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

 Yesterday I was at MoMA with Bruce, and despite an extremely inefficient route, we did manage to see some neat stuff. A Matisse you don't see every day. This Matisse is called "The Red Studio" and it was painted in 1911. It's a rendering of his actual studio. "the Portuguese Market" 1915 by Sonia Delaunay-Terk Girl Putting on Show 1910 Egon Schiele

 So the day started out like this: I made a plan to go up to MoMA with Bruce because, distraction, and also because I still haven't figured that place out yet since the big remodel. I felt I needed some wayfinding practice.  Every time I enter the new museum building, I always somehow accidentally wind up by that Louise Bourgeois sculpture that reminds me of something the cleaning lady would wipe up if she saw it on your counter. It's very organic is my point. Anyway, it was a MoMA stretch goal of mine, and therefore also Bruce's, to locate parts unexplored. Where was this alleged North Wing anyway? Fast forward an hour, and there we were, Bruce and I standing by the Louise Bourgeois totally befuddled wondering how exactly we got there. Again. We were in the middle of a confab about it, because, short version, Bruce and I held divergent views concerning the sequence of events wherein we wound up back by the Louise Bourgeois.  I contended it may have had something to do wi...

Last fall, with some kind of rapid onset, I developed a case of dust/mold/leaf-type allergies. Luckily last fall was pre-COVID or I woulda been 100% convinced I had the 'rona. Lots of overlapping symptoms let me tell you if you have been living in a shack in a jungle with a poor internet connection and don't realize this. I was strongly advised by my doctor to take antihistamines early and often. I went in the cabinet the other day and was happy to see a bottle of Zyrtec: Zyrtec that expired 2 years ago. Oh shit they exprired in 2018. But no worries, I see another one in the back there... Mother F*er ....from 2013. So much for preparedness.

 While everyone else is obsessing about the election, I've been on a different path. Over breakfast, I thumbed through one of my healthcare industry magazines. If you ever want to buy a robotic surgery arm, they're a good place to start. But I digress. Take a look at this ad: I've been vexed about it all day. Let me zoom in for you: Seriously? First of all, what vendor does a bar chart in pastel colors for a client presentation? You can tell she's a vendor because of the visitor name badge. Also we're in the middle of a pandemic and this is a Purell ad for hospital executives, why isn't anyone wearing a mask?  This is an unknown. But here's the real clincher: Look at that data. It sucks.  I can't tell if it's a week-over-week or some kind of cross department comparison but it doesn't even matter. If lime green means what normal green normally means, and that pale gold and pink color mean what normal yellow and red normally mean ... you catch my d...

 Just prior to the pandemic, my parents moved from my childhood home into a retirement community. As part of the great exodus, Mom would show up at our place on the regular with big boxes of stuff she says is mine and that I need to deal with from here on out. On top of a milk crate full of Holly Hobby dolls, I encountered this book: The Grey King by Susan Cooper I cracked open the book. It was given to me by my grandparents when I was really little. The inscription says: To Stacey, For Christmas. Love Grandma and Grandpa. The book was a Christmas gift. Awww. I miss my grammy and grampy and it's the middle of a pandemic so of course I started reading the book immediately. It won a Newberry prize for chrissakes. And it was super short, as far as chapter books go. The story started out Young Adult enough - this kid in Wales recovers from hepatitis on a sheep farm with his kindly aunt. Then on page like 4 suddenly The Dark unleashed Armageddon on The Light and all hell broke loose....

I am entirely sure that watching live election coverage is very unhealthy. I might as well start smoking crack at this point. Granted, I have a Plan B. In Sweden. Where you may find us should this not go well. Over the summer, I called Camilla and staked my claim on their spare bedroom. Checked that box. Later on, I was face-timing with Maria in Stockholm and she announced she'd just bought a brand new sofabed. Of course I immediately called dibs because I'm an opportunist. I locked in my win by informing Bruce of this development.  Honestly should he or Nardo ask me, I'd graciously demur and let them have Maria's sofabed because I already have the one at Camilla's. I'd rather have a friend than a spare bed.  That sounded like a meme. We've reached that point in the evening where I can't feel my legs. I feel like I'm awake during my own surgery. 

Tom's Virtual Marathon Route A guy dressed up like Forrest Gump in his runner outfit -- how he looked at the end of the scene when he stops and says he's going home. The guy had a long brown beard, 70s shorts and the hat. (editor's note: I saw this guy too. He really got around. Or there was more than one of him!) A guy snapping on his goggles to go for a swim in the Hudson. It was 48 degrees! A guy in the middle of the Hudson on a paddle board in rough water. Big boats going by, New Jersey looming in the distance. Hundreds of "virtual" racers with their homemade race numbers on. Everybody cheering each other.

Tom could not decide which day he wanted to run the NYC Virtual Marathon. If you haven't heard, the Marathon was virtual this year because the regular version was, sadly, canceled due to COVID.  So Tom paid $150 for the honor of running 26.2 miles all by himself on a route of his choosing. He would need to track himself online so he could prove he had traversed the distance. He had to complete the run sometime between October 17 and November 1. If he succeeded, then he got an automatic and guaranteed entry into the 2022 NYC Marathon. This is a very alluring proposition if you're Tom. Due to rain forecasts and other important considerations, Tom decided to run yesterday, Saturday October 31. Cutting it close, in other words. Besides the timing conundrum, Tom took many terrain factors into account. He only figured out his final route probably 12 hours prior to race day. I texted Audrey about all this and she made an excellent point -- there's nothing virtual about this marath...

