Moving On

The pool and courtyard--we've been living like movie stars. 

Today we leave AVE Clifton luxury rental residences. State Farm Insurance found our temporary furnished home here after a towering tulip tree fell through our roof. We moved in March 21. We've been very comfortable, very lucky. We felt few bumps in the road while most of our house was gutted to the frame and refashioned.

The surprise perk is we've crossed paths with such colorful people, from a young African man studying malaria cures to a Swiss family with a lovely two-year-old named Alice Rose [just like me]. I loved talking to her mom about their holiday traditions. Then there are other residents like us, displaced due to fire or storms, or between moves. Thank God for home insurance.

I hope we'll be able to remove everything by about 5 P.M. Everything except H.'s and my bicycles. [Figgy's is already back in town.] I think we'll ride them over to Montclair one day next week. It's a bit of a long and hilly ride, and no time now.

I Never Can Say Goodbye
We'll miss living here. I don't know if I will ever again have a view of the NYC skyline twinkling at night [when the trees are bare]. And we have to move on from free hot Starbucks all day in the cafe [H. is really going to miss that], the pool and patio in the summer, plump warm comforters, beautiful landscaping, the kind and courteous guest services staff, a sleek business center to work in. Figgy will miss the gym, and the sunrises. One big rude awakening: We will have to clean our own home again, no knock on the door from the nice lady in housekeeping every Wednesday. [Here's the link: aveliving.com.] I'll let you know how that cleaning blip goes. The forecast isn't pretty.

I've been thinking about moving, and why I don't like it. I wonder if it has do with losing my mother when I was 20. Maybe I don't want to lose something I've gotten used to. My mother was sentimental like me; after a haircut when I was a little girl, she saved my sun-lightened ponytail in a baggie in a mahogany bureau drawer. What can I say.

There's also a finality to it. H., Figgy, Sug and I have been here for 2/3 of a year--through Easter, Fourth of July, Halloween. Now we move on to the next chapter--back in our carefully rebuilt 1920s home. Figgy will have good stories to tell about this upscale living. We all will--even Punch.

And God willing, our next chapter will be a long and happy one. My old desk with the spool legs from Good Housekeeping http://insearchoftruthandbeauty.blogspot.com/2010/02/climbing-out-of-blue.html is waiting for me in my cozy sunroom office. It's the same desk I was working at when the tree fell. And if the old brick chimney had not caught the trunk--like a fearless, protective father, but breaking in half under the pressure--I might not be here to tell my story.

P.S. I love blogging daily, but if my posting becomes erratic, it will be because my laptop is broken, our internet service is out or I'm totally stressed out fending for myself without a concierge staff. ;) Wink--I think.

Up Side

I love this office in the condo lobby. It has five computers set up in sleek cubicles with granite desktops, plus a three-in-one whiz machine that copies, faxes and prints. When it isn't jammed, like whiz machines everywhere seem to get.

I guess I really do like a room of my own, per Virginia Woolf. I can't see or hear the other residents who work here, and usually, it's only one or two others. We do hear each other sneeze [I like how the man next to me said simply, "Bless"] or sigh [the world is heavy on our shoulders sometimes] or speak in a foreign language. But it's really easy to concentrate and be productive. Just look ahead and write, write, write, fingers flying over the keyboard. It feels good.

When I'm working upstairs in the condo, I see baskets of laundry to fold [or remind Figgy to fold], stacks of bills to pay, reminders to myself about thank-you notes I haven't written. Plus dishes to wash, pots to scrub, a dog to walk, a family to talk to. A toothbrush to use, a bed to sleep on, a phone to talk into. Clutter to sort, receipts to file, plants to water.

Fortunately, H. made dinner tonight [fresh asparagus, eggs with cheese, pan-crisped potatoes, avocado, watermelon] and he is home with Figgy. So I had the freedom to be here.

Virginia's words:
"All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point—a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved. I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion upon these two questions—women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems."

I wasn't working on fiction tonight but on a magazine assignment, for money, that might help me get to working on the fiction. Don't know. Not sure. Haven't given up the dream, and have a good story line in mind. Thank you for being there to listen.

Good night.

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

I feel funny griping about having to pack out our house and our belongings, and parting with material things, especially after reading my friend Kim's blog posting today about the unthinkable loss of two young brothers--one 15, one 12--from carbon monoxide poisoning while they slept. [Kim's blog is listed on my sidebar: It's called This Blog's Got No Title. The entry is really moving.]

