Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

I promised my 11-yo niece Ella I would buy her one thing from the Harry Potter merch shop. It's mid-December and we've just spent half an hour talking about all the Pusheens Ella hopes to get from Santa. Ella believes in Santa, by the way. There are many reasons to clutch the jolly old man close to your heart. To let go of him is: to let go of childhood to disappoint her dad, who loves how much his kids love Santa a definite gamble. What if you say you don't believe and you turn out to be wrong and then you don't get any presents? There's a lot on the line here. It's like Pascal's wager but with much more immediate stakes. So we go into the Merch booth and Ella beelines to a sales lady in the magic wand section.  "How much are the wands," she asks. "$45," says the lady. "45 dollars?!!!," squawks Ella. "I don't think so!!!" She whirls around and stalks off. I scramble to follow in her indignant wa

We took the niece and nephews to Harry Potter on Broadway for an epic 8 hour day of back-to-back theater. As we were walking in the super crowded lobby during the first intermission, I turned to my niece and said, loudly to cut through all the background noise, I said "Are you able to see?" I asked her this question because she's 11 and therefore short and a tall guy was seated in the row right in front of us in the theater. Suddenly, a woman whirls around and gives me a brutal stink-eye. I notice she has a blind-person cane. It was awkward.

Success! 30 days of NaBloPoMo in the can. I would like to thank my entire fan base, which basically means Tom, Sean and Wanda, for their support throughout this journey. I also would like to thank the many readers who arrive at this blog by searching for "Is Cher an Indian?"  I love these readers, who have no idea who I am or how they got here on their quest for answers. They don't stay long and leave confused, but I cherish their tiny digital footprints during their one and only visit. I especially love the reader named Julie Bless who became incredibly irritated with me for insinuating that: Cher may not be a true Native American considering it looks like she can barely ride a horse in the half breed video; and Cher may not be entirely trustworthy about her ancestry given that she also claimed she was a gypsy, tramp and/or thief and that turned out to be a lie. I leave you with Julie's comment, the longest and most heartfelt comment I ever received on this

When I was studying in Stockholm, I recall a lesson about the difference between friendships in the United States and in Scandinavia. Imagine different levels of friendship on a target with a bullseye. Picture your best most cherished friends smack inside the bullseye. These would be friends you talk to all the time and share your deepest secrets with. The ones who would sit with you in the Emergency Room all night. Then as you move outward, the first ring are good friends, but not as good as in the bullseye, continuing outward until you get to the outermost ring which is basically for acquaintances. In Scandinavia, there will be a few friends in the bullseye and then like, nobody else. In the US, basically nobody is in the bullseye but then dozens of people are in the middle rings and hundreds in the outer ones. I've discussed this concept with Swedes and Americans over the years and everyone agrees that it's largely accurate. I just thought of something tonight. Y

Am reading the Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky. I've been reading it for days and hours and weeks and am still only 45% done. If I were reading the hard copy and not the Kindle I'd probably have major guns hoisting that fat ass book around. In Brothers Karamazov, the Father Zosima died. Spoiler alert there but the book is 150 years old. If I've now ruined it for you, I'm not overly sympathetic. This Father Zosima was a really respected Elder and everyone loved him when he was alive. Because of this, the town had the expectation there might be a miracle and his body might not stink in his coffin. I guess this is the mark of a saint, that your coffin doesn't stink up the place. Sadly, Father Zosima stunk. No miracle. And everyone started to question his greatness. Whereas the day before the town defiantly and wholeheartedly loved him, suddenly people began to doubt the worth of what he'd done for them. It reminded me of an article in the Onion about how

Historic moment, my treasured blog readers. I just wrote 100,000 words of my second young adult novel and put them in some semblance of a format. I may have even spellchecked. Here's a snippet: From where I lay, I could see the bottom of one soft black leather boot. My eyes peered up. And up. The boot went thigh high. Above the boot were dark green leggings, a skirt made of raw leather skins, and a glimmer of sharp metal and white gold hair. Afraid to move from my spot on the floor, I cowered at the feet of the slender woman occupying the middle of my bedroom.   She rose up on her toes and then settled back upon her heels. She cocked her head to the side, lifted one eyebrow and her violet eyes stared down into mine. Her movements rolled with sinuous grace and raw power. I knew right away she was not of the Earthen.   “By what name are you called?” the woman asked. Her voice sounded like chocolate milk. It took me a heartbeat to realize her mouth had not moved. She