 Let me just cut to the chase because I know you're on the edge of your seat: I survived.  It's not like I have a reputation for getting lost in Brooklyn for no reason. I've taken to Brooklyn like a duck to merchant banking. I've been lost for hours trying to find subways and speakeasies. It's harder than it looks on a map, trust me all you cocky bastards.  Luckily, there's friends and Uber drivers and yesterday I had both. First, Renya "picked me up" out front our apartment in a grand scheme to walk to the Osprey in Brooklyn where we were meeting Kate for a late lunch. Or "brunch" as this is called in New York City. Our hope was to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge and orchestrate a unique and charming selfie like these people did: Millions of Instagrams  on the brooklyn bridge Ha ha, no. I would never take a selfie on the Brooklyn Bridge with one exception: If I were being held hostage and had the opportunity to outwit my captors by pretending ...

 In the middle of the night, Tom sits straight up in bed and shrieks, really loud, "OHHHHH HO Ho Ho. HAAAAAA!" I almost go into cardiac shock. It's really disconcerting.  This happened at 3am, btw. I know this because we have data. We also know from the data that Tom woke himself up with his wild caterwauling and he was awake for 26 minutes. Which he complained about. Meanwhile, I was basically up for the rest of the night with heart palpitations. In the morning, I asked Tom what the hell. He said he was dreaming he was in a Kookslams video and a guy was about to get hit in the back of the head by a big wave. Something along these lines:  Kookslams videos: https://youtu.be/ytWzEhqdkeI On behalf of my bedraggled nerve endings, I'm strongly suggesting Tom lay off the Kookslams before bed moving forward. They are not good for my health and well-being.

Tom might be the next Disney princess. Wherever he goes, he's surrounded by chattering forest creatures. The whole thing began when Tom started to sit out on the deck with a three pound bag of trail mix. He bought the trail mix without checking the ingredients and sulfites is like the third ingredient listed. I refused to eat it and I guess Tom followed my lead. So he sits out on the deck feeding forest creatures trail mix. It's like the bosom of Abraham if you're a rodent: Tom feeds forest creatures Mostly Tom was feeding this one squirrel. When he first started feeding him/her, the squirrel was really a sad sack of squirrel. It had a giant weeping welt on its one side that was a total open wound. The squirrel was also a skinny with bedraggled fur. Tom also fed a few chipmunks.  He refused to feed the other squirrels, who he claimed were mean to his squirrel. Many days I find Tom outside feeding his new friends. One afternoon, he told me that his squirrel now refuses to ea...

 The Metropolitan Museum of Art started allowing visitors again a couple weeks ago. I decided to wait a few days to visit. I wanted to allow ample time for them to get their shit straightened out.  By the time we got there, it was all good in the 'hood. I was impressed. The whole checkpoint charlie took 2 minutes. It may have actually been faster than pre-COVID because there were so few people around with the zero tourist situation and the timed tickets and all. Tom and I ended up dawdling by the naked Greek sculptures waiting for Bente and Charlie to turn up. We were way early because we'd planned for a far more elaborate on-arrival time suck. The tea pots were so cute. Plus the "shopkins" from the 17th century. I loved them when I saw them in March in the new British galleries and yup, they're still there, right where I'd last seen 'em! Getting up on the roof involved a line longer than the line to get in the joint to begin with. But the site-specific in...

Alejandro goes to the doctor. Photocredit: Octoclean Our friend Alejandro is kind of a hypochondriac. Just because he freely admits it doesn't reduce the number of fatal maladies he may be suffering from at any given moment. Luckily, Alejandro's partner Bruce is a doctor who probably manages to prevent at least 50% of the unnecessary ER visits and batteries of bloodwork and nuclear scans.  But this time, Alejandro was definitely going to see someone.  For a few weeks, he'd been smelling smells that weren't there. Cigarette smoke mainly. He'd smell smoke, in the park say. He'd look around. No one smoking. Then he started to smell cigarette smoke in their apartment and other places where for sure there was no cigarette smoke. Alejandro looked up 'phantom smells' on the internet. It could be a stroke. Maybe he had a stroke. Bruce said he had not had a stroke. Bruce talked Alejandro out of seeing a neurologist but Alejandro wanted to see somebody so they com...

  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...

I could see how some people would take up navel-gazing in quarantine, but Tom's been focused more on his toes. He has a Morton Toe , which is supposed to be a sign of great intelligence. Just ask anyone with a Morton's toe. BTW - the Statue of Liberty has a Morton's toe. Tom has mentioned this factoid. If you have a Morton's toe, you also can rattle off a list of impressive people with a Morton's toe. Tom wondered yesterday if the issue is that his second toe is very long, or if it's that his big toe is very short. I decided the latter. I told him that, for sure, his big toe is very petite. He has a petite big toe. Tom studied his size 14 gigantic feet in quiet contemplation of my hypothesis.  "No," he eventually replied. When I say "eventually replied" I mean like a really long time later. I'd already forgotten what we were talking about. Tom said he disagreed with me. He said he'd been picturing how his foot would look if his big to...

My visit with the first ENT guy did not go well. The whole debacle started out in the parking lot. The office said to call before I went up. So I called. They said to come on up.  And I waited with people sick enough to visit an ENT for 45 minutes. 45 minutes! Is it just me or is their OMG-the-safety-of-our-patients-is-our-first priority!!!! pretty much one big lie? Oh and then, after my harrowing 45 minute interlude, the ENT dude helpfully confirmed I do in fact suffer from tinnitus. Indeed, I have the tell-tale symptom - my ears are ringing. I near swooned in the presence of such diagnostic greatness.  I attempted afterwards to fill out their survey, but this happened: ENT and Allergy NJ So it was a full-on waste of time that I hopefully don't get COVID from. I went to a new ENT guy yesterday. This second one was so lovely and helpful that I no longer believe all ENT doctors are my sworn nemeses. This doctor asked me a lot of questions and I got a hearing test. Also he...