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

Look, not to brag about my amazing prowess at sussing out the art that will be critically acclaimed just as soon as the critics get their shit together, but yeah. Bruce and I have done it again. We were at the Whitney at the crack of 11am during member previews of the Henry Taylor show. I was smitten just looking at the advertisement for the opening.  Also, I'm kidding here. Even a blind squirrel finds a nut every now and then is probably the most accurate way to put it. Anyway, I’m planning to go back, but now that it’s all popular I will need to time my arrival with some precision given the hoi polloi and all. I loved this one. It wasn’t Bruce’s favorite. 

Milk Oolong tea is like a magic trick. It comes in the form of little pellets. Milk Oolong Magic But when you put the pellets in hot water, they bloom into full-on leaves. Like big leaves. Like I always put too many pellets in my tea cup and wind up with a swamp of half-furled leaves. The tea earned its nom de plume because it supposedly tastes milky or buttery. I'm not sure about that, but it does have a unique flavor. I like tea with a unique flavor. Life gets boring otherwise. I first encountered the Milk Oolong at Bosie Tea Parlor , back when it was on Morton Street. I had popped in one day and miraculously, the place was not mobbed. One of the people who worked there had 30 seconds to help me pick something new out of the tea catalog. I'm conflicted about Bosie Tea Parlor's to-go service if you must know. On the one hand, it's kind of nice to enter a parlor of tea. I love tea and I love a parlor, so the whole idea appeals. But here's the thing: it...

My heavens, time flies. Thirty #NaBloPoMo days gone in a snap of the gnarled fingers. Should I live to see November next, alevai , you may see me here on these pages again. If you should desire a reprise, please contact me visa vis the interwebs. Google+ or Twitter mayhaps at StaceyRi. Positive feedback will be taken as a good sign. A friend of mine once said when you're retired, somehow going to the post office can take all day. I would reframe his sentiment: When you're retired, somehow getting around to the good stuff can take longer than a month. I had intended to view a foreign film at MoMA ... some arty classic that inspired Ingmar Bergman or Stanley Kubrick. I had intended to nestle into one of those dim and timeless under-the-museum theaters the entire day, perhaps. Such is the joy of a wizened old dilettante such as myself. photocredit: http://www.centurysafaris.com/ hyenas-of-africa-the-truth-about-the-cackling/ I had intended to dress up as natty as Iris A...

http://previews.123rf.com/ I relish a cup of tea. And when I say "cup of tea" I mean a cup and a saucer. And I mean tea leaves of quality, steeped for exactly the right time at the right temperature and poured from an exquisite teapot. There should be no microwaving during any aspect of this operation. Microwaves are the nemesis of tea. David's Tea is mostly a rainbow colored dessicated chemical sauce. It is not tea. Harney and Sons on Broome Street has potential, but their retail experience is a brutal travesty for an impatient and demanding old woman like myself.  I enjoy prompt service with personal attention. This is in short supply on their corner of SoHo. Hardwood ambiance isn't the only factor, Son of Harney. But your Chai tea is indisputably very good even though it used to be called Indian Spice, a more descriptive and overall better name for the brew. McNaulty's  smells like coffee. I do not like to buy tea in a place that smells like coffe...

Maybe because I'm old, I wonder what will happen to my things when I'm gone. I'm sure my art collection and my limoge and my jewelry will be picked over and split between my heirs. With dollar signs in their eyes, they will ascribe value using the same formula as antique roadshow. Consider these books from my childhood in the mid 20th century: So well loved. So well battered and decrepit. Here's my copy of Winnie the Pooh, inscribed by my dear mother: To me, this book is a treasure. But what is this stained old paper pulp to anyone else beyond the only daughter of my mother? Don't answer that. Here's the inscription in a story book entitled, "Felix the Bald-Headed Lion." My grandfather gave it to me 80 years ago. He's been dead as long as he was alive.  And because I'm the last to remember the giving of the gift, when I go, Felix will likely go too. Maybe to the thrift store, but likely to the recycling center. Because in my infinit...

I asked my niece to name her favorite place, and she said, "my home." I replied by quoting the immortal words of that old rapper  Mos Def : "home is not where you're from, it's where you're at." If you work your turf right, it can sustain you indefinitely— like you're a plant positioned to get just enough sun and water and nutrients. It's your own job to set up the conditions in your warren of rooms just as you need them to thrive. I surround myself with only the things that please me immensely. When you're young, you don't have enough scheckel to pull this off. Nor have you had enough time to find these things or recognize them when you see them. I like sheets on my bed that are crisp and thick. I like taxidermy crows with their beady glass eyes and their corvidae heritage. I like items made of silk and porcelain. I like clean surfaces and gold and silver doubloons.

Thanksgiving Day. I offered a toast to the table at large. I toasted the past and the present. For however long your loved ones are with you, it's never long enough. After that, we sang Swedish drinking songs. Even though we all have gotten old, the snapsvisor have not. Skål allesammans!