My orchid had a baby! Here's a photo of the orchid while she was still pregnant. I should have removed the purple ribbon so you could see the baby better, but it grew right off the stalk of the mama orchid. It got so big! It had gangly roots flopping everywhere.  The baby orchid growing from the Mama orchid's stalk At some point, conversations ensued about when the baby would be ready to get clipped off and planted. Or born, if you will. The orchid resides on the table in my office, so of course this decision required at least ten people to weigh in and took a week to finally pull the trigger and induce labor. Someone brought in all the tools necessary for a successful orchid c-section. Hydrogen peroxide and alcohol to swab off the clippers (orchids are prone to fungus). And then cinnamon to dab on the "open wounds" if you will, because cinnamon is a natural fungicide. We laid out the equipment and got to work: The operating theater We plan

I was talking to Petrina about shoes. She wears a size 14, which isn't all that surprising when you consider she's 6'2. Petrina said it's mostly her in the shoe store aisle and then a whole bunch of crossdressers. While we're on the topic of shoes, here's a video that at one point I thought was totally hilarious. It doesn't hold up:

After Ma and I headed into the Met to see the Armenia exhibit, Pop decided to walk back to Chelsea all by himself. He documented the journey. Here are the sights he saw fit to commemorate.  BTW - Pop enjoys the selfie. I'm just not exactly sure if he realizes he will be in the selfie. Pop took a keen interest in the signs hanging around Central Park Then this happened. "RockaCentaFella" as my grandma used to say my uncle called it when he was a kid. Arriving in Chelsea from 7th Avenue. Nearby. Pop blows past our place and visits the High Line. He likes Chelsea Market, but only from the outside.

Went back to the Warhol exhibit at the Whitney for round 2 with my entourage. Mom and Dad decided to pop into the city for the weekend.  Except Mom has a concussion and should not be exposed to flashing lights or quick movements and so our visit was punctuated by my brother texting with health tips. He's had like 19 concussions so he's familiar with the ground rules. He suggested we cover mom's eyes. That makes the visual arts somewhat less interesting, but we did forego Andy's movies out of an abundance of caution. I say an abundance of caution because I watched one of the movies the last time I was at the exhibit. Nothing much happens during these movies. The introduction to the exhibit. Cool! The original screen for the flowers. Collaboration with Jean-Michel Basquiat The second Basquat joint effort. Now this was a danger zone for the concussed. Andy into skulls in the 70s. Definitely ahead of his time. I love these shoes. I

Many years ago I decided that Cards Against Humanity would be a great game for the whole family. There were certain cards, like three quarters of the deck, which needed to be removed, of course. Grandma was definitely up for a game and so were the niece and nephews. That's usually all the peer pressure it takes to make everyone else grudgingly show up at the table. But tonight I finally roped in the in-laws. I decided it would be a good idea to take a conversational pause because. Some people don't quote Bill O'Reilly, some don't complain about the price of ammo these days, while others certainly have trouble believing that anyone would pray to a god who is ignoring all the starving children in Yemen. Things were heating up, is my point. Tom's dad was suspicious about the whole game idea at the start, but Tom's step-mom is a fierce competitor, so she was fully in. We had fun. But I have a lingering fear. What if they go out and buy the real uncensored ga

Photo credit: http://sewingtheseedsofchange.blogspot.com/2011/03/ It's Thanksgiving week. I quit work on Wednesday, so Wednesday is like the new Friday. Which is why I was all confused this morning when I inspected my bean sprouts. I usually start the sprouting on Monday morning so by Friday, the sprouts are very sprouty. Salad-ready. But this morning, the bean sprouts were totally small. I said to Tom, "Something is wrong with my bean sprouts." There I was, all ready to harvest, staring at stringy and very tiny vegetation. It took me a good minute and a half to realize that although it feels like Friday, it is not Friday.