I'm reminded of what the police officer said to us on March 13, the night the tree fell on our house. "People you can't get back. The rest of the stuff you can," he said before he left, the water dripping from his plastic-covered policeman's cap.

Out with the Old
Still, it's hard to have the presence of mind to wade through piles of stuff and throw out big and little pieces of your past. I'm physically tired from Day 1 of the packout--there are about two more days to come, next week. I just want to wash my face and go to sleep. I'll resort to my list format here. Some of the things we tossed, or lost, depending on how you view it:

1. Figgy's baby clothes. Many moms I know pack up clothes and pass them on to a friend or neighbor as soon as their child grows out of them. But because I spent so much time hoping we'd have another baby, I kept them all. At this point, it's not hard to throw them out. When I was yearning to be pregnant again, it would have been. Having our sweet almost baby for over a year helped get it out of our system. But H. and I are both very sentimental. We kept a lot: the plaid-trimmed blue jumper from the first day of pre-K; the little yellow Curious George dress; the pink floral Easter dress; the Easter bonnet; and, especially, the little fuzzy blue hooded fleece L.L. Bean jacket that magically fit Figgy for several years. Sisterhood of the traveling jacket. Is it a coincidence that all of these outfits appear in our favorite family photos? I don't think so. That makes them vivid in our memory. It's not just a fleece jacket, but the fleece jacket Figgy was wearing when H. was holding her on the beach one evening on Cape Cod.

2. Old magazines we wrote for. The stacks of Good Housekeeping Christmas issues in which my first [and so far, only] published short story appeared. [How many copies do I really need?] The ones from the early 90s, so dated now--with cover models like Valerie Harper and Delta Burke and pages of recipes that were much more involved, typefaces that look so old-fashioned now. Today's fonts read clean, fast and uncluttered. The new GH recipes are far more streamlined.

3. Punch & Judy's toys. They got soaking wet when the tarp over the split roof leaked and water got into the basement. Out went the play computers, the toy guitar [sorry, because Moey and her family passed it onto Punch], the button book that Punch loved to play with.

Rescue Mission
The flip side is the panicked parachuting in to retrieve precious things you fear you'll never see again.

Wait! That little framed photo of me holding Figgy, cheek to cheek. It was taken on the day they came to make over our living room for a feature in the magazine. And when Figgy had separation anxiety in kindergarten, she brought that photo in her backpack every day.

Many items rescued were photos. The idea of them being packed in a series of big brown boxes, stored in a ginormous warehouse and then unpacked when we move back into the house months from now is just too far a bridge to span. Let's face it, we might never unearth them again. There are going to be a lot of boxes coming back in!

Other urgent last-minute rescues: Figgy's little sketchbooks, and inspirational things from my office, like the signs and magnets about life and love and believing that my friends gave me. And, especially a simple postcard I had over my desk; we printed it at at my last job. It says:

"I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul."
--Poet William Ernest Henley

Too tired to write more. Must sleep. Good night.

Little Green Diary: Easter Sunday

Here are my entries from 1973 [when I was 12] and 1974. Below those, what I would write now if I had the same narrow four lines.

April 22, 1973: For Easter, I got candy, Noxema [sic], a shirt and pink marker. We drove Sis back. I wore my pink lace dress. I am wearing my red nightshirt.

April 14, 1974: Happy Easter! The "bunny" left candy, gum, an eraser & a bobbing Snoopy statue in my basket. Joe, Jamie & Grandpa came over. We had a delicious Butterball dinner.

April 4, 2010: Went to church in Clifton with H., Fig, MJ, Tony & M. We all ate at condo w. Sis, Don & Papa. Papa old. Hope we have more Easters w. him. Got Fig and M. bunnies from Holsten's, Bloomfield place where last scene of "Sopranos" TV show was filmed.

Chocolate What?

Okay, it's chocolate bunny time, chocolate donut with pastel sprinkles time, chocolate-dipped marshmallow egg time. [I've got Rachael Ray's Chocolate Layer Cake rounds cooling right now, so they'll be ready to frost tomorrow before our guests arrive.]

But chocolate beer?

Our friend John Werner brought out a bottle of Rogue tonight--it's chocolate stout. We were over at the Werners for dinner [yum, as always].

