Tom and I have now been away from New York for nine days. We left on Thursday morning in a Uhaul packed with the help of our friends in Hell’s Kitchen, and drove slowly through a wintry mix down to Virginia, where his parents awaited us with dinner and their sparkling new upstairs condo, outfitted like a 5-star Airbnb. Continue reading “Stomping Forward”
Yesterday, between the Union Square AT&T (where I picked up a new iPhone) and Mayson Kayser, where Tom and I stopped for a leisurely bite to eat, it occurred to me that New York – especially on a misty fall afternoon – was a magical place to be, and that my time here was limited. Continue reading “New York, Revisited from New York”
“A lot of women, when they’re young, feel they have very good friends, and find later on that friendship is complicated. It’s easy to be friends when everyone’s 18. It gets harder the older you get, as you make different life choices, as people say in America. A lot of women’s friendships begin to founder. I was interested in why that was, why it’s not possible for a woman to see her friend living differently and just think, Oh, she lives differently.” — Zadie Smith, PBS NewsHour, October 2012
It is possible. But I wrote on Wednesday how much I dislike change, inevitable as it is. Hence this Sunday’s Seven: the truth about maintaining friendships in the midst of life’s crazy changes. Happy Sunday. Continue reading “The Sunday Seven: Maintaining Friendships”
|In case you were wondering what an “obstructed view” at Carnegie Hall looks like.|
Last weekend, Tom and I went to California for a wedding. Continue reading “A Wedding, A Concert, Anxiety”
It was our anniversary yesterday and I had given Tom the actual day to plan something and taken the Wednesday after for myself (we are going to Briciola, a wine bar, and watching “A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder” at the Walter Kerr Theater).
Then, on Sunday night he said, “Minh and Paul invited us over for Pho on Tuesday.”
Over the weekend, a friend with expensive taste visited from Philadelphia.
“Take me shopping,” she said.
“Bergdorf Goodman,” I suggested, not because I’d ever purchased anything there, but because once, I had afternoon tea there with my cousin and, over a tier of rather bland cakes and scones, observed such a medley of people: from the rich to the superrich to the not-so-rich pretending to be rich – all rather idle – that I thought my friend ought to see the same. For purely anthropological reasons if nothing else.
We went on a Saturday afternoon and as per the average price tag of most items hovering around $3,000 (perhaps a Bergdorf merchandiser will stumble upon this blog and laugh at how off the number is), it was decidedly less crowded than say, Macy’s or Forever 21. I picked up crocodile clutches and put them back down. My friend, her mother having raised her with different material standards than mine (who proudly shops at T.J. Maxx and boasts how everything, regardless of what or when she bought it, costs “around seven dollars”) pointed at a few two to three thousand dollar handbags.
“I have that. I love it. Oh I have that one too. It’s great. Very functional.”
There was a Balenciaga I really liked. I tried it on and then looked at the price tag. $1,670.
“Ah.” I smiled the “just looking” smile at the sales woman who was coming closer and closer and put the bag down. “Perhaps another time.”
“That’s actually a really good price for a bag that quality,” my friend said with kind earnesty.
I marveled at how two young woman could be shopping in the same very real place, each operating in their own fiscal realities.
“I want to see Moncler,” she said, citing an expensive maker of down jackets and winter wear. We had already seen a small selection of Moncler at the Barney’s in the Upper West Side, but the styles were not “outrageous” enough, as my friend put it. She is a small, thin girl with big, fat style, and a budget to match the latter. I shrugged, “Sure,” and asked a rather bored young man wearing a Barney’s lanyard around his neck what floor.
“Six,” he said, nodding towards the escalators.
The day was getting late and I wanted to head home after Moncler. I had to do some reading for class and thought it better to let my friend shop in her natural state, that is, without a less budget-sensitive friend hovering around. I suspected my friend was holding back many a credit card swipe.
“Let’s take the elevator,” I said.
We waited but two minutes at the elevator bank before the door furthest to the right dinged. A moneyed young couple stepped out, like walking mannequins from a Brooks Brothers window. Seeing no one else, we started towards the open door.
As I stepped in, an elderly lady wearing an enormous, blonde fur coat emerged, as suddenly as a woman her age could.
“Oh,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. She looked dazed, and had one foot out the elevator and a tentative look about her creased face, which was poorly made up. Her lips and cheeks were too pink and the complexion around it nearly grey, as though the foundation had expired some decades ago. There was, above the deeply creased lips a thick mustache which she decided to leave three, four shades darker than her hair, which was too blonde. I wondered if it was a wig. It had a plasticky sheen to it. Her recently manicured nails, the only fresh thing about her, were painted a ghastly shade of teal.
She looked at me without really looking at me.
“Is this going down?”
I looked up and saw that the down arrow was lit.
“It is,” I said, and took a step back, expecting her to do the same.
“Can you get in?”
I cocked my head, wondering if she’d heard me wrong.
“We’re going up,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, putting one wrinkled hand up on the doors to keep them open and waving the other at me towards her, “Just get in will you. I hate riding alone in these things.”
My friend looked up from her phone, “What’s going on?”
I did what I felt was the obvious thing and motioned for her to get in.
“It’s going down,” she said.
“Just get in,” I said, switching to Chinese – my friend is from Taiwan – “This lady is a bit senile and she doesn’t want to ride in the elevator alone.”