Today is a day of travel, which accounts for the late posting. Once one traverses a bridge or tunnel and arrives on the mainland, some of the city's conveniences are sadly missed. Like the wifi in my home and the firm schedule which I maintain. “To travel is to take a journey into yourself.” – Danny Kaye During my journey into myself, I learned I enjoy full access to my collection of antique hats. Sometimes one is simply in the mood for red and fox-trimmed. And other times a feather festooned felt. I adore options and I give thanks for as many options as possible. The old understand the boon of youth lies in its vast options. Every year that passes, the fewer crossroads one finds oneself contemplating, the fewer roads not taken. Be they well traveled or not. Options evaporate and one thin lines remains. Perhaps more journeys are in order.

Today I was butt dialed by an old friend listening to an old time folksy tune in his car. I received a 12 second ragtime voicemail. The friend, not the song, reminded me of smooth jazz. The friend is an aficionado. When I speak of jazz, don't think I mean elevator music or lite.fm piped from somewhere in a dropleaf ceiling. I mean soulful melodies squeezed from bloodsoaked lungs. I mean old leather and girdles and gimlet bleary eyes. Rock music is contrived you must admit: it's a skin-deep facade and brittle manic play acting. I favor the roll to be frank. It's the roll that makes the rock. Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living. But I'm older than Socrates was when they killed him for speaking so. And I wonder if the microscopically examined life leaves behind ignorance just as boring. All that banging and plucking and ricocheting around on a road to nowhere. I wish I knew how to ride jazz like a magic carpet to find the answers to questions bigg...

Every oldster needs a manservant like Mr. French When you get old, you start to think a lot about household help. I'm lucky enough to have a manservant, blessed be. When you get achy and doddering, you simply can't be trusted with ladders to grab porcelain on high shelves or to crawl around hunting precious gems that bounced out of your heirloom broach. I recall once, many years ago, I found a note tucked through the mail slot in our country house. I enjoyed receiving it so much I hung it upon the refridgerator. In childish scrawl, a young lady offered her assistance with yard work. Her rates ran as follows: If you have a small yard: $3/hour. If you have a medium yard: $4/hour If you have a large yard: $5/hour Such an entrepreneur. Such egalitarian price modeling. The children back then were wise beyond their years.

Oxfords for city foot workouts. I endeavored to walk about a bit this afternoon in the sunshine. I dangled strands of precious gems and a burgundy silken scarf about my neck. Then I tugged on a forest green velvet cape and a felt hat with a hat pin. I exuded a certain seasonally-appropriate spirit. The Christmas decorations were up at Lord and Taylor, I noticed yestereve. To usher in the holidays, Lord and Taylor has constructed a tunnel of twinkling greenery entwined about scaffolding. I wondered if the scaffolding beget the greenery or the greenery beget the scaffolding. Fancy ballet flats for city foot workouts. Considering this important question, I sat on a bench in our narrow foyer and tugged on my sensible shoes. Not too sensible. I refuse to resemble a soft-footed tourist from mainland America. I've learned in my old age that feet have muscles, just like legs and arms. Walking on sidewalks is excellent for foot conditioning. I endeavor to work out my feet in sto...

For a time, I entertained the notion of Harlem. In theory, Harlem has an allure not found downtown. It's talent undiscovered. It's rare gems and underdogs and the romanticized version of neighborhoods I probably wouldn't live in due to walkups and my arthritis. Also there is nothing romantic about the Cross Bronx Expressway. Robert Moses was an ass, I often say, with a flourish of my wrinkled hands. On Friday, we ventured to the United Palace Theater. It's an antique jewelry box of a place. Three quarters of a century ago, in 1979, it stood bleak and weather beaten before a wreaking ball. But a visionary who fancied himself a preacher saved the joint and it has been a beacon of golden flamboyance ever since. Of course I'm an old lady who remembers the olden day dances, like hip hop and b-boy and krumping. Which is why we got crackalackin and journeyed on the A Train the entire way to 175th to take in the Hip Hop Nutcracker. To reminence our youth. There i...

When midnight approaches, my thoughts twist and whirl and blend together into dark matter. So much is possible in the night, you can feel it's there. But you can't prove it. People emerge in the darkness, they creep from their daytime containers. They've dusted off their round rabbit hats and their red pants, puffed their hair or flattened it. I spy green shoes and sparkles and nose rings and eavesdrop talk about tear-drop skirts and wide stripes. The city sings weird and bristly at night. Perhaps when I'm even older than I am now, I will piece together the meaning of it all.

photo credit:  James Jowers in 1967 We sat in our velvet barcelona chairs. I snuggled beneath a fur throw and Tom rested his book on his lap. We gazed out over the corner of 8th Avenue and Greenwich. I felt pleased with the life I'd earned, one with no need to venture out into the dreary, overcast and rain spattered day. The people scurrying to work and the tourists in their damp plastic ponchos drooped in such a forlorn fashion. Maybe because my time is limited, I have begun to appreciate moments. Especially comfortable moments filled with nothing. In their naked glory, such moments can be savored full strength for exactly the gift they are. I said as much to Tom. For a historical angle, I asked him if his grandmother had savored her moments. I intended to run down his family tree, but his grandmother was as far as the conversation went.  Because Tom said that his grandmother never left her home. She was "Agriphobic." Oh yes, I replied. Many people are afrai...