The stout smelled good, had that rich dark cocoa color. But I didn't like the taste of it. I don't like beer, but guess I figured that the amazing allure of chocolate could transform anything. Our friend Michael said he liked the taste better than the smell.

Alas, chocolate stout or not, Easter is here. I'll fill the baskets for Figgy and her cousin Marissa in the morning. We sent Punch & Judy home with a basket last Sunday. H. already colored the Easter eggs, and they look really pretty. My dad is coming over tomorrow with Sis and Don, and Dan's cousin Mary Jane and her husband Tony [visiting from Florida] will be here too.

We have Lilly-like pink tulips on the terrace, and yellow ones on the table. I miss our garden at home, but have been seeing our creamy daffs, coral tulips and shy lavender crocuses this week when I've stopped by for necessities like layer cake pans, my grandma's rolling pin, potholders and Vosges Couture Cocoa.

New hope. New spring. Happy Easter.

Empire State of Mind

[Went to top, almost, of Empire State Building. Was looking forward to writing about it all day but now very stressed and upset as I finally start at 11 P.M. Figgy had three boys and three girls over today--there's no school tomorrow--and the neighbors downstairs called the front desk to say they were too loud, and front desk called us. I was at our house trying to record damaged items for insurance company; Moey came over to help me. H. was here.

Now am totally worried and afraid we will lose this home. Feel overwhelmed, powerless. Rage. Shame. Embarrassment. Guess it's not enough to lose our own home temporarily. Now this hangs in the balance too. Angry at Figgy, though I can't blame her for having friends and inviting them over. She did ask us first. They ate popcorn and pizza, played guitar. I'm sure they were loud, and these neighbors probably have to work tomorrow or maybe they have small kids etc. H. and I must keep a close eye and enforce limits with Figgy.

Now that I got that off my chest, can write. But not sure I will enjoy it, as hoped I would. Tired of spoiled teens who can't even say thank you sometimes. Was not very gracious in 10:30 P.M. conversation with H. and Figgy, when she couldn't understand why her cousin, visiting from Florida but still in Brooklyn for dinner, couldn't arrive tonight at 11:30 P.M. for sleepover but can sleep over tomorrow night instead. Hate life sometimes.]

Zipped into the city this morning to meet a magazine editor for coffee and talk about assignments--loved that. Have never gotten over the thrill of being at a magazine, just being there. Guess that makes me sound like my 20-year-old self, excited to meet my friend at Glamour, where her big sister worked. But I still love the electric charge, the ball [fashion ball, food ball, beauty ball, culture ball] pitched ahead of the curve. From the inner sanctum.

The office was right by the Empire State Building [ESB]. Since it was such a beautiful day, and I didn't have anywhere pressing to be, I decided to go get a view from the top.

Timeline can tell the tale.