My friend raised an eyebrow, said nothing else, and followed me into the elevator.
In the short ride down, I snuck glances at this strange, old creature, though I doubt she would have noticed even if I had ogled her, so rapt was her attention to the lights indicating which floor the elevator was on. She tapped her fingers against the fur coat, which my limited experience with such luxe materials prevents me from describing accurately, except I can say with confidence that it was real – perhaps an heirloom piece from another time. Her perfume was very strong, (equally inadequate is my sense of smell. I cannot describe perfume any other way but to say, “It was strong,” or “What? She was wearing perfume?”) and I saw now that the lipstick was not just on her lips, but all around them too.
For the ten seconds we rode in the lift together I wondered about her life and her fears and, as I usually do with women her age who are out and about alone, if her husband was still alive. I also wondered whether in God’s name her house had any mirrors. I imagined her living in a dark, unaired, unkempt, formerly glorious Park Avenue penthouse like a New York cousin of Miss Havisham, and was beginning to mentally squint my way through its musty dark halls when the elevator dinged and the doors slid open to reveal, almost incongruously, the glossy white floor of the spotless beauty department.
In keeping with her fear of elevators, the old woman practically jumped out with surprising lightness of foot as I stood slightly slack-jawed in the middle of the elevator.
“Thanks,” she warbled, lifting her hand and tossing a breezy wave in my general direction, “Bye.”
The doors began to close and I, amused the second time that day by a discrepancy in realities, watched the blonde head on the blonde coat make a beeline for La Mer.
A friend, also a denizen of SF, likes to say, “To get what you want, you have to tell the universe.”
I didn’t realize that telling E my ambitions in New York (aside from becoming a National Book Award winning and best-selling author) to “date up a storm,” was doing just that, with a few minor tweaks made by the Universe itself.
Apparently what I wanted was a bald white guy who worked in analytics and whose idea of an endearing pet name is “Ho-bag.”
The Universe hears – I know it does – but I’m not sure it listens.
The Universe also reminds me of POI; when they want to, they are capable of doing good, swift work. Otherwise they take their slow ass time providing things they know full well you deserve and you want to strangle them.
Less than a month later, the day before I left for New York, I was at the bachelorette’s wedding in San Clemente, Calfornia, sitting ramrod straight in a very snug chartreuse bridesmaid dress, wondering if I could eat the palm-sized portion of steak in front of me and leave the table with the dress intact.
My phone lit up. It was E.
“Betty!” she texted, “I want to set you up with someone!”
I raised my eyebrows and looked at the empty seat across from me where, just a few minutes earlier, there had sat a hilarious groomsman who, before and during the wedding, had showed plenty of interest in “getting to know me.” Once the bar opened however, he had boozed up and was last seen slipping off behind some palm trees with another bridesmaid, equally boozed up.
A good reminder, I thought, that douchebaggery existed in every city.
I ate a bite of steak and tried to breathe. So far so good. I put the fork down and texted back.
“Hey E! I’m game. But in SF?”
“In New York! Except he’s working in London right now, but it’s temporary. He’ll be back after winter.”
Hm. Via text, we worked out the logistics. He was back in the States for a few weeks – both for work and vacation. He was in SF now but would be in New York for about two weeks after I moved there – we were arriving a day apart – then he’d head back to London.
“He’s really funny,” E wrote, “but he can be kind of offensive.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. This was a strange introduction.
“But I thought ‘It’s perfect’ because you can be kind of offensive too!’”
I snorted, which stretched my dress to max capacity. I texted back, “Wha…” but rolled with it, “Yeah,” I said and added without thinking, “You can tell him I’m racist too.”
E, playing telephone/middleman/matchmaker, wasted no time dispatching a flurry of texts to her friend who was with POI.
I just met her this year but she’s really cool.
In the heavens, God nodded.
She’s a little racist. But who isn’t?
Oh and her last name is ‘Ho.’
Her friend relayed this vital information to POI, who said, “I have to meet this girl.”
Some people have really high standards.
Photos were exchanged. He had no hair, but did have a nice smile and bright, kind eyes of indeterminate color. E sent him an Instagram I’d taken earlier that day, in full professionally done bridesmaid hair and makeup – basically what I look like…never. But it was established that neither of us were fat trolls; the handoff was made. My number was transferred from E’s phone to her friend’s phone to POI’s phone where a new text box was opened.
My phone blinked again. I had just finished the steak and was wondering when my now-married friends would cut the cake.
“This is POI,” texted POI.
“Hi!” I wrote, though my face bore the expression one wears when one’s dress is too tight and there is still dessert to be had.
“Quick, what are your two least favorite races,” he texted.
I responded in two seconds flat with ____and ___ (though I’ll leave this to your imagination. Wouldn’t want to lose them as a demographic).
He waited a few beats then wrote, “Great. Are you free next week for dinner?”
My eyebrows rose again. This could be interesting.
The emcee announced the cutting of the cake followed by dancing. I picked up my phone.
I am, I wrote, but didn’t have my agenda with me so I’d get back to him tomorrow. At that moment however, it was my duty as bridesmaid to eat some cake and tear up the dance floor.
POI, reticent about his family, did tell me this:
“Don’t say anything racist when you meet my mom.”