blender and mix for a minute
Add the butter in a steady stream
Add the lemon and mix well
Salt and pepper to taste

After dinner, we watched the Graduate, a cult film at Swarthmore, and as Harry says, dark. We went outside to see the full moon, which as the whole world knew was the closest to earth in 19 years.

Sunday was filled with reading, writing, eating and doing laundry, which we neatly folded and inexplicably left behind. Fortunately, we're going up again next weekend.

Tectonic Plates

I've mentioned my interest in tectonic plates. You might think it's a dry subject but it's quite explosive. I'm not at all interested in the death and destruction aspect of moving and shifting plates; I'm interested in why it happens.

Every time there's a big one, the media, everyday people and the doomsayers get on the same page. The experts are asked: will this happen again soon? Answer: maybe. Average Joe says: Boy there have been a lot earthquakes around the world. Guess we'll have another one soon. The Apocalypse now fold assures that it's coming soon as punishment for our sins.

The earth is made up of plates that shift. They cover a ball of fire. When the plates move, they left off steam, usually with no damage. Every so often, a volcano erupts in a big way. I've seen a number of volcanoes erupting and shooting hot lava into the sky. When tectonic plates move in such a way that a large amount of energy escapes, you get an earthquake. The strongest one I've experienced was a 7.1 that lasted for 40 seconds, nothing compared to the Japanese quake of 8.9 that lasted 2.5 minutes.

One more piece of plate info: plates can shift side to side, as the do along the San Andreas fault in California, or they can move under and over each other as they did in Japan. Either way, they can be highly destructive.

That's your lesson for the day.

To the people of Japan, my thoughts are with you.

Five Alarm Buffalo Wings

Marty tried to kill Harry and me last night. The chicken wings could be classified as "suicidal," the hottest there is in the Buffalo wing hierarchy. Why? Because he likes them that way, and the last few times he cooked wings he'd toned down the sauce for the wusses in the group. Thanks, pal.

Marty and I met at the State University of New York at Buffalo. Spicy chicken wings were invented at Frank and Theresa's Anchor Bar. They were served free at the bar to encourage steady drinking. No amount of drinking could quell the lip pain elicited from eating Marty's maniacal version of this bar food. Harry said milk is best with spicy food, but a glass of that didn't put out the fire. The classic side dish, celery and blue cheese dressing, didn't help much either. I was done after just 7 wings. Harry and Marty finished the rest because they're manly men. It's been said that Marty eats like a Mexican, meaning he likes his food fiery. He puts hot sauce on almost everything. Maybe his taste buds have been dampened.

If Marty offers to make you chicken wings, be sure and say you like them mild or medium. Some like it hot, but his idea of hot is torture.