10:40 A.M. Get on line, 33rd Street near Fifth Avenue. Turn down offers from at least three NY Skyride workers in royal blue jackets, who say you can spend $47 and skip the line. One says I'll have to wait 1 1/2 hours. Another says 2 1/2 hours, and a third says 3. Decide to trust only the maroon-suited ESB workers in official billed hats imprinted with "Observatory." They say tickets are $20 inside. Resist overtures from GrayLine sightseeing team, in red jackets, and yellow-shirted CitySights NY crew.
11:01 A.M. Walk by La Maison du Chocolat [yum] in lobby, get corralled up escalator to 2nd floor. Admire cool Art Deco details. Pull out small reporter's pad and start taking notes. Get some curious looks. Don't care, want accurate details.
11:10 A.M. Feel funny being alone. Wish Figgy, H., Sis or Punch & Judy were with me. Waiting among tourists who speak German, French, Spanish, Italian, English. Nice designer sunglasses by Coach and Prada chicly hold their hair back. Two women [one American, one foreign] have long, stunning, layered blonde hair. Look like shampoo commercial. Wish I could ask what brand they use.
11:17 A.M. "Remove your belts and your jackets please." Going through security. Put belongings in plastic bin, just like at airport.
11:24 A.M. Ticket in hand. Mine was $20 [adults 13-61]. Child 6-12 is $14; military person or senior 62+ is $18. Add $15 if you want to go the 106th floor, not just regular 86th floor observatory.
11:30 A.M. Getting dizzy and warm from weaving in and out on short, snaking lines cordoned off with maroon velvet ropes that match ESB workers' uniforms. Feels like line to get into Ellis Island/Statue of Liberty.
11:45 A.M. Wish I had portable fan. Watch family of four from Germany eating bananas. Reminded of King Kong.
11:50 A.M. Feels like long line for Flume water ride at Great Adventure.
High Noon Each group has photo taken--looks like you're standing in front of ESB. Great idea for group of schoolkids, or family of four who could use for Christmas card photo. My group is just me. Smile sheepishly for camera, hurry along.
12:10 P.M. Take elevator up to 80th floor.
12:15 P.M. Get out, walk six flights up to 86th floor. Huff, puff.
12:19 P.M. Made it. Panting. Air feels cold, fresh. Clean. See Tower Optical Viewers [insert 50 cents, look through]. See woman on cell phone. Good reception--wonder which service provider she uses. "Oh okay, all right," she says. "Well, I love you. Call me later on. Bye." Can't we be disconnected anywhere?
12:20 P.M. Remember great "I Love Lucy" episode about martians at ESB.
12:21 P.M. Think of coming here in the 1970s, with Mom, Dad and friend Irene. And of coming with H. before we married, and later, with H. and Figgy.
12:25 P.M. Look north and see Hearst building, where my friends at Good Housekeeping work, where the editors I write for work. The part I worked in for 10 years is at the base now, under the trendy skyscraper.
12:30 P.M. Notice words on buildings out there: MetLife [twice], 4 Times Square, GE, HERSHEY'S [sideways on brown Hershey-bar-shaped background--clever]. See pretty gold-dipped roof here, copper roof [now green] there. Graceful bridges, like bracelets. Madison Square Garden, Chelsea Piers, Statue of Liberty, Chrysler Building, Flatiron Building, World Trade Center site. Think of colleagues who had office there [all survived]. Mountains in distance. Central Park, huge, lush and striking. So grateful we have it in our big built-up city. Miss walking there. Must go back soon.
12:40 P.M. Two hours after started. Ready to go home.
12:46 P.M. No such luck. Mandatory pass through gift shop to exit. Pain in the neck. Notice crystal ESB statues, $49.99 to $599.99. DKNY fragrance for men or for women, $45. DVDs for sale--movies in which ESB has role [Sleepless in Seattle, Breakfast at Tiffany's, An Affair to Remember--smart marketing tie-in].
1 P.M. Still waiting on line to exit. Really sick of lines. Crave free space to walk. Take slingback heels off, slip sneakers on. Thank God. See "Kong was here" T-shirt, $20; "Gorilla Poop" chocolate-covered sunflower seeds, $8.99; giant stuffed Kong, $200.
1:14 P.M. Finally on elevator down.
1:17 P.M. Back in lobby at last. Glad I went up, but as another visitor said, lines were so long because it was rainy lately and today was such a glorious day. Also, it's Passover and Easter week, lots of tourists in town. Next time, go early, or late. Can enter 8 A.M. to 1:15 A.M.
1:30 P.M. Catch reflection in Starbucks window on walk back to Port Authority. Scary. Bad hair day--whipped down and windblown, color brassy from too much sun. Reminder that I was just way, way on top of New York, looking down in the open air.

Dream Catcher

Now that we’ve settled in a bit, we’re sleeping comfortably in the king-size beds at the condo. They’re giant, way bigger than Figgy’s twin at home, and our queen, which is pushed up against the wall in our Lilliputian bedroom.

Sleeping better has gone hand in hand with something else. My dream life has been incredibly fertile for the last two nights. I’m almost afraid to delve into it, because often, my dreams point me in a direction in real life, or bring up issues that I’d rather not contemplate.

Mother Figure?
Saturday night, I dreamt all about EJP, a women’s magazine editor I reported to for about 3½ years in the 1980s. I don't remember now exactly what I dreamed, just that I was back in my office in the skyscraper, working as her assistant.

EJP came from a small town in Wisconsin, and I really liked her. After my first editor, who didn’t want me to dabble in writing, but simply to excel at her expense reports and personal shoe orders [size 11N], EJP was a dream come true.

She was tall and gangly, had sky-blue eyes, and wore cute cardigans and eyeglasses. She was only a little quirky, and had an even temper, not like my erratic first editor. That meant so much to me. Better yet, she led the General Editorial department, overseeing the staff writers who wrote the service copy about food, fashion, beauty, decorating and crafts.

