Where Was I?

After openimg at least three or four links to interesting nytimes articles, my link-hopping lands me on Gothamist. I read the quintessential NYC fantasy-rent-controlled-apartment story. Soon I am  buried in Google maps, winding deeper and deeper into the web that is the West Village. I am an East Village girl, and I have zero sense of direction in the West Village. Even sitting here with the map right in front of me on my iPad, I am still getting lost. And I am under the spell again.

Only a short walk to your holistic eating counselor

The consistent sense of bewilderment is part of the adventure. This neighborhood wields a trance inducing power. Even if you never find your way out, you won't mind. You wander around looking for a place that you think is here, but isn't there either. Instead you find yourself somewhere nearly identical, but not quite right. Then there is the sensation of surprise when you arrive at a corner you know very well. "Oh!" you say to yourself, "I didn't know Pleasure Chest was just around the corner from Elephant & Castle" or that the Village Vanguard is so near the place where you bought your precious leather jacket so long ago.

But every familiar place exists in it's own orbit. Naturally—or not—these orbits have no consistency. They are more like bubbles floating aimlessly, sometimes they intersect, but mostly they pass in a whisper. At night the shifts are stealthier. Move your eyes in the wrong direction and you will miss the link. You might walk two blocks in any direction. You will be in a different bubble, or not. If the orbits shift you will not be able to walk back the way you came. Your previous location is no longer where you thought you left it.


Your map lists all the cheese shops and bakeries, cafes, restaurants, yoga studios, book stores. The names that grab you are the ones that held you fast in your former life. Wandering around from above you find yourself drifting back in time. You are on Greenwich Ave., stopping at the places you once haunted. You feel the giddy ripples lift you up and drop you down on the streets you wandered with good friends and better lovers. The drunken kisses in crusty doorways swirl through you teasingly. There is the dimly lit den where you talked and drank for hours. Here is the bright peppery taste of the arugula in your 3am omelette. The cafe that used to be here still makes best toast ever.

Does it help you to find your way if you know that W.4th and W.10th intersect between Bleecker and & 7th Ave South? Hmmm ... Does it help you to know that from Sheridan Sq. your choices are Christopher St., Washington Place, Grove St., Barrow St., 7th ave, or W.4th? Well really, how? Some of these streets don't even exist on the other side of the square. Nearly within reach is the legendary Stonewall Inn. Its less than a block from here, But only if you are heading toward Waverly ... Oh look, here is Waverly, but it's not Waverly anymore ... Now it's Washington Sq. North. That's where 5th Ave. ends. If you find yourself in Washington Sq., you are back in your zone. Back to where you are on a mostly navigable grid. But save the grid for another time, when you want a firmer grip on the illusion that you know where you are.

Jumped ship

While poised to jump on a five, was unable to leave Google maps behind. Have landed in a strange new galaxy. Must find new paths to my old friends.

Back button is brilliant.

Heart Racing

So much more than chrome. My heart is still fluttering. It's not just my heart. The feeling grips my core, my center, my soul. Intensity. Swooning excitement. The frisson when the person you've been aching to kiss is only inches away. The longing that builds until the merest touch of a fingertip makes sparks.

The Noise and the Smell

I hear they are planning adult only flights. Not the naughty kind of adult flight--as far as I know--just the option for adults to enjoy relaxing on a plane without babies screaming and kids shrieking. I believe there has been some outrage--naturally-- but it sounds good to me. When I am fortunate to enjoy some adult time, the last thing I want is to hear someone else's kids making a racket. When the monkeys were babies I was constantly jumping whenever I heard a kid that sounded like one of mine. Back then it was rare to shop without them, so it was especially intrusive. (That said I still say hello to every cute little I see.)

So how about no perfume next? When are people going to stop walking around in a gagingly thick cloud of stinky chemicals that give me a headache?

