Bailing our eyes out

I try hard to not look at my 401(k), but I can't help it. Even after putting most of my meager fortune into fixed income, I watch it spiral downward each day like a banker on his way to meet the pavement. Thankfully I'm not anywhere near retirement, but I do wonder what the markets will look like when I get there.

I don't play the stock market, since I've proved time and time again that I'm no good at it. I got into the market at the tail end of the dotcom boom. I didn't understand what on earth I was doing. When eBay went public in 1998, the anticipated $18 share price blasted up to $53 before falling back to $47 the first day. A few weeks later it had settled down in the $20s, and I remember saying to Luis that buying it probably didn't seem like such a good deal after all. So I missed that boat.


So now almost all of our money is in real estate, the building that we bought with our friends 3-1/2 years ago. In 3-1/2 years you can build hotels and condo buildings of much greater size, apparently. Our little shanty has been tied up in some sort of bureaucratic morass since we've owned it. It took a year and a half to get a zoning variance, and for the last 2 years we've been paying various other agencies to get permits, approve plans, and bicker over things like whether we should be allowed to have Juliette balconies (they are classified as "obstructions"). We had hoped to be well into construction by now, but the most we've gotten is a gutted shell that will need to be razed completely anyway. And we've already laid out more than $100,000.

Now we are about to attempt to get a construction loan in the middle of a serious financial crisis. The contractors' bids have come in, and we're meeting with our architect next week to figure out our options. Luis spoke with a banker yesterday who said that we might be able to get 60 percent financing, which is better than a kick in the teeth, but that means we'd have to collectively front about a half-million dollars.

I'm seriously thinking of writing to HGTV to see if they'd be interested in our project. Or maybe Warren Buffett will come to our rescue.

To celebrate Luis's birthday, we're going to Danny Meyer's Shake Shack, where burgers cost $3.75. Desperate times call for delicious measures.

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A world away

Luis took me with him on a real estate listing today to a six-story building in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, the neighborhood I was born and raised in. When I saw the building again, it brought back to me an extraordinary incident that happened there, coincidentally 33 years ago to the day, an incident that for me symbolized the end of my innocence.

I vividly and fondly remember my childhood in Flatbush in the 1960s and 1970s. I wouldn't have traded the experience for anything else. We lived in a six-story building on Ocean Avenue called Ethel Arms (which Luis likes to call "Ethel Flabby Arms"). Ocean Avenue was once a sleepy path leading to Sheepshead Bay, but in the 1920s, as immigrant waves kept rolling in, high-rise apartment buildings sprouted all along the avenue, urbanizing it. When I was growing up, Ocean Avenue was a four-lane street, and the most popular sport was dodging cars to get to the other side. Once across, you entered Ditmas Park, where the scenery changed markedly and you felt like you were in the country.

The side streets were--and still are--lined with shade trees and stately Victorian homes dating from the early 1900s. The nearby Pink Palace in Sophie's Choice exemplifies those homes. Erasmus Hall High School, alma mater of Barbra Streisand, Susan Hayward, and Donny Most, was the closest public high school. Movie stars such as Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford lived in Flatbush around the time it urbanized. By the early 1970s the only famous local residents I knew of were Tiny Tim and Miss Vicki, a few soap actors, and Barry Manilow and his mother. The giant, fenced-in house across from my building was purportedly the home of a porn director, but I never knew whether that was true.

I always felt safe growing up in Flatbush, and evidently so did my parents, since they let me play unsupervised out on the big, open dangerous street. We weren't really unsupervised, as hundreds of invisible pairs of eyes somehow managed to report unseemly activity to our respective parents. Assaults and thefts were rare, but there did seem to be a fair amount of arson. On Hallowe'en my mother and some friends' parents would escort us to select homes around the neighborhood, including the Ebinger house on E. 19th Street. For those unfamiliar with Ebinger's, it was a family-owned bakery famous for its chocolate blackout cake.

The local movie palaces were the spectacular Loew's Kings (Baroque) and Rialto (Beaux-Arts) theatres, both now houses of worship. I realize now how magnificent some of the local architecture was. I remember old ice-cream parlors like Karp's on Flatbush and Newkirk, where my mother would get me a little cup of Coke syrup to combat an upset stomach.

At the time, I was unaware that the rest of the world was not like mine. Mine was what would be categorized today as "diverse"--a concept that is now enforced politically rather than organically. My building was like a mini-United Nations of different races, religions, and family status. The Pavlicases were a middle-aged Greek couple whose apartment smelled of cardamom, anise, and cumin. Our Jewish neighbor Miriam was a housebound single hemophiliac living with her 80-year-old widowed mother. My best friend, a black girl named Angela Barnes, had a white mom and a black dad. Glenn was a soft-spoken Jamaican man who I think was probably gay. I had friends who were Argentinian, Chinese, Haitian, Italian, Irish, Norwegian, Puerto Rican, Russian. I started studying Spanish on my own when I was 11 by sitting with El Diario and a Spanish dictionary so I could try to understand the Hispanics around the corner. Later, when we moved to an all-Irish block in Sunset Park in my late teens, I realized that worlds like mine were the exception rather than the rule.

In the summer of 1975, I was in love with a beautiful Trinidadian girl named Allison whom I'd been hanging out with for 6 months. When people ask me whether that wasn't a sign that I was straight, I remind them that we were both 12 and neither of us had gone through puberty yet. When we'd watch "Gidget" movies together, I was far more interested in James Darren than Sandra Dee.