EJP was thoughtful. I think she was in her late 40s or early 50s, and I shared my first magazine byline with her. When I look back, I see a gracious pro who must have salvaged the efforts of an amateur. The article was about a charity that donated Cabbage Patch dolls--the hot toys back then--to kids in need. I don’t remember my phone interview with the lady at the charity, but I can tell you I was not at all as comfortable as I am now at asking questions and recording answers, and having the presence of mind to move onto the next question without getting flustered.

EJP had a boyfriend [B.], and I’d take phone messages when he called. We chatted often. They set me up on my first blind date, with B.’s friend’s son [it didn’t work out, but it’s a good story, like many blind dates]. She and B. even drove down to my apartment at the shore to deliver two hip canvas and chrome chairs they could no longer use.

She was generous. She bought me pots and pans for my first apartment, a set of knives that we still use, and a place setting of our sterling silver flatware from our wedding registry. She and B. invited us over for dinner, and came to our wedding. H. and I went to theirs. B. had grown kids from his first marriage; EJP never had kids. She took me to lunch at Café Un Deux Trois on 44th Street one Christmas week, with another editor and her assistant, and got me a rich chocolate cake from Zaro's for my birthday.

When I got fired after freezing at the typewriter once I was promoted to writer, she got out her Rolodex and gave me every contact she could think of. When I moved onto Good Housekeeping, we met for lunch regularly, and continued to exchange Christmas gifts for a few years.

We fell out of touch after EJP and B. moved to Florida. I tried to reconnect a few years ago. I hope she is okay.

EJP's Rules [spoken or not, this is what I learned from her about writing, and about life]
1. Make sure one sentence leads to the next. In other words, even though there’s a period, you have to connect one thought to the next with a transition--like but, while, moreover.
2. It’s okay to get mad in life and work. She’d sometimes blurt things out at someone. She didn't pull punches. She wasn’t always loved for that, but being loved did not pay her salary.
3. Save as much money as you can. EJP instructed me [just as Sis did] that whenever I got a raise, I should put the difference directly into my 401K. I did.
4. It's good to be friendly and able to draw people out. "You'd be a great guest at a cocktail party," she once told me.
5. Your name matters. One unfortunate young assistant at the magazine had a name I don't want to mention here, but it was along the lines of Blondie. "She should change her name," EJP told me. "No one is going to take her seriously with a name like that."

Real Mom
Last night, I dreamt about my mother, who died from cancer at the end of my sophomore year in college.

It's been 11 hours since I woke up, so I can't recall all of the details. But I do remember that I was time traveling and got to be with my mother in her late 20s/early 30s in New York City. [In reality, by that age, she had two or three kids and lived in suburbia. But I wasn't born until she was 36.]

She was pretty, so pretty. That part is real, especially when she was a younger woman. She had rich chestnut hair, soulful brown eyes, soft skin and a zest for life. Her enthusiasm was contagious.

In the dream, she was the hippest, coolest one in her group of men and women. She wore a leather jacket, and made wise cracks. She drove a big car. At one point, everyone piled into taxis to go to a store where they'd all meet up. She got into her car and I think I got a ride with her.

Her beauty shifted in the dream. When she turned one way, she was stunning. From another, not so much.

My Dad was not in the dream. Where was my good Dad?

Knitting the Two Together
I don't think it's a coincidence. Here I am, lost in a way, uprooted from my home, afloat. [This morning when I stopped by our house for the mail, water was dripping into our living room and dining room.] Having to face a lifetime of possessions, sort through them, discard many. Confront my hopes and dreams head-on as a wife, writer, mother, daughter. Sift through the tangible remains, the memories. Keep what is important, be strong enough to dump the rest. Realize I am not throwing away people, just things. Not power, just paper.

Still, I'm looking for security. For a mother.

I think I tried to turn EJP into a mother figure. It didn't work.

My life can be divided into Part 1 [had a mother] and Part 2 [motherless].

My mother's absence shot a hole in me, and I think I've spent Part 2 looking for ways to fill it.

The Apartment

In the hall this evening, I smelled Sunday dinner cooking behind closed doors. It took me back to my girlhood, to the Sundays when we'd go to the Bronx to have dinner at Uncle A and Aunt C's.

Apartment living was foreign to me, starting with having to find a spot on the street, continuing with a view from the terrace. I was fascinated by the incinerator. I'd go with Uncle A. to drop the trash and you could see a real fire down there. How strange that seems now.

They'd make roast chicken with carrots and potatoes, or pasta with red sauce. Aunt C's specialty was chocolate-cream pie; my mother and I loved it.