Friday night we went over to the Rubin to drink with some Buddhists. They're a lovely bunch, these Buddhists. Or at least they are when inebriated. The Buddhists have collected many groupies, such as ourselves, who turn up at the Rubin too. Everybody over there knows that I'm not a buddhist. Not that I look the part or anything, but one time I turned up at an alleged Buddhist book reading. I recall the title of the book was a very long word with a lot of squiggles above the letters. One of the Buddhists told me the writing was great, so I decided to pop in on the book reading. Why not, right? Except it was a book CLUB not a book READING. These terms are not synonyms. It became abundantly clear to most during the book club that not only had I not read the book, I had no idea what the book was nor did I have any intention of actually reading the book, at least by myself at home. I like drinking with Buddhists but I don't think I could be one. I have too many pairs of

Photo you do not want to use when selling a coat on eBay: No. If you ask me, the part about how you were snug despite the chilly morning probably doesn't outweigh the part with the dead fish. Recently I met the director of photography at Century21. Next time I run into him, I'll confirm my thinking on this matter.

Pop with Mom in background this summer getting ready to leave for a bike ride. In the middle of a conversation with Pop, he says he has to go. He and mom have lunch plans. I hear Mom in the background yelling to hurry up. Dad abruptly says goodbye. He's irritated, I can tell. He's half way through a good story and now the last part will have to wait. The ending will be ruined when he has to rehash the whole thing next time we talk. In my imagination, I see my pop press the button to hang up. Then he walks out to the car and gives my mother her cell phone back. She tucks the phone in her handbag. They drive off. #MobilePhonesWorkInCars

Andy: "If I stage dived today I'd be arrested for manslaughter."

When Tom was done running his three miles on the treadmill, he went into the locker room to retrieve his jacket. He had hung it on a hook on the far wall. Except his jacket, not on a hook. He stood there for just a second before he realized the terrible truth: He had not hung his jacket up in this locker room. He must have turned right instead of left in the hallway and hung his jacket up in the women's locker room. Tom hatched a clever plan. He would loiter outside the women's locker room and wait until someone came out. Then he would tell her that his wife had hung up his jacket in the women's locker room, but then I had apparently left in a hurry and forgot my husband's jacket hanging on a hook in the women's locker room. Admittedly, it was not the perfect story, but he felt it was good enough for the situation. Unfortunately, Tom never got the opportunity to test out his ploy. No one came out of the women's locker room and he gave up. There were like

Yesterday I was so excited to be T-1 day until half way, and then today I totally forgot about the entire endeavor. I have been completely distracted by the snowstorm and I’ve been lighting candles. Not because I fear the power will go out, but because I’ve decided that fire freshens up damp and/or dusty air. Tom believes this is spectacularly false. If you do too, then fine. I’m lighting candles in case the power goes out.

We were out to dinner with a friend awhile back, let's call her Tracie. She said, "Have you tried chlorophyll drops? They're amazing." I was like, "Seriously? What do they do for you?" There are a lot of benefits to chlorophyll, it turns out. A lot of benefits. I like remedies with long lists of non-evidence based benefits, so I pretty much had a bottle in my shopping cart by the time we finished our entrees. Maybe a month later, I get a text. "Did you try the chlorophyll?" I write back, "Yep!" Tracie replies, "Do you like it? Because if you like it, I'm thinking about giving it a go."

I bought these cotton reusable bags for vegetables and herbs instead of plastic. You wash your veggies and then toss them in the bag. When you use up the veggies, you put the cotton bag in the washing machine. Good as new. Except sometimes you might put the bag in the wash when it's not quite exactly empty. Tom: "Why is there cilantro inside my jeans?"

I cruise over to an empty bench at the YMCA and put a weight down on it. Just as I lean over to start a set of rows, I hear an "excuse me." I stop and turn around. photo credit: Workoutlabs.com "This is my bench," says a twenty-something bro. I stare at him. It's the only free bench. The gym is busy. The bench had sure looked unoccupied from all angles. "So can I work in?" I say in my most snotty voice. "Uh sure," says the bro. He looks surprised that I hadn't just pushed off. He clearly doesn't realize I've been lifting since probably before he was born. I probably joined this YMCA when he was in kindergarten. As I'm finishing my set, another bench opens up. I turn to the bro and motion toward it. "Oh no," says the bro. "That guy is coming back. You can tell he's coming back because he didn't wipe down the bench. You should only use equipment after someone lets you know they're do

A few months ago I went back to that doctor , the one who looked at my tongue, shook his head in dismay and proceeded to write me "prescriptions" for books I should read, vitamins I should take, and key dietary edits. Among other strong suggestions, the doctor said to drink celery juice in the morning. "Fresh," he said. Leprechauns invented celery juice. So I went home and bought a juicer and some celery. I learned pretty quick that when juicing, there's pulp left over.  A lot of pulp. Like you wind up with more left over than you do in your juice glass. Of course this was a problem for me. I'm not going to buy celery and throw away a whole bowl full of perfectly good mashed stalk. Some other thrifty type must have solved this problem, I thought because I trust the interwebs like that. My instincts were spot on. There are pages of juice pulp recipes. A lot of them are for crackers. Juice pulp crackers . Delicious, I thought! The recipes recom

Candle 79 is a full-on vegan place. It was Matt’s first time in such an establishment. I felt very honored by his fortitude in the face of so much bean dip and radicchio. The Candle 79 waiter goes by with a platter of onion rings. The food in question. When he comes back around to our table, Matt asks him, “What were those things that look just like onion rings?” “Ummm. Onion rings?” says the waiter. It will be many years before anyone forgets this incident. 

One of my most underrated skills is taking accidental photos, mainly of feet, shins and an occasional torso. This must be someone's home. Or maybe a hotel. I have a vague recollection of this flooring somewhere. I'm pretty sure this is MoMA. Hey, there's a wheelchair. No clue if ceiling or floor. Could be a moonwalk. This was at Basilica Soundscape in Hudson at the bar. No idea what comprises the foreground. It looks like a grocery bag. Somewhere between West 12th and Tribeca. At first I was thinking this is a subway platform, but then reconsidered. Way too clean. Definitely a television set. Autumn Asphalt Fingers and feet, my photographic specialty. Oh I know what this is! It's the end of the strap on my wallet.

Tom impulse bought the new Shark robot vacuum cleaner on Amazon. It was the deal of the day - half price. He unboxed it and set it up immediately. "How's the shark doing?" I asked when I got home. "His name is Bumpy," said Tom. Tom got the app and set it up so that Bumpy exits his dock at 6am and vacuums for an hour. Wild beeping at 6:15AM: Me, groggy: "Bumper is stuck on something. I think you have to get up and rescue him." Tom: "His name is Bumpy." "That's what I said," I said. "No, you said Bumper. His name is Bumpy." Bumpy is oddly charming with his little brush flippers and twirling gait. I can watch him bang into the walls for hours. But all the while, I fear for his safety. So much danger-- cords, ledges, ridges, socks. I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear him roll down the hall and find his dock, all by himself. He's such a smart little robot. So proud. "I think if I added up all

The worst kind of deaths are the ones that seem senseless and showcase the cosmos at its most cruel. You can always tell by the funerals when the young have fallen. The parking lot overflows. The queue to pay respects weaves through multiple rooms and there are teenagers and grandparents and everyone feels the cold flutter of the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead. A crystal clear light surrounds every coffin filled with a beautiful child. Its glow illuminates life's list of Most Important. All the bullshit fades into the shadows. Or it should.

First it was yoga pants that clearly had not just entered or exited a yoga studio. Unspoken rule: the yoga pants were always worn with sneakers, Dansko clogs or possibly Birkenstocks. Period, end of list. Even if everybody was fully aware of the lack of yoga amongst those panted up for it, the pretense was maintained. Sometimes it's important to maintain pretense. That's what civility generally consists of - not letting your freak flag poke out the eyes of innocent bystanders. A few weeks ago, I had a sighting of yoga pants, the kind with the shimmer and the see-through panels, worn with regular shoes. The sighting occurred near Chelsea Market and the woman in question was definitely a tourist. Although I made a mental note of the incident, I didn't think much of it. The perpetrator looked like she came from Des Moines, and, while in Des Moines, had envisioned her "I'm going to look like a New Yorker" outfit. But today. Today I had another sighting on

Today I became annoyed while stuffed into an MRI machine. At the part where you need to hold your breath, the technician kept saying, "Ok, ma'am..." He must have "Ok ma'am'ed" me something approaching 20 times. This was not some random patient drive by. That technician and I were like best buddies. How could we not be chummy after spending at least an hour of quality time together? I know he knew my name because he made me verify it while they were weighing me with my coat and boots on. The good news is that maintaining a baseline level of annoyance is very distracting. It can make you forget that you've been sucked into a fancy electric straw that is aggressively beeping at you. Maybe distraction was his plan all along and I should thank him for the clever patient-centric ploy.

Allegedly, back when he was six, Jackson asked me how old he had to be to blacksmith and I said "in five years." So ever since the kid turned the big one one, meaning 6+5=11, he was on me like white on rice to try out the forge. I was pretty sure I had a one-year reprieve. He was seven when we had this conversation. I knew this mainly because I wrote a blogpost about it.  I didn't even bring up this factoid though. I figured I had an ace in the hole: "Go ask your mother," I told him. "Sure," said my sister-in-law Mary. "Ella wants to try too." That didn't go as planned. Not that I wasn't loving the idea of schooling the kids in the art of bending steel, but to bend steel, you need a fire that is two thousand degrees Fahrenheit. That's fucking hot. You get your tiny eleven-year-old fingers anywhere near that roaring white-hot scorcher and you have a 3rd degree burn worthy of an inpatient stay. Plus, my shop is not OSHA comp

"Have you seen the news?" they asked me. "Did you get my email?", "Did you see the meme with the rapper face tattoos vs passed-out-at-a party-in-the-90's-magic-markers?"  No. Nope. What? I cut my finger. The entire week, I couldn't open up my iPhone or my computer without the whole type-in-the-passcode workaround.  It was harrowing.

This post acknowledges the commencement of NaBloPoMo - National Blog Post Month. It used to be a big thing. Or it was a big thing back in the day when I actually took actual time engaging with the blogging community. Then all my blogger friends slowly vanished like white shoes after Labor Day. Lots of very fine people have a blog for a while and then one day you visit their dusty page and it has been hacked by the Chinese and infects your computer with malware. But this year marks the end of an era. There is no more official NaBloPoMo. The leader of the whole shebang quit year before last, I guess. Someone stepped up in 2017 but afterwards, she did a little survey and most bloggers were not into the whole post-a-day-for-30-days thing. It's a time-suck, they said. Too much pressure. Too much chance of failure. Why don't we do something easier so we can all succeed, they wondered. I'm sorry, but that's the whole point - to do something risky and push yourself. T

After an approximately 9 year hiatus, Tom and I were back at the Halloween parade last night. We're no amateurs. We were out, decked out, on a Wednesday night. Things I learned: CareBears take up a lot of room on the subway.  It takes 10 times as long to walk anywhere when the barricades are set up like a really boring corn maze.  Halloween eve is a really poor time to move a giant mirror into your apartment. I did not learn this lesson personally, but the two guys who did probably will pass this advice on to their grandchildren. The lure was mainly Wanda and Derek's apartment. It's on 6th Avenue, 1st floor right in the middle of Soho. We opened up the windows and halloween in all its LED glory rolled out beneath us. It was like having box seats to a really disorganized flash mob. Wanda entertained herself by chucking candy at unwary children. Tiny Samuel L. Jackson was on to her though. He got two fun-size snickers bars and so did his little sister, John Tra