An ongoing quest for the meaning of life. Does true happiness exist in a Tory Burch turquoise-trimmed sheath, a MarieBelle Dark Chocolate Croquette bar, a rose garden, a rocky Maine beach, a daughter's eyes, an inky star-sprinkled sky, hours of computer keystrokes that tell a story--or all of the above?
I'm fickle. I abandoned the Montclair State Library after just that one day and today drove to the Glen Ridge Library instead.
Oh, I do like this one. An old wood grandfather clock stands near my work table and a steep, narrow circular staircase leads to secreted rooms. The town's historical archives are up there, secured in old dark wood cabinetry, and a sign says don't drink coffee or other beverages in that vicinity. The rooms have arches and wooden railings, and that's just scratching the surface. This space reminds me of the old Hearst Magazines offices, with floor-to-ceiling mahogany cabinets, fireplaces in the top editors' offices and transoms over the doors. History. History lives on here. And herstory.
Well, I did work well here and now I have to drive home (14 minutes at this after-school rush hour) and take Spice to an appointment.
Enjoy your day.
Cool info from Wikipedia:
The borough of Glen Ridge is one of a few in New Jersey preserving the use of gas lamps for street lighting.
In 1666, 64 Connecticut families led by Robert Treat bought land from the Lenni Lenape Native Americans and named it New Ark to reflect a covenant to worship freely without persecution. The territory included the future towns of Bloomfield, Montclair, Belleville and Nutley.
Tom Cruise graduated from Glen Ridge High. I bet he went to this library.
My campus nest is for workdays, not overnights. This morning, Figgy and Dan suggested a few places to work out of the home. I've had trouble focusing in my office, and I work more productively in a shared space. I had already considered these and ruled them out.
Upper Montclair Starbucks. I know too many people coming in and out. Not a private office. Plus, memories of completing a very stressful writer's test on deadline there, at night. Just under the wire.
Java Love on Bellevue Avenue. It has many fans, but the tabletops are small and I wouldn't feel comfortable staying too long. Can't spread out with my accoutrements: Kate Spade pink Filofax, Lilly Pulitzer laptop case, Stashers bag.
Cedar Bean's Coffee in Cedar Grove. Too far to drive and the menu is not really my cup of coffee.
Clifton Public Library, Allwood branch. Dan loves working there and is there right now, but IDK, it just doesn't grab me.
Montclair Public Libraries.The one on Bellevue has charm and history, but not too much workspace, and it feels like just me and middle schoolers in the afternoon. I should be working on a geography report. (Do they still even teach geography?) The main branch, like Clifton, just doesn't grab me as a workspace. But I am grateful to have two fine public libraries in town with a trove of books, and they co-host important festivals, speakers and events.
Mercado on Valley Road.Good food but laptop limit windows and also, most people are there to talk and socialize, not work.
Figgy reminded me about the Montclair State University Library, so here I am. It was a hell of a steep hill to walk on campus but I did it. So that's an added benefit, about 40 min. round-trip walk for slow walker me. I got a latte at the new college Starbucks next-door and then sat outside at the tables to make work calls/set up interviews and eat my packed lunch. I didn't want to offend coffee lovers with the smell of lox. Look at my bowls, I love them:
I shopped Food52.com for 20 percent off spring refresh items for our home using code SPRUCEDUP but I think the code expired now. I saved a lot but most of all, found great style in the shop (spring wreath fresh from a farm in California, half-moon-shaped woven doormat, streamlined dish rack designed in Japan and garden gloves). I loved the set of small nesting bowls on 52 but that aqua (Sea Glass Swirl) one pictured on their site was not included in the set, and is so pretty. So I went to the source, Golden Rabbit Enamelware, and ordered this set of nesting bowls in Modern Monet. Dishwasher-safe. It helps that I grilled zucchini on the stove last night, so it was ready to go, along with rice and the fish.
I also went on my Zoom support group meeting at 7 a.m.! to start my day right. So I am feeling better, inch by inch. More productive, more purpose.
Step by step, dream by dream, goal by goal, one day at a time.
Photo from NY Times review of the Irish documentary"Housewife of the Year," playing in the Village.
Illustration by Conor Merriman/Juno Films, Inc. 2025.
That glittery city, that gritty city. Its frissons of energy give our batteries a jolt. Its hard-boiled love runs deep. New Yorkers may seem to keep to themselves, but lose your pearl necklace walking around at lunch as a young woman or have your handbag stolen as the subway doors close, and watch people step up and step in.
Dan and I were young writers on those sidewalks, winding up and down streets and across avenues, chasing our dreams, wearing down the heels of our shoes. We were young believers, newlyweds, parents. We looked up to people--our editors, our writing and reporting peers and our idols (Tom Wolfe, Mary Cantwell, Helen Thomas), our parents, our friends, our siblings. (We still do.) We marveled at the city's gifts, free for the taking. The skyline. The Empire State Building. The Flatiron Building. The Village. The arch at Washington Square Park. Hot bagels, F train rides, Central Park, the day the circus came to town.
We are not young now, but if we somehow live until 95, then we are only about 2/3 through life. Time enough to chase more dreams.
Lately, we did a couple of NYC firsts.
Saturday-night movie and late supper in the Village.Nothing on our many local NJ movie screens interested me this weekend. Dan, my entertainment concierge, discovered"Housewife of the Year" playing at Quad Cinema on West 13th Street. It's a documentary about a televised competition that aired in Ireland from 1969 to 1995. Check this NY Times review Dan found. I loved the film. The hairdos, dresses, skirts, shoes, stockings and jewelry the contestants wore; the glimpse at the husbands, how each couple met; the roles women were expected to play; the back stories; the talents; the toothy grins; the charming, wry TV host, Gay Byrne; the number of children each lady had (one with 13!!!!); and the dinners they made to woo the judges (roast lamb, fancy potatoes, custards, etc.). The way women's roles slowly changed with reproductive rights. The Catholic Church's strong clench, and slow release, on family choices.
Surprise, the young, award-winning Irish director, Ciaran Cassidy, was there afterward, to field questions. So cool. I felt like a student again--and we were right near The New School, where we had gotten reacquainted in an evening writing class and started dating.
Then we walked across the street to Da Andrea, a bustling Italian restaurant, for 9:30 dinner. We sat at the curved end of the small bar and Nelson took us in, between manning the cocktail shaker and pouring the wines. Warm, tender bread with olive oil,spinach ravioli stuffed with truffle mushroom and fluffy ricotta, then the perfect period at the end of the sentence, my latte and Dan's baby-size espresso with two tiny biscotti, a parting gift we ate with relish. Nelson poured us a glass of the restaurant's homemade limoncello, delicious, before we slipped out into the night. We plan to return to Andrea.
Dinner at The Waverly Inn! I'd been curious for years about this exclusive West Village hideaway co-owned by Graydon Carter of Vanity Fair editor fame.We wanted a nice place for Monday dinner on President's Day Weekend, to celebrate our February 17 wedding anniversary (34 years). The Waverly had a table at 5 or 9 p.m., so we went early. The truffled macaroni and cheese was well over $100, but other entrees were in reach.
Looming larger than life: Legendary magazine editor Graydon Carter. Photo by Sasha Maslov for The New York Times.
The dinner opener delivered without question to your table, simple circle biscuits served warm with a ramekin of butter. Perfection. Recipe wanted. The Iceberg Wedge Salad was very nice with the crispy bacon on the side, since Dan is a vegetarian. I wouldn't rave about the rest of the food we had, but the ambiance--that provided the golden nourishment. This menu item caught my eye, for perspective: Aged Beef Tomahawk Rib Chop for Two, Black Truffle Butter, Choice of Two Sides 265. Yes, $265.
Roaring fireplaces, prominent mantels, a famous mural, cocktails, good people-watching. We were in close quarters with the in crowd. We had all ducked in from the cold, descending the stairs to an historic space. I won't lie, I did feel a little "less than," and that's not a great feeling. Even at the Plaza, Gramercy Tavern, the Four Seasons (only there once for Saturday night coffee and dessert, wandered in with Dan), Le Cirque, I didn't feel that way. Was that a gift of youth, that blending in and looking good? Does smooth skin and a svelte shape mean acceptance?
Anyway, next time, I will wear better shoes to a place run by the king of vanity publishing and Oscar fêtes. But one of my black suede Italian pumps went missing in my closet. (As a new college grad, I heard that Condé Nast interviewers look right at your footwear to evaluate style and substance. And the pretty raven-haired HR person did just that.) Mr. Carter lives a stone's throw away, so walking that neighborhood felt important. Two of his beloved vintage cars were (carefully) parked along Bank Street.
It was fun to get out of the suburbs. Holding a key to the city means we can always get a welcome jolt.
I'm trying hard over here to practice acceptance and to stand tall, or at least calmly stand by, in the face of fear and worry. To stay grounded.
There's so much I want to put down, blank page and kind reader, about the cold, hard fears in our family....but that would be a violation of privacy on the public page, no matter how much it would be a release for my heart, mind, body and soul. I know you would help carry it.
For now, I will lighten my load by giving alternate names to the fears. For instance, let's say I had a motorcycle fear, because one of my two daughters was riding one. Then I could change that name here to something positive that the fear could maybe morph into one day, with the grace of God and a basket of luck. No matter how long it may take......days, decades, a lifetime (mother's or daughter's).
The motorcycle fearcould become road map. Maybe the girl would grow to explore beautiful paths and places, arriving on her beast*.
If tattoos worried me (they don't, they are the least of my fears, though one daughter is prone to infections and pain from amateur applications), maybe the word switch would be: tattoo to body love. God knows they both like ink.
Right off, I listed 40 fears and dreads I have as a mother at this moment in time. To be fair, they almost all apply to just one girl. Many are just that, fears, and have not materialized. Many have. (Notice they are not in the context of wife, sister or friend, though maybe that's an oversight.) Here are my code phrases, turning my fears upside-down at 7:08 p.m. in my home office. You won't see the cold, hard fears, just the soft, turnaround wishes.
Floppy red roses, and the sweet scent of baby powder.
Compassion.
Self-esteem.
Readiness and wisdom.
Resilience.
Faith.
Success.
Skills.
Ice water or tea.
Rose-colored glasses.
Friend circles.
Kindness.
Pause.
Self-soothing.
Peacemaking.
Her own uniform.
Calling home.
Yoga teacher.
Walks by the sea.
Self-care.
Inner compass.
No place like home.
Ownership.
Freedom.
Long-term beauty.
Hands off.
Little white plastic fudge knife.
Dates.
Truths.
Romance.
Integrity.
Openness.
Understanding.
Tolerance.
Inclusivity.
Softball (not speeding hardball) conversations.
Respect, inward and outward.
Independence.
Confidence.
Trust.
Going to Restore & Release: Restorative Yoga classes on Monday and Wednesday nights this week gave me great perspective. I love the gift of calm, quiet strength and self-care. So grateful for teachers Annette and Krystal. And the rain pouring on the studio roof last night. Perfect, just perfect. Rhythmic and real. But we were safe, warm and nurtured inside those walls, with our props for support (bolsters, blocks, blankets, straps and, of course, mats). Even luscious peppermint oil from Krystal at the end. Heady and helpful.
Revision: I thought of more fears/dreads and code word switches this morning, Friday. The last is a bit superficial, but still.
Bank account.
Generosity.
God-given eyelashes, and a clear eye on the world.
Saturday: I think this list of 43 says more about me than the young woman. How heavy my worries. Neurotic. Enough, enough.
*Bike: An acceptable term for almost any motorcycle , which is also often called a ride, sled, beast, the old lady, sweetheart, my precious, That Broken Down Old Piece of … and so on. Usage: “Sweet ride. How long have you owned it?” Big twin: Any large displacement Harley-Davidson. Fromhttps://www.themanual.com/auto/motorcycle-slang-lingo-terms-terminology-dictionary/Oct 16, 2023
We can turn our lenses on sad things, or stately ones. Maybe we can somehow change our world, or it can somehow change itself, or karma can shake it, from being pocked with school shootings, when we want to look away and pray they never happen again, into a place where animals and people watch and are watched closely in their still and natural beauty, contented. These photos are by my young friend Ryan Cassidy, who captures owls, cardinals and woodpeckers with his observant eye. He must be quiet, or the moment passes.
If we turned the lens on ourselves, what would we see?
Designer Caily Herbert grew up down the block from us here in Montclair. Young Figgy received one of her girlhood dresses, a fancy hand-me-down, new with tags. Caily's been a baker, worked on a farm and in the book publishing world, involved with the (near) release of a very big book. She attended Bard College, in its magical perch overlooking the Hudson River.
But now, behold: Her dreamy, handmade clothing line fashioned from finite amounts of fabrics and trims that she found on her treasure hunts. Every garment is made-to-order.
From the PerennialSpring website: The Butterfield Skirt in eucalyptus green cotton, ever so slightly sheer. Order skirt with lining for ensured opacity. Garments pictured are unlined. Available in sizes XXS to 4X. (That's Caily modeling.)
I love this feminine circle skirt, made with vintage Schiffli lace trim that Caily says "looks like frosting on a cake." A long row of covered buttons at the side adds to the confectionery appeal. In one Instagram photo, Caily models the skirt while holding a blue frosted cake with careful swoops of white icing. "Correct accessory for the Butterfield Skirt," the caption says. If I get the skirt, it will be a splurge to wear as a feminine basic, with a black top and black capri leggings, since I am no longer twentysomething. A kitten heel would help, too. I love the color (my favorite), the cut, the swing, the buttons--and the cake lace. 👗👗🎂
This beautiful young woman can sew and bake...for her mom's milestone birthday party, she made a "Wedgwood" Cake modeled after the famous English china pattern dating to May 1759 and named for potter Josiah Wedgwood. Here's that iconic color scheme (BTW, the designer's mother, Kate, said both blue cakes tasted as good as they looked):
I'm Alice and I've been writing for most of my life--first, in a little green five-year diary my friend Lorraine gave me for Christmas in 6th grade, then for newspapers, magazines, websites and companies. I've blogged here, often daily, since Feb. 2010, trying hard to write truthfully even when it's scary. My husband and I are now freelance writers, so sometimes still we can afford salmon for dinner and sometimes we can't. Our daughter (blog name Figgy) is an artist and scientist in cyanobacteria algae research. The teen we are raising as legal guardians but have loved as our own (code name Punch/Skippy/Spice/Spike) is in high school. Our days range from sunny to sad, successful, sweet or funny. Reach me at alicehurley@aol.com.
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