Romanticizing Apartments
Lots of the TV shows I was weaned on were based in apartments, especially "I Love Lucy," "That Girl," and "The Mary Tyler Moore Show." Those apartments were great. Who needed a house? Not Lucy and Ricky, at least not until they moved to the country with Fred and Ethel.

I also adore the portrayal of New York apartment living in Hitchcock's Rear Window.

Real Life
But in my life, I've only lived in an apartment during senior year in college--campus housing, the Henderson Apartments. We had three bedrooms, five women.

My apartment at the Jersey shore was one of five in a converted house, so that didn't feel very apartmenty. I liked the charm of H.'s apartment in Park Slope, with a big window to hang his Christmas wreath in, and a mantel with marble hearth. I didn't like the sound of mice scurrying when the lights went out.

I liked my oldest brother's apartment on Mulberry Street, where we spent many a Christmas. The intercom, the elevator, the view of the walled churchyard across the street. I loved Sis's on East 82nd Street between Second and Third--I spent many a night there and went for many a party. I could still describe it perfectly to you, from the mailboxes to the fire escape.

My Irish grandparents lived in a "garden apartment" in Dumont for years....I could also draw that floor plan for you at a moment's notice. See the bedroom and kitchen windows looking out over Sunnyside Avenue? See that old washboard built into the sink? See the stairs I'd walk up, and my grandfather leaning over the banister to say hello in his Irish brogue?

My Italian grandma had an apartment in the Bronx. I remember visiting her neighbor, Mrs. Bouto. I remember my family packing up my grandma's things from her bedroom after she died. I don't really remember much else, because I was younger.

Apartment Compartments
Our friends Celia and Greg live in a really nice apartment in NYC, and I love to visit them. H.'s old friend Dan always has a cool apartment. My brother Will and Kelly live in an apartment they've decorated with pretty colors and nice decor.

I think what I like best about living like this is a place for everything and everything in its place. You can't fill it up to the roof with belongings and junk. The living is pared-down and streamlined, and that makes everyone calmer.

At least until tomorrow, when we really have to dive into packing up the possessions in our home.

Denise the Menace

The little princess is visiting for a sleepover. She's three, and like family to us. We love her so much.

All that sugar aside, let's get down to the spice. She gets into everything. That's why I nicknamed her Punch & Judy--it sounds like a name with a lot of bravado, gumption and fun. And like it combines the energy of two average children--or a whole puppet show--in one. I used to call Figgy Punch & Judy when she was little too.

Here are the things we did today since 3 P.M.:
1. Persistently asked an adult to move the black iron chair on the terrace closer to the railing, in the hopes that we could stand on it. Request thwarted.
2. Almost overturned the potted magenta ranunculus onto the living room rug, except H. caught it midair.
3. Opened about six of the little glass doors enclosing the red fire extinguishers in the very long hallways here. Even though asked repeatedly not to.
4. Hung upside down from the railing in the private movie screening room downstairs--but then so did our new friend, Paulina, 2 1/2, who lives here.
5. Played happily with Nikki, our dear friend from Montclair.
6. Had Reese's peanut butter ice cream birthday cake and got two presents. Smiled as five people sang "Happy Birthday" to me. Blew out all four candles. Asked if could take presents home.
7. Ate animal crackers [Lilly Pulitzer edition, to benefit World Wildlife Fund] in bed.
8. Took a long bubble bath and filled up the pink shower cap with water and dumped it out, since cap was closest thing to bath toy we had around.
9. Went to the playground, picked up acorn caps, put them on our thumb. Went on the swings and the slide.
10. Asked to be held rather than walk on a couple of long walks.
11. Peed on the carpet a couple of times and then announced it.
12. Pushed the elevator buttons. Every time.
13. Swiped H.'s cell phone from the car, but readily admitted it and gave it back.
14. Tried to climb on the decorative display in the lobby.
15. Swiveled in a cool chair in the common area.
16. Almost broke one of the lights on the entryway steps. "It's hot," we said, after exposing the bulb and touching it.
17. Set the table.
18. Sat at Figgy's computer and announced we couldn't leave for the playground yet because "I have to work more. I not finished."
19. Played with the cute birthday cake puzzle Nikki and her parents gave us. Imagined that DVD cabinet was an oven. Put cake in, closed doors, opened them carefully using mitten for oven mitt.
20. Went through Fig's treasure box, dumped out her box of incense sticks.
21. Changed the time on the digital clock.
22. Threw pizza slice in the pot of water soaking in the sink.
23. Cuddled up with Figgy, then Alice, to read bedtime stories.

Can you blame me if I called her Ramona once in the midst of it all, a nod to Beverly Cleary's Ramona the Pest?

Signing off grateful for this lovely little presence in our lives, and for the joy and love she brings out in H., Figgy, me and Sug.

Negative Cancels Positive

Today I ventured into the Allwood Bakery in Clifton. Its reputation precedes it. My friend from Rutgers, Ruthie, who grew up here in Clifton, brought me some butter cookies from there when we first moved to Montclair [in 1994] and told me about the place.

Every year at Pumpkin Day, a big realtor in Montclair serves hot cider and huge platters of dainty butter cookies from the Allwood. They are unbelievably delicious, the quintessential bakery butter cookie.

But somehow, I had never been to the bakery until today. Now I live much closer to it. I waited five whole days to get there.

Goody Bag
I got 1/4 pound of the cookies and shared them. I also got four Red Velvet Cupcakes for $2.25 each. The young lady packed them in the classic white bakery box and tied it with the red and white twine.

"These are my favorites," she said. "He was making a big batch of the icing back there and I was like, 'Hold me back.'"

A Teen's Sweet Honesty
Figgy's friend A. was eating dinner over, and I knew the girls would like the Red Velvets [even though H., a health writer, said "You're poisoning us" when I brought the box into the condo]. The frosting was a perfect swirly mountain cap of what I assume was cream cheese, butter and sugar, with a little red decoration in the middle.

But they were big cupcakes. "Eating a whole one is like eating an elephant," said A. as I drove her back to Montclair. She took half of hers home, wrapped in foil.

Oh, to be young again, with that clear perspective on life. No holds barred, no vision clouded by a lifetime of wear and tear.

One Step Forward, Five Steps Back
About an hour before that, I panted and sweated on the treadmill for 20 minutes at the gym here. The machine said I burned 240 calories. A fraction of the calories in one of those cupcakes.

One day I will decide which is more important: the negative indulgences or the positive improvements. I hope I can find a healthy balance in my life.

Tonight I bought the book Food Rules by Michael Pollan. I am about to read it now. Just flipped the book open to Rule 16:

Buy your snacks at the farmers' market.
You'll find yourself snacking on fresh or dried fruits--real food--rather than chips and sweets.

Food for thought.

Rubber Ducky, You're the One

"There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them." --Sylvia Plath

I completely agree.

The Good, the Bad & the Ugly

Sometimes a list says it better than text. We signed in to live at the AVE luxury condiminiums in Clifton, about 4 miles from our house. Built two years ago. We'll likely be here about three months. Sugar is on my lap now, down in the lounge. I just took her out.

The Good
1. Bathtub, nice big bathtub, not like our old one. Calgon, take me away.
2. Cleaning lady, every Wednesday. We had a cleaning lady for years, every other week, but had to stop.
3. Spa services on site that we can sign up for [massages, masks etc.]. Figgy and I love that.
4. Fitness center open 24/7.
5. Free breakfast in lobby every day from 6 to 9: fruit, oatmeal, yogurt. Guess there are a lot of business travelers?
6. Starbucks coffee, plus tea and cookies in lounge all day--and water with fresh lemon slices in it, which sounds even better.
6. Iron, ironing board, washer, dryer, vacuum cleaner, two big bedrooms, three TVs, dishwasher.
7. Closet space. Organized closet space in all rooms...bathroom, bedroom etc. Not like the tiny closets in our 1920s home. Can feel much more organized this way.

The Bad
1. Have to walk really far to take Sug out. Not like just opening our front door and being in the yard. Could not be old person living here, too long a walk. Takes me like five minutes to get out, down the elevator from 2nd floor and through winding hallways that vaguely, vaguely remind me of "The Shining," a movie I have never watched in full because the little parts I've seen have terrified me.
2. Can't walk to grocery store, P.O. and stores, as at home.
3. Don't know neighborhood yet where walking Sug.

The Ugly
1. Growing pains all around. Overemotional husband. Teenager with big bedroom and door with lock on it.
2. Sug pooed in the hallway just now as I was heading out. Like I said, it takes 5 minutes to get out until I find another exit. Thank goodness I had a bag with me.

Better days ahead.