Here is the personal scent rule people: Smell like anything you want, but no one, and I mean NO ONE should smell your scent unless they are close enough to hug you, or whisper in your ear. No exceptions.

Biology and Civics

8:30am. On our way to art camp it dawns on me that rather than dreading the big schlep across town, this 20 minute drive is excellent monkey conversation time.

We begin with biology. Every sentence starts the same way. "Mama, what would happen if ...?" This morning Sam wants to know what would happen if he drank a whole swimming pool full of water. This leads to hydration vs. dehydration. I'm a little obsessed with the benefits of keeping one's body well hydrated. So I explain that the best way to know if they are drinking enough water is by the color of their pee. Pale, almost invisible mixed with toilet water is ideal. That means your body has plenty of fluid to flush the toxins out. So conversely, really dark pee means your body should have much more water. Since we have done several projects recently involving food coloring, I asked them to think about how one drop of dye in a huge bowl of water would tint the water just a little bit, while a drop in a tiny cup of water would make a much darker color.


Then they wanted to know how long Obama gets to be president. I explained term limits. I explained that if it goes really well, then the vice president might get the next turn. Sam put it together quickly. He said that if the president has a lot of stuff to do, if he needs to go out and has a bunch of errands and he doesn't have enough time, then the vice president would go out and do those errands and bring back whatever stuff the president needs. I love that Sam thinks about how people can be helpful to each other. And I love --having just watched the first season of Veep, which was hilarious--the image of the VP going out to pick up the president's dry cleaning surrounded by the fleet of secret service cars.

35 forever

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?


Heard this yesterday and I can't stop thinking about it. At my advanced age of 45 I've been unwittingly collecting quotes about aging. Oh that it a typo. I just looked up and saw the number and realized it was wrong. As of April I am 48. How's that for denial?

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?

I'm pretty sure I am just about 35.

As women we are always ripping someone famous who has messed up their face. I have not seen the photos myself, but I am told Goldie Hawn still dresses like she did when she was 17. I've seen Laugh In, I know what she looked like in 1967. I just found a more recent photo of her that was much too close to be flattering.  (grrrr, why can I no longer pinch photos from IMDB??)  She could possibly pass for my age. But she was born in 1945. Meryl Streep was born in 1949. They are both in "Death Becomes Her"—a bizarre send-up of the lengths women will go to for maintaining their youthful beauty. That movie was made in 1992, and Meryl Streep was quite, quite stunning. Truly stunning. I love the way she's let herself get cozily plump and maternal looking. She's relaxed about knowing she has nothing to prove. If I were Meryl's daughter I would not be embarrassed to be seen with her in public. If I were Goldie's daughter I most certainly would. I have heard Madonna's daughter is mortified by her mother's public attire. Mutton dressed as lamb.

Mutton dressed as lamb. Goldie is doing it. Madonna does it. Joanna Lumley does it for laughs, and is hilarious as Patsy on AbFab. She always looks like she's about to topple over and— when she does there'll be nothing left but a pile of broken toothpicks. Krysten Ritter does a delightfully heartless version of the younger Patsy on "Don't Trust the B in Apartment 23". It's a damn shame the rest of the show is such puerile rubbish.

I probably don't need to make a list of all the Goldies and Melanie Griffiths out there. We've all got our favorites who've turned themselves into a horror show. Mary Tyler More broke my heart. But she started aging before modern technology. I just got lost looking up before and after photos—it really slows me down—but it was worth it. I idolized Mary in her "Dick Van Dyke" show days and it has been painful to watch her age so badly. Likewise Marlo Thomas, who I couldn't get enough of on "That Girl". A smokin' hottie.  Of course I will never forget Katherine Helmond's deeply disturbing mockery of the desperate vanity of the aging beauty in Terry Gilliam's "Brazil".

At around age 40 I became slightly obsessed with looking up the ages of every actress I liked in a movie or on TV. Am I comparing my aging process to theirs? Sort of. Mostly I am scrutinizing them for signs of the work they've had done. At one point in the early '90s I began to suspect that a number of actresses had seen the same artful surgeon who had given them a very similar, yet beautifully sculpted look.  Daryl Hannah was the first one I noticed. Then Michelle Pfeiffer, Jodi Foster, and especially Helen Hunt. The guy who did them is a master craftsman, an amazing artist. It's a shame Meg Ryan didn't go to him. Michelle Pfeiffer is 53 and beyond beautiful. She says  "I'm all for a little something here and there - fine. It doesn't matter to me if people have plastic surgery or they don't, or if they do Botox. But when people don't look like themselves anymore, that's when you kind of go, 'Oooh,' and it's kind of sad." Well said Michelle. And she can say it, because she's pulled it off better than anybody. Except we all know that no matter how beautiful you are, no matter how perfect your bones are,  no one can possibly look that good at fifty three. I respect her though, because even though her looks are slightly frozen in time, her face is not frozen. She deliberately plays older women, and does it with a sense of humour. Photos of Michelle: I like the first one because she just has a natural smile, and it doesn't look so much like a pose.  The next one is your perfect head shot. Glamorous, yet natural. 

And here is Michelle at a party for "Dark Shadows". Holding up pretty well. But, just for a moment can we talk about that hair?? So many actresses have worn this awful do for quite some time now. I don't get it.  The whole scruffy, messy thing with the dark roots showing. Who decided that women who don't want to look old should all have visible dark roots? This what your stylist does for those "candid" shots of you with that "oh I don't fuss with myself" look. The "I just stumbled out of bed and oh no there's the paparazzi" look. I could do a whole other  rant on stars with that same hair.

Who besides Meryl has relaxed the most gracefully into old age? Diane Keaton of course. Annette Benning, Helen Mirren is one of the best. But British actors are a whole other thing. Off the top of my head, for unattractive actors who get great parts we have Oliver Platt, Paul Giamatti, Philip Seymore Hoffman, Billy Crystal, Kathy Bates. I'll think of more. (That would be a fun list for people to add to.) Not very many survive Hollywood. I'm devoted to Colin Firth, but he had to learn to smile with his mouth closed before he became a famous actor.

Okay. So there is a whole other rant about how in the UK they make brilliant movies with actors who aren't particularly good looking.  I am trying so hard to stay on topic and not get completely sidetracked. It's nearly impossible. I'm hopeless.


Aging in fairy tales. I need to look into how many tales don't involve a scary old hag of some sort. Now that I think of it, that is the plot of so many of them. Another whole rant. As a child we don't think twice about the hag in our fairy tales. But now it starts to make sense. The most marginalized person in Western culture has to be the old, old, lady. Go ahead and argue with me. Why are there so many stories about witches? And so much persecution in real life? Because witchcraft is all an old lady's got to get any respect. The old crone punishes those who don't treat her with respect. Sometimes she's a witch taking testing people to see if if they are pure-hearted enough to be kind to an old hag. Beauty and the Beast. Often she's a witch who steals something from the young and beautiful so she can be beautiful too. That one comes up a lot. Rapunzel. Snow White. Cinderella. Michelle Pfeiffer has played a witch superbly.

The next time I break my arm

He already has it planned. He wants an orange cast this time--last one was black because they don't make them in orange. He said I'll do it after my birthday this year. Before turning four he broke his clavicle. He broke his wrist last year just before his sixth birthday. But it hurts doesn't it? Oh no, I don't care. I reminded him that we postponed the party last year until the cast was off. He said he'd do it after his birthday this time. But remember how frustrated you were, trying to keep water and sand out at the beach? You missed a lot of boogie boarding. Barely a pause. I'll wait and do it in the fall. I'll break my arm jumping into a pile of leaves. Lots of kids do that. But why? Because everybody talks to me. Everybody wants to know what happened and they all ask me about it.