Today I made my way to midtown to break bread with an old friend. We went in for Mexican. I learned after we had been seated that my friend had eaten at this same exact Mexican restaurant three times this week so far. I poised my granny glasses upon the bridge of my nose and looked over them, pinning my friend with an unwinking stare. "Three times?" I said, adjusting the fringe on my burgundy silk scarf. "Three times you lunched right here in midtown east?" "I had the steak tacos each time too," he replied with a quirk of his wisened old face. I took a cool sip of iced tea and my friend went back to arranging his cane alongside the table. When you're young, you might finish each other's sentences. When you're old, you don't bother. Not only don't you bother to vocalize a few words you both know are inevitable, but you don't bother finishing entire conversations when you both know the ending. I didn't bother to say, ...

I have always been good at dawdling. I excel at puttering around. They say that coloring is now considered meditation. Perhaps doing nothing much is also? No. Now that I consider further, trolling about on the interwebs or letting YouTube get its claws into me is the opposite of meditative. It's letting the mind click and whir and blunder from thought to thought like that heinous ricocheting spasmodic electronica from the early 00's. I've heard it said that music isn't really the notes, it's the silence in between. And maybe the same is true about life. It's not the action that matters, but how you go about savoring it. I'm only 82, I still have plenty of time-space to get this figured out.

photo credit: Stringsandbeyond.com Is it untoward to pick up my electric bass guitar again? These days my old axe may or may not be considered an actual antique. I do not often place much stock in what is proper. But I do often consider what my schemes will look like. I picture the scene and decide if it is desirable. And if it is desirable, my mental image becomes a daydream I revel in making so. I don't think I could stand upright and play for long-- bass guitars have an awkward heft to them. I would need to be seated for the duration, like a violin player. Although classier for sure, I wonder if assuming the position of an orchestral musician would reduce the thrill of it all. I sit in my purple office, staring at La Calavera Catrina hanging on my wall. I lean back in my green leather office chair and breath in the dim air. I take up a Monte Blanc fountain pen I've owned since 1990. I scratch out a short list of old lady friends who might be up to join a gentlewoman...

Today I dressed in plaid woolens and took a jaunt uptown to meet my niece for lunch. Long ago, when she was eight years old, I recall a visit with her to American Girl, that venerable retail monolith on 48th Street. Very much of an American Girl Muchness. I recall my horror at the unapologetic materialism rampant in the place. The Have-Nots stand at full attention looking hungry and tired. Meanwhile, the Haves don't notice anything beyond how many little sparkly doll outfits and doll pet beds and doll hair accessories there remain to buy. I remember the kneejerk reaction to mention charity to my niece, as in, donating to a worthy cause. Instead of amassing glutinous pile of toys. I think that was the day I truly decided to set up my charitable trust. Because I have little desire to die amidst a pile of hoarded trinkets while children starve on the streets. And I have even less desire to bankroll heirs into a frenzy of thoughtless entitlement. The balancing act is to ens...

I endeavor to wear a bird upon my head. At my wrinkled age, the danger is looking like I'm impersonating a hedgewitch. And I am not (yet) a hedgewitch. In case you are unfamiliar, a hedgewitch can cast magic spells of course, but her attitude and fashion sense is far more decorative than your average basic witch. I aspire to become a hedgewitch when I finally reach adulthood, maybe when I turn 100. Much study is of course required to properly deploy magic. And some redecoration, including the installation of alters and incense, may be required. In New York City, this means building permits, and so you understand my procrastination. Another of my considerations when reflecting upon a hedgewitch career path are the skirts. In theory, I adore a frayed and unruly skirt layering many patterns and textures and fabrics. But in practice, I find them frumpy and unattractive. One must perhaps have a build like a Tim Burton lady stick to pull off such wear. Also there is another mat...

We are patrons of the arts, my husband and I. Several times a week, we unload our postbox and see what the city has on offer. I like to open up the envelopes with a slim golden letter opener while drinking my afternoon tea. I already know what is inside. The fat envelopes are solicitations selling annual memberships and include lavish descriptions of member dining rooms and guest passes. The thin envelopes are notices of goings on one has already earned through one's prior patronage. This evening we enjoyed a fun romp of a performance at the Manhattan Theater Club entitled Important Hats of the Twentieth Century . We approached the ticket window and I stated firmly, "We are Patrons." She waved us right through, the ticket woman.