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

  Empty hallways galore. Photocredit: Lofts Here's a revelation: Some people in our apartment building have grown very accustomed to having the place to themselves. Upon our return to Manhattan, our doorman told us that the building had been maybe 40% occupied throughout most of the hot mess that is this pandemic. Apparently our neighbors are 40-percenters. I went out in the hallway to drop a bag down the trash chute. Apparently I wasn't the only one who decided to take out the garbage right about then. I caught the neighbor from directly across the hall from us, a zaftig middle-aged real estate agent, zipping toward me in a sheer sort of nightie. She apologized for not having a mask on and covered her face with her hands. "Well hello, Ladies," I said cheerfully. Ha ha, no I didn't but I thought about it. A few hours later, Tom leaves for his run. Standing in front of the elevator is our other neighbor from down the hall. This guy has lived in the same apartment s

  Aunt Holly, Uncle Jack and my mom c1945 My Aunt Holly was my mom's Aunt Holly. So I guess she's technically my Great Aunt Holly. Whenever I think of Aunt Holly, my mind immediately conjures up soft cashmere and pearls. Mauve velvet curtains with opera music swirling around the room. A chaise lounge, a grey Persian cat. And the most beautiful handbag my 5-year-old eyes had ever seen. This handbag was the stuff of legends. I remember how it glistened with jewels -- encrusted emeralds and rubies and sapphires. Real pirate booty. All these precious stones arranged to form a fantastical image. Maybe the designed featured a decadent owl or a peacock, I can't quite remember, but definitely a garden of plenty. The whole thing twinkled. It was really bewitching. Occasionally I've thought about that handbag. As you get older ... you know, you realize things. Like I've realized that Aunt Holly's pearls were real. Her shoes were Prada. I figured sooner or later I'd st

  Possibly thirsty youths. "They're thirsty," says Tom waving his arm vaguely in the direction of the television. On-screen, I see a bunch of twenty-somethings lounging around in a restaurant or something. "What?" I say. I have no idea what he's talking about. "They're THIRSTY," says Tom. Louder this time like he's talking to someone with English as a second language. "I don't get it."  "It's slang," says Tom, very knowledgeably. "Yeah, I picked up on that."  Tom shrugs. "I don't really know what it means, actually." "You gonna look it up?" I ask. "Nah," says Tom. "Me either." Addendum: Tom read this post and states for the record that I have inaccurately captured this incident. He claims he figured out what "thirsty" meant long ago. Like ages. It is the term "thirst trap" that eludes him. Meanwhile, I freely admit I'm still entirely in

  The Montegrappa custom fountain pen I designed online all by myself. Only costs $14,500. Because who doesn't need a pen that costs more than their car? The longer quarantine continues, the more obsessed I've become with fountain pens. Fountain pens are ideal for situations where you are stuck in your home for months at a time and do not go outside. There are several reasons for this: Say you are in a customer's conference room and you leave your pen on the table. Your pen could easily fall out of your bag while you are walking across a parking lot. You may set down your pen at a coffee shop and someone nearby buries it under a pile of raw sugar packets and then you can't find it ever again. Reasons like these.  Any decent fountain pen has a gold nib for chrissakes. This ain't no bic you can just lose willy nilly. Also, fountain pens run out of ink so if you like to travel well-equipped, you need to haul around a glass bottle containing an incredibly indelible sub

Photocredit. We're back from vacation. The property our whole family rented by Lake George featured a small patio positioned on top of a hill a ways from the house. The thing with 13-year-olds is that their piercing shrieks carry over surprisingly long distances. Luckily I have tinnitus and enjoy me a nice deck chair. Mom and Dad (otherwise known as M & D) parked their little Prius in the driveway by the front door of the house. Turns out, it was also parked right underneath a sprawling pine tree. While packing up the cars to leave, D bustles about looking busy and irritated. He flicks the windshield. I ask him what he's doing. "There's pine sap all over the car. And bird shit. And the pine needles are sticking to it." "Was this intentional?" I ask. D makes one of his Dad Faces where he tightens up his mouth and presses down his eyebrows. "Maybe you will come to appreciate driving around camouflaged as a bush," I say. "A coniferous bu