Every Sunday morning I went to 10:00 mass at Our Lady of Refuge Church. I sometimes served as a lector, reading from the New Testament before the priest delivered the Gospel reading. I was a faithful churchgoer, a good little Catholic boy who never questioned authority, at least not until much later.

That was the first summer I had been allowed to cross Ocean Avenue by myself and play at my friend Chris's house on E. 19th Street between Ditmas and Newkirk avenues. I had a pretty large group of friends of different ages and backgrounds, and we all hung out together, forming cliques and clubs and factions but in the end always coming back together. Ditmas Park was like living in a suburban community without the sameness. On summer nights a big group of our friends would divide into teams and play Ring-o-levio for hours, using the 16-block grid of Ditmas Park as our playing field.

On August 9 of that year, the news broke that Sam Bronfman, a son of Seagram's heir Edgar Bronfman, had been kidnapped. At first there were reports that Bronfman was tied up in a cave somewhere, but then it was discovered that he was being held in an apartment building right around the corner from our building! My friends and I stood on the corner for long periods, trying to see if there was any action, but all we saw were black cars with tinted windows waiting for something.

One night, a news reporter said that one of the kidnappers was Dominic Byrne, the father of one of my classmates, Tommy. Everyone in the area knew Mr. Byrne, a small, slight Irishman who used to own a liquor store on Newkirk Plaza and then became a limo driver. No one could believe that he could be involved in such a caper because he was so unassuming. There was hushed talk of homosexual activity between Tommy's father and the other kidnapper, a fireman named Mel Lynch. (Lynch later claimed in court that he and Sam Bronfman had met at a gay bar and had been lovers and that Sam was a co-conspirator in the kidnapping, an allegation that was never proved.)

At church the following Sunday, the priest asked everyone to pray for Mr. Byrne, an upstanding usher known to everyone in the community. It was all anyone talked about for weeks. When school started a month later, Tommy wasn't there, though I think eventually he returned after the publicity had died down. Tommy's father went to prison for 3 years, for extortion, not kidnapping.

When I saw the building that was the scene of the crime yesterday I felt a little sad. It was the first time I realized that the kidnapping symbolically signaled the end of the Flatbush I had known and loved, or maybe I'm just older and more cynical.

In October 1975, New York City went bankrupt, and the federal government refused to bail the city out. Garbage piled up on the streets, and crime spiked as cops became scarcer. In 1976 the brand-new 10-speed bike I got for graduation was stolen from me at knifepoint in broad daylight on Ditmas Avenue, half a block from my building.

By 1977, the burning of Bushwick during the NYC blackout and the Son of Sam shootings were further emblems of the city's ailing health. Many of my friends and their families were moving to the suburbs or to other states to escape the worsening climate. My mother was mugged in the vestibule of our building, and my father had his wallet stolen several times. And then, the coup de grace: some random teenager picked up my 8-year-old brother and dropped up him on his head on the grass down the block for no apparent reason. In September 1977, we said goodbye to Flatbush.

It was strange walking around the area. I found a faded patch of concrete where a bunch of us had etched our initials in the then newly paved sidewalk. And there was the fence--or was it the fence?--we climbed over to get to our favorite hiding place during Ring-o-levio. Everything looked the same as it did 30 years ago, only smaller and less magical. Today I live only 3 miles from my childhood home, but in so many respects it's a world away.

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Decade(nce)

With endless debate about same-sex marriage swirling around us, Luis and I have managed to build a nice life together over the past 10 years. He has health insurance through my employer, and we have tons of paperwork to protect us in case one of us gets sick or dies. Yeah, we still don't have the same protections as our parents, but I can't say we're hurting. If you really want to show your commitment to someone, buy property with them.

We celebrated our 10th anniversary at River Cafe in Brooklyn. Even though I'm a native Brooklynite, I had never been there. I was in high school when it opened in 1977, and it was too hoity-toity for my family to ever go there. In college my idea of gourmet was a cup o' ramen noodles, and then I moved away for 13 years. When I came back to New York almost 10 years ago, the price of a fancy dinner was still out of reach. Now, as we enter what could be hard times, we figured we should try it before the price of a fancy dinner slips out of our reach.

One thing I love about Luis is his adaptability to any situation. He is not snobbish in the least. When we first met, I was afraid to bring him to my parents' house because our dishes are Corian, we use paper napkins, and my mother uses one cooking technique: Boil The Hell Out Of [insert name of food]. His mother, on the other hand, uses English china and cloth napkins and makes some of the best French food I've ever eaten. Every time I visited their home I'd keep my hands on my lap for fear of breaking something.

Over the years I've learned to appreciate fine dining, and Luis has learned to like Flintstones cuisine. For our 10-year anniversary we decided we should live a little.

Luis asked the reservations person for a nice table for our anniversary. We were both eager to find out what the place was like, especially because the adjoining Fulton Ferry Landing is my favorite spot in all of New York. Now host to Asian wedding photo ops and ice-cream- and pizza-seeking tourists, it no longer feels like the Special New York Place it once did, but I still love it.

I wanted to find out beforehand what others think of River Cafe. Not surprisingly, there are plenty of people with plenty to say. I try to read restaurant reviews with a jaundiced eye, and I realize that everyone has a different experience. On many review sites axe-grinders gleefully dice up their victims and display the entrails in public forums. But overly sugary reviewers cause tooth decay, so I like to find a middle ground. In this case that was difficult. Diners either love it or hate it. The first people I dismissed were those who whined about small portions, high prices, or long waits. Really, just go to McDonald's, where you can drive through and supersize for mere ducats. One reviewer said, "I have had better steaks at Applebees." So, there you go.

Another reviewer complained about the waiters having phony French accents and said he would appreciate a disclaimer that you are not welcome here "unless you're worth a minimum of $5MM, speak French, drive a Porch [sic], have 5 maids and or wear designer suits & have 3 portfolio managers on speed dial." And then there was the reviewer who said "staff NOT gay friendly." Does that mean the maitre d' didn't offer a hand job? Two men celebrating an anniversary: would The River Cafe disappoint?

Before dinner our friend Andrea came with us to the cafe for drinks. Even though it's steps away from the ferry landing, the inside of the cafe feels like another world. The restaurant sits right on the water, under the Brooklyn Bridge, with a spectacular view of the East River. It was still light out when we arrived at 8:15, and we got to see the sun set as boats sailed by. We drove in air conditioning but were still a bit moist in our suits. The dress code is business casual, so we didn't have to wear ties. (Another "shocking" epiphany in reviews: "I had to wear a jacket!" Go...to..the...Web...site.)

Andrea ordered us a bottle of Prosecco, and we toasted and chatted as the last rays of light faded from the East River just in time for dinner. Andrea left us, and we approached the maitre d' to be seated. He looked at me and Luis and then behind us as if looking for someone else. He seemed surprised that it was just the two of us.

We were seated at a great table near the river side, not right up at the window but close enough. Our Brazilian server was very friendly (not at all "snooty," "rude," or "neglects basic courtesy," as others' experiences with staff were). She presented us with a card from our friends J & F, who had sent us a bottle of Prosecco. We'd already gone through one bottle. What was one more?

The room itself is nothing special but pleasant--and really, the view is the selling point. The room is intimate, with enough space to comfortably enjoy dinner without having to overhear others' conversations or shout over music or bad acoustics. The clientele seemed to be a bridge (and tunnel) mix with a smattering of Europeans. There was a considerable amount of plastic surgery. The magnificent Manhattan skyline was the only reminder we were in Brooklyn.

Some reviewers complained about the inordinate number of people who served them. Besides our Brazilian server, only two other people came near our table to serve us bread and water and clear our dishes. That's a lot compared with Shoney's. You can choose either a 3-course prix fixe dinner or a 6-course tasting menu. We went with the first, which costs a little under $100 a person. For a special occasion this did not seem unreasonable. Some reviewers disagreed: "outrageous prices," "bottomless pockets," "overpriced," "high society," "Trump living." My advice: Do some homework first. Or go to Grimaldi's.

I had two types of foie gras, a Cape Code monkfish/suckling pig ravioli entree, and a sticky toffee pudding--all delicious. Luis had lobster risotto, lamb chops, and a chocolate marquise with a miniature chocolate Brooklyn Bridge sitting atop a floating barge of vanilla ice cream. Each of our desserts had a little chocolate wafer that said "Happy Anniversary." The portions were just right, so I must disagree with "very little food for alot of money."

As we left, we said good night to the maitre d', who looked a little sheepish. "We tricked you," Luis said, laughing. The maitre d' seemed a little embarrassed and said, "It's just that you came in with the lady and I thought she was with one of you. I was just surprised." Then he added, "I hope you had a happy anniversary." So, I don't know, was that NOT gay friendly?

"I just had to say that," Luis said to me later, "because the look on the guy's face was priceless." After 10 years, Luis can still surprise me. He's still as handsome and sweet as the day we met, and anyone that can make me laugh as much as he does deserves to stick around another 10 years...and another 10 years...

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Getting on the same page

I called mom earlier this week to see if she wanted to have dinner on Mother's Day.

"Oh, hon," she said, "it's not worth it. You can't get in anywhere, it's so expensive, and the food's not all that great."

At least she won't have to worry about restaurateurs knocking down her door to promote Mother's Day meals.

In most families, a statement by your mom to this effect would be construed as passive-aggressive: What mom's really saying is that you and your brothers had better have already made reservations at a nice restaurant that's not too loud. And a gift would be nice.

But we're not most families.

This was supported by the fact that my middle brother was spending Mother's Day taking his son to the airport to go to Disney World. My youngest brother didn't even return my calls. My mother's sister was celebrating both Mother's Day and her birthday today, and her daughter was having a big brunch at 2:00. My mother was planning to go. There was no way my mother was going to want to have dinner.

I was about to call my mother to wish her a happy Mother's Day, but she beat me to the punch.

After giving her my best wishes, she proceeded to get to the point of her call.

"Honey, I'm having a hard time printing out a Web page on Paul Harvey. The first page prints, but then I can't get the rest of it to print."

I knew then I should have booked a reservation for dinner.

"Ma," I said, already realizing that patience was not going to be my Hallmark gift this year, "tell me what you're trying to do."

"Well, I typed in 'Paul Harvey commentator' and got the page," she said, as if there was only one, "and his wife just died and I'm trying to print it but only the first goddamned page comes out. I must have printed it 15 times yesterday. I wasted so much paper."

"OK, Ma," I said, taking a deep breath, "now tell me what page you're on."

"The one where you type 'Paul Harvey commentator' and it comes up. I want to send it to Ronnie."

I know now why tech support people are hated; it's because they have to listen to things like this all day and after a while they simply can't contain their contempt. My mother has been using a computer for 15 years, and she still acts like conspiracy theorists and hamsters are running it. There's always some implied Communist plot to thwart her efforts to use the computer correctly. So I always have to put on my Encyclopedia Brown hat and try to figure out what's going on in that brain.

Now, before I continue, I tried to ignore that mom was printing out some right-wing drivel to send to her right-wing monk boyfriend in California. But that's a whole other story. We'll save that story for some pagan holiday.

"Ma," I said, "go to the top of the page and tell me what the name of the Web site is."

"It says WGN."

"Beautiful," I said, as I searched Google results. At least now we could be on the same page. "Why do you want to print this out?" I asked, looking at the scary picture of Paul Harvey, who looks like a cross between Dick Clark and Howdy Doody.

"His wife died last week and I want to print it out and send it to Ron."

I shook my head, wondering why, in this day and age, anyone would have to print out an article and send it by snail mail to anyone else in the United States. Then I remembered that mom's "boyfriend" lives in a cloistered abbey, where apparently he does not get news about the real world. Except that he does interact with lay people and can freely move about when he wants to, including going to newsstands. I remember once my mother asked me to scour the earth to find a book for Ron that was banned by the Church in the 1950s. The book was called "Satan."

Back to the task at hand. On the Web page was the waxy figure of Paul Harvey, and at the bottom was the obituary of his wife Lynne. It was all so sweet: Paul and "Angel," as he called his wife, had been married for 68 years, which is almost as long as my mother's been alive. Mom had an awful marriage to my father that lasted 41 years, and her one true love was a cloistered monk. So I think of her romantic idealism with some bemusement. But now my main goal was to get her damn story to print.

"OK, Ma, go down to the end of the page and look for the beginning of the story on Lynne Harvey."

"OK, got it."

"Now, to the right of that, do you see a little icon--uh, picture that looks like a printer." She said yes. "Click on that little printer."

She clicked on the printer. "OK, now it says, Close Window."

When you click on the printer icon, a separate window with the full story opens and immediately scrolls to the end of the story, where a Close Window button appears.

"Yes, you're right, it does say that," I said, "but click in that window and go to the top....You see the picture of Paul and Lynne?" I said, as if we were old friends. "They're holding a sign up?"

"Yes, yes, I see it."

"Now go to File Print."

"Where?" Ay ay ay.

"Where you usually go to print documents," I said, hoping she'd understand that.

A few minutes later, I heard the printer clicking away.

"Oh!" mom said, "it came out!" Praise Jesus. "I've never seen that printer thing before. I would have been here till kingdom come trying to print that out. Thanks a million, hon, you're a genius."

I would have preferred "saint," but "genius" will do.

"Oh, yeah, about dinner. I think we'll do it another time," she said. "It's gonna be so crowded and we'll have to wait for a table." I was going to explain that not all restaurants in my neighborhood would be crowded, but I've learned from experience that when mom says she doesn't want to go out, that's what she means. As corny as it sounds, getting her document to print was probably the best gift I could have given her today.

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A brief reflection

Today, after brunch with Eric and Sheri, Luis did an open house, while I ran around doing last-minute errands. We had a near tragedy this morning when our facial hair trimmer died, only one month after we bought it. Rather than try to get it repaired, I went to J&R and bought another. That's all I wanted to buy, but then I ended up in the DVD section of the store after the Donovan lasses mentioned their recent double-header film night of "A Christmas Story" and "Love, Actually," two of my favorite movies. I decided to buy them so Luis and I could watch them on our computers during our flight if we couldn't sleep. I found "A Christmas Story" as well as "Rudolph, The Red-Nosed Reindeer," another must-see holiday classic. But, alas, "Love, Actually" was sold out. Boo.

I went to Borders nearby, and the saleswoman checked, and they too were out of it. The saleswoman said she loved the movie too and that she would go home and get me her copy if she could. That was very sweet. Maybe Virgin will show the movie as part of its "in-flight entertainment," since it does involve Christmas and the UK.

It had sleeted over Saturday night, so the streets were slushy and dark, very Tim Burton-esque. It looked like all the color had been drained out of the city. Not a soul was out in lower Manhattan, except some tourists down by the New York Stock Exchange. Even though it was gloomy out, I enjoyed having the streets almost all to myself. On Wall Street, the underground pipes emanated a full cloud of steam, one of my favorite New York sights; there's almost something comforting about it. The exchange is decorated for the holidays. A 65-ft-high Norway spruce stands in front of it, and the usual strings of some 80,000 red, white, and blue lights on the facade creating an American flag give it a dynamic look.

South Street Seaport was fairly deserted, odd for a holiday shopping weekend. I overheard a Midwestern couple looking at a sign for the Bodies exhibition and wondering where it was. So, like a good New Yorker, I insinuated myself and told them where it was. The wife asked what it was like, and I said it was fantastic and that the body parts had been so plasticized they didn't look real. She didn't seem convinced. I, of course, didn't mention the creepy fetuses and embryos, but there's a big warning sign before you get to that room. I was pretty sure they thought I was a hawker the way I was going on about it.

I walked along the bank of the East River, which separates Manhattan from Long Island (and for non-New Yorkers, Brooklyn and Queens are politically part of New York City but physically located on Long Island). The East River is actually a tidal strait, more of a channel than a river. On the Manhattan side you get a pretty good view of Brooklyn, including the Brooklyn Bridge and the area known as DUMBO. The view of Manhattan from the Brooklyn side is far more impressive.

I walked under the FDR Drive ramp toward the Whitehall Street station. During the work week the area is filled with trucks and buses and ships, business people and tourists. Today it looked like The Apocalypse had come and gone. I walked up to my office building and climbed the stairs and looked in the window at the office, which faces the East River. I felt a little giddy. There was my desk, cluttered with papers, exactly how I'd left them Friday, exactly how they will stay for another three weeks. I saw my reflection in the window, and I silently said goodbye to the piles of paper and Post-It notes. I needed this moment alone to tell myself it's all right I'm going away. It will all be there when I return. Now it's on to other shores.

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Half a serving of jury duty

9:00 a.m. I'm sitting in the central jury room, watching an orientation video of Ed Bradley, Diane Sawyer, and New York state judge Judy Kaye motivate me about the importance of civic duty and impartial justice. I haven't been called for jury duty since about 2002. Back then I got called for one voir dire but never served on a case. This morning I reported for duty to Kings County Supreme Court. The room is packed, with at least 400 people. The room is about as diverse as you can get, and I wonder if there is anywhere on the planet with this diverse a juror population--well, except for Queens. The process is very orderly, and the hardest part is sitting around waiting to see if my name will be called. However, there are comfortable seats, a free Wi-Fi connection, snacks, plasma TVs, and clean restrooms. The court clerks are businesslike but have a sense of humor. They've seen and heard every excuse there is, and they don't let people get away easily. One of the requirements of serving is having a basic command of English. Three interpreters, one Russian, one Chinese, and one Hispanic, ask jurors in their respective languages who do not feel they can understand English well enough to step forward. Immediately about 10 percent of the room forms a line to be interviewed. The clerk once again asks, in English, anyone who has trouble speaking English to please step forward. "And if you understood that," he said, "you don't have trouble speaking English." Gotcha! The hours, he says, are 9 to 5, not 3:30, not 4:00, not 4:15, not 4:30. "And," he adds, "if you come back with a shopping back from Macy's and your name has been called while you are gone, I will mark you absent."

10:00 a.m. Bush's press conference is airing on the plasma TV overhead. If there's any reason to be cynical about justice, it's appearing on the plasma at this moment. Even having to look at this troglodyte makes me queasy. Despite the new intelligence report indicating that Iran stopped its nuclear program 4 years ago, Bush maintains that Iran continues to pose a danger and that it could be conducting a clandestine program. When a reporter questions whether his administration knew about the report months ago, Bush says he knew that a report was being worked on but was told further analysis was needed to avoid releasing "dis-information." The fact that he could say this without irony, embarrassment, or conciliation is another indication to me the barbarians are not only at the gate but have locked it from the inside. True, Europe has its own problems, but it's looking more attractive as a place to live. Hell, even Tuvalu is looking more promising.

11:00 a.m. I go to the men's room, which is being cleaned, so I wait outside. I'm joined by a man who looks exactly like George Wendt and paces around me, shaking his head impatiently. I'm a little desperate myself but distract myself by counting the number of cornrows on the weave of the woman making a cell phone call nearby. Damn, there are at least 50 of those suckers in there. George Wendt calls into the janitor that he really, REALLY appreciates the job he's doing and hopes he will be done soon because the bathroom down the hall is disgusting, like "something out of Caracas." I wonder why George uses this frame of reference.

11:10 a.m. The bathroom is available again, and a gaggle of Hassidic and Asian men literally appear from out of nowhere and cut ahead of me. Whatever.

11:30 a.m. I notice that my summons is purple, whilst everyone around me has a pink one. Clearly the color choice has nothing to do with my orientation, or else I would have gotten pink. But I am curious about the color difference. Suddenly, every single person in the two rows ahead and behind me is called to the empanelment area. All the pink people. I'm not quite sure what the empanelment area is, but I envision lots of wood paneling.

12:30 p.m. I search online for things to do on our upcoming trip. I lament that I'll miss the Christmas Pudding Race in Covent Garden. But I am excited to hear from our Irish friend Alison, who says I can stay at her house when I go to Dublin (well, closer to Wicklow). Normally I would say no, but it will save me $300. My stomach is rumbling. Half hour to lunch.

12:50 p.m. We're dismissed for lunch. I go outside and realize that my wool sweater, leather coat, boots, hat, and gloves are still not enough to keep me warm. I call in to work for my messages. I curse my LG Chocolate phone, which has a mind of its own. I can't use the touch-sensitive buttons with my gloves on, so I have to take them off and risk frostbite every time I push a button. I go to Grand Canyon Diner on Montague Street for lunch. I get a table right away, seated between a Jake Gyllenhaal lookalike and an ancient, unmistakably Brooklyn Heights woman with binoculars for glasses. I briefly think about asking "Jake" if he's really Jake in disguise. The old woman orders chili and rice, and I think, I hope she lives alone. She politely asks me if I'll open her Saltine packets for her, and I do. She reminds me a little of my mother, and I think about growing old and hope that I won't be all alone. I also wonder if I will subsist on chili and rice, especially if I live alone. My feta and tomato omelet takes forever to come, but at least it's good when it does and the waiter apologizes several times for the delay.

2:00 p.m. Back from lunch. Not much going on in the jury room. No sign of being called. A man in front of me is in the early stages of bubonic plague and seems likely to cough up an organ. Apparently the Pacific Northwest is a bit soggy.

2:50 p.m. County Clerk Nancy Sunshine addresses the remaining jurors. She thanks us for our service and tells us that we will be free to go in a few minutes. She talks about all the changes that have made jury service a more pleasant experience. She personally requested--and got--more comfortable seats, for which she deserves kudos and a bonus (hopefully). She also has upped the time for service to 8 years from 6, which means I won't get called again until 2015. This is because more than 2.5 million people live in Brooklyn. Ms. Sunshine actually gives quite a nice little speech and asks us to give our feedback on the process as we exit. Another clerk begins the process of butchering everyone's name so we can get our letters of satisfaction. Since the roll call is in alphabetical order, it takes about 20 minutes to get to the O names, but I don't mind. I'm free! I've done my civic duty. I say goodbye to Nancy Sunshine on the way out and thank her for a pleasant experience. I just hope the morning clerk doesn't find out we've all gone to Macy's.

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A difficult cell

While I was running errands a few weeks ago, mom called. She was at a Verizon store in California. Her cell phone battery was dying, and she was buying a new one. The salesperson told her she was eligible for a phone upgrade as part of Verizon's "New Every Two" campaign. Mom was very excited because she could get a brand new phone more cheaply than she could get a battery.

However, I'm the one who ended up paying for that decision several weeks later.

A few years ago I put mom and myself on a family plan at Verizon. Neither of us uses a lot of minutes, so it made sense to consolidate air time. I got her a basic LG phone with no bells and whistles, the simplest phone they had. It still took weeks to show her how to program numbers and retrieve voice mail. I often wonder what technologies I'll be mystified about when I'm 70.

Mom finally got the hang of her LG phone, which she had for about 2 years before the battery problems started. I learned the hard way that you're not supposed to leave your phone charging overnight, especially the first time you charge it. Although lithium-ion batteries don't suffer from "memory effect" as older nickel-cadmium ones do, you still have to do some things to preserve the life. Plus, you don't want any surprises.

Given her comfort with the LG, I was surprised to find that she had gotten a different phone. "It's a camera phone," mom said, surprised to find that two formerly unrelated things had now been squeezed into one teeny device. "What the hell am I gonna do with a camera phone?" she said. "Will you show me how to use it when I get home?"

"No, ma," I said. "Focus on the fact that it's a phone. It will make your [read: my] life easier. Most cell phones today come with a camera."

"OK, hon," she said, "because the girl here said that..."

"Mom," I said, "trust me. You don't need to learn how to use the camera."

So, things went off without a hitch. The next day, mom called me on her new phone. She called to tell me that the Verizon store where she'd bought the phone wasn't able to transfer her numbers from her old to her new phone. She'd go to the store in Bay Ridge when she got home and do it. Sounded good.

A week later I was just about to drop off my shoes at old Italian cobbler Joe's on Fifth Avenue when mom's cell number came up. I debated whether to answer, since it was early for her to be calling.

"Hon," I'm out at the Verizon store on 86th. They won't transfer my numbers to my new phone. They're telling me I have to activate my old phone so they can get the numbers off it." I blinked my eyes and shook my head. What the hell...? "Something about I'm not authorized to do it and they want to talk to you." Before I could say I had 30 seconds to live and this was not a productive use of my time, a Verizon clerk got on the phone. I asked what the problem was. The man said he couldn't transfer the numbers because the phone was in my name. They would have to activate the old phone, but I would have to be present to authorize the transaction. This made zero sense to me, but I played along.

"Can't I authorize it over the phone?" I asked.

"No, sir," the man said. I hate being called "sir." "Since the account is in your name, you have to be here to authorize it. There have been problems with these things in the past."

"I don't understand," I said. "I clearly authorized a new phone in a different state, and that went through just fine. Don't you show this in your records?"

"Yes, sir," the man said in his nothing-you-can-say-can-faze-me voice. "But it's like having a bank account where you have to be present to verify that someone is who they say there are."

"No, it is not," I said, getting agitated. "It is nothing like that. This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. She obviously has a new phone and all she wants is to transfer the numbers!!" I realized that people on the street were looking at my free hand flailing, and I took a deep breath and said, "Well then, what do I have to do to get this straightened out?"

"You'll have to come to the store with her to have the phones switched."

Now we were switching phones? I felt like I was at the Mad Hatter's tea party. I thanked the man for his help, said I would deal with the problem, and hung up.

Mom called me later on her new cell phone.

"Sorry about before, hon," she said. "Those people are so unhelpful there."

"Well, more than that," I said, "they just weren't making any sense. Why don't you meet me for lunch one day and we'll go to the Verizon store on Wall Street. They always come through for me."

"All right, dear," she said. "I still can't figure out how this camera works," she said. "

"And you never will," I said, and hung up.

So, the day after Thanksgiving, mom met me and we went to the Verizon store at Wall Street. It turned out that neither the old phone nor the new phone worked.

"When were you going to tell me?" I asked patiently. My God, how the parent-child tables turn quickly.

"I figured you were busy," she said. "And what could you do anyway? I figured we'd get it straightened it out." I wanted to say, yeah, but that's a very different issue from getting your numbers transferred from one phone to another. But I didn't.

The Verizon Store on Wall Street was not a Black Friday hub of activity, and we immediately got a tech support person. I explained that neither phone was working and handed the two over.

"Where did you get this phone?" the woman, whom I'll call Gloria, asked.

"She bought it in California," I said.

"We don't even sell this phone," Gloria said. "When did she buy it?"

"About a week ago."

"Do you have a receipt for it?" Thankfully mom had brought the receipt, which I handed over.

"Ah," Gloria said, "she bought this from an authorized retailer."

"What does that mean?" I said.

"It means that we sell phones to places like them that we authorize to program."

It made sense to me now why the Bay Ridge store wouldn't do anything. They couldn't vouch for the authenticity of the new phone.

"So what do we do?" I asked.

"Take this to Kally at Customer Service and tell her the problem and see what she can do."

Kally, a very early 20-ish, model-worthy woman of color, did not really seem in the mood for problem customers today. She and her two similarly configured colleagues were extremely busy making plans for the evening. But Kally mustered up enough customer service energy to help us. I'm sure if I have been Usher I would have been helped with more enthusiasm.

I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best, and the best was that Verizon replaced the new phone for free. The old phone did not hold a charge at all, and they could not transfer the numbers. But mom had like 30 numbers, so I said I would transfer them. The new phone, a Samsung, very, very basic, had, unfortunately, a camera in it.

"Thanks for all your help, hon," mom said. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Just don't go to authorized retailers anymore," I said. "Only go to a place that has red, black, and white."

"I guess that was a stupid thing to do," she said.

"Well, I guess, how could you know?" I said. "Those places will sell you anything. They're great for accessories, but I wouldn't buy my phone from them. I learned the hard way, too."

"So you'll transfer the numbers for me?" she said.

"Of course I will."

"But I still don't know how to work that goddamn camera," she said.

Continue reading...

Tour de force

I haven't blogged in over a month, not for lack of things to say, but for lack of time in which to say them. Work has tested the limits of my sanity many times over the past few months, and I've been working late hours and barely making it to the gym, so by the time I get home I usually retreat into a catlike state, or, more accurately, catatonic state, and the last thing on my mind is writing. If I weren't able to hit something, I just might be making license plates in a Mexican prison. My idea of fun now is tracking down long-dead ancestors and trying to figure out how many degrees separate me from Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. Just out of curiosity, you know.

As my faithful readers know, my late grandfather, Fred, whom I never knew, was a bit of a cad--OK, a big-ass cad. By "accidentally" reading a letter she thought was addressed to her, my grandmother found out that my my grandfather had abandoned another wife, whom he was still married to, and their three kids in Dublin. Although they stayed together till grandpa's death in 1948, the marriage was effectively over. For the rest of her life, my grandmother shoveled bushels of Catholic shame and guilt onto herself, and the mystery of the other family was supposed to remain a secret forever.

Then I was born.

I always liked the Nancy Drew mysteries (although really I was just interested in the Hardy Boys), starring soon-to-be Dynasty heiress Pamela Sue Martin. Nancy would use her teenage powers of deduction to solve a perplexing situation. As soon as she'd say something like "Professor, do ghosts leave footprints?" I knew the mystery was solved. In my case, I started sleuthing about a year ago to track down Fred's Dublin family. One clue led to another clue to another clue, and finally I had all the pieces of the puzzle--except one: the married name of the only person I could track down. That was the only clue that escaped me. And then, miraculously, this year, Nancy Drew came to the rescue in the form of Anne-Marie, who found all the puzzle pieces online and gave me the last clue I needed for the picture to emerge.

In March I met the Dublin family, who now lives in London. I felt as if I'd known them all my life. And in some way, I felt that my grandmother, Fred's second wife, wanted me to know them.

Sandra, one of the London half-cousins, called in September to say she and her two girls, Sandy and Cass, were making their first trip to New York at the end of October. It so happened I had a few days off coming up, so I decided to meet them at the airport and play tour guide for 4 days.

A few days before their arrival, I asked my mother if she wanted to meet us in Manhattan for lunch. Her voice had a hedgy quality, as if I had just asked whether she would prefer cow lips or pig's ears. Finally I said, "You're not really interested in meeting them, are you?" She hesitated, then said, "No, not really." I asked why, and again she hesitated. "I don't know. I just don't think I have anything in common with them." No, I said sarcastically, I guess not--except for one little thing: your father.

I could understand her feeling that what's past is past, but I was nonetheless bothered by her attitude. My aunt called me a few hours later, and she was bothered too. "I told her how selfish she's being," my aunt said. "You've done so much for her, and you put all this work into finding them. The least she could do is give you an hour." My mother had even asked my aunt when "Kieran's relatives" were arriving.

Obviously I couldn't force my mother to do anything, so I just let it go. My aunt was excited about meeting them and had even bought them welcome gifts. Why was my mother so ambivalent? Was she jealous? Resentful? Bitter? I mean, after I found the other family's names, mom was the one who handed me the page of the Dublin phone book she'd ripped out so we could start calling all the Masons who lived there.

Maybe it was one thing for her to wonder about the other family all these years, quite another to know they were real--and that my grandmother's shame might be validated. But, really, all I wanted from mom was for her to show up for lunch for an hour, say hello, and, leave. After all, if anyone should have have been jealous, bitter, and resentful, it's the family overseas who had been abandoned.

Luis and I picked up Sandra and the girls at JFK on Wednesday night. I hadn't seen them since March, but it felt like I saw them yesterday. We keep in touch by e-mail regularly, so I really feel like I know what's going on with them. Sandra's mother, Gladys, my mother and aunt's half-sister, was unable to come. She was recovering from an infection caused by a spider bite on her leg, and at 83 years old her recovery time is slow. Although a meeting of my mother and aunt and Gladys would have been a big Oprah moment, it will have to wait for another day.

The look of awe on the faces of Sandy, 12, and Cass, just 17, as they walked through the terminal was priceless. As a birthday present, Cass pleaded with her mom to come to New York. As we passed through Queens on the way to Manhattan, Cass said excitedly in her British accent, "I can't believe I'm in America." We drove through Jamaica, and I pointed out that we were in Queens. "That's where 50 Cent is from," Cass said. Indeed.

As we drove to their hotel, they chattered away about what they wanted to do. Number one on their list was shopping, which was wise given the strength of the pound. But that was not all: the Empire State Building, Madame Tussaud's, Ground Zero, Macy's, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, a helicopter ride. I pointed out the Empire State Building, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Chrysler Building to them. Their heads whipped around, trying to drink it all in while drowsily battling the effects of an 7-hour plane ride and a 5-hour time difference. They were staying 4 full days. If they were going to see all those things, I was going to have to get a good night's sleep and pull out my good walking shoes.

On Thursday I met them at Niketown in Manhattan around noon. The girls were busy trying on every pair of trainers in the store. Sandra's cell phone wasn't working, so I had to use my intuition to find them. Once the salesperson told the girls that they could order custom-made trainers, well, it was like an early Christmas for them. This option wasn't even available to them in London. They made an appointment with a "custom shoe specialist" for 2 pm.

Despite my repeated warnings to not eat at their hotel, they ignored them and had breakfast there. "The bacon was inedible," Sandra said, "and the pancakes were rubbery. And it cost $60 for the three of us!" I looked at Sandra. "I know," she said, "you warned us." Eating in a hotel isn't so bad--if that's your only option. When we dropped them off from the airport I pointed out a perfectly respectable, inexpensive diner right next door to the hotel. "We learned our lesson," she said. "Good," I said, "because there's no reason to eat crappy food in New York City."

We had some time to kill. What would they like to do? Empire State Building! Madame Tussaud's! Macy's! they cried. "Hold your horses!" I said. "We only have an hour until your appointment." Plus, it was rainy and chilly, and there wasn't much outdoors we could comfortably do. We went into St. Patrick's Cathedral and Rockefeller Center. I showed them where the Christmas tree would soon be and said that several TV shows like "Scrubs" were filmed there. We went to the Sony building to see we if we could find PlayStation games for their 13-year-cousin James. Then it was time to go back to Niketown.

We met my aunt at 3 at Ellen's Stardust Diner, which I thought would be fun but turned out to be irritating. I wondered what was going through my aunt's head as she met her half-niece for the first time. No worries. They started chatting away, competing with the singing waiters who tried to engage us in their performances. The food was pretty bad. I had chosen the restaurant poorly, but it didn't seem to matter. Later my aunt called me to say she felt like she'd known them her whole life. Sandra said the same thing about my aunt.

After lunch I checked my voice mail. Mom had called during our lunch: "I just talked to your uncle, and he said my sister was having lunch with the cousins in Manhattan. I knew nothing about it. I'm sorry. OK, dear, bye."

I scratched my head. Hadn't I asked her to join us? Hadn't my aunt told her when we were meeting? Was this a pang of guilt, or was mom's memory that bad? I decided to not call her back. I'd deal with it later.

Taxi rides for four are much cheaper than four subway fares. The girls were inclined to cab it everywhere, but I said if they wanted the New York experience, they should get used to walking. Their mother agreed. Still, I knew we wouldn't be able to squeeze everything into four days, so I got 2-day passes for those ubiquitous red Gray Line double-deckers. I'd never been on one before. As we sat on the upper deck of the night loop bus, I looked around at the dazzling lights of Times Square and felt awed myself. So often I dismiss touristy things, but seeing the city from above was pretty thrilling. The girls practically got whiplash trying to take it all in. When we got to Brooklyn and passed through Fulton Ferry Landing (in my opinion the finest view of Manhattan you'll ever get), the girls gasped. "Oh my God!" said Cass, who had not been demonstrably effusive about anything so far, "That's a view I'll never forget. It's brilliant!"

After the 2-hour tour, I put them in a cab at Times Square and took the subway back to Brooklyn. I thought, being a tourist in New York is grueling. And that was just day one.

Friday was wet and cold, a perfect day for shopping. Sandra's cell phone still wasn't working, and I had train problems. When I got to their hotel they had left. I asked the bellman if he'd seen them. He recalled that they had gone to their left. Great. How was I going to find them? Then I remembered the diner. I passed by the window and didn't see them. Then, as I turned away, I spotted them in the furthest corner.

"Better?" I said.

"Much better," Sandra said. "You were right."

"Don't ever second-guess a New Yorker," I joked.

We spent about 5 hours at Macy's, which is more time than I've collectively spent there in my life. The girls were superexcited to find their favorite brands, Jay-Z's line Rocawear and Baby Phat, headed by Russell Simmons' wife Kimora. Sandra was on the hunt for boots.

Macy's offers an 11 percent discount to anyone showing an out-of-town license or passport. The pass lasts 30 days. Coupled with a fantastic exchange rate, that meant big saving for the Brits.

Sandy was eager to eat at the McDonald's at Macy's. Her sister wasn't so keen on it, but their mom caved in. I couldn't believe they would want to eat the same food they could get at home, but I guess if I had traveled abroad at 12 I would have wanted something familiar.

When we left Macy's it was dark and still wet. We took a cab back to their hotel. Sandra still hadn't been able to get her cell phone to work. I discovered that she hadn't changed the band to work in the US. Once I changed the band, the phone worked.

I asked them what they wanted to do. The nice thing about New York is that everything stays open late. They decided on Madame Tussaud's. It was open until about 1:00 a.m., and when we arrived, the place was virtually empty.

I wasn't sure I was going to enjoy a wax museum, but the girls got right into the fun, posing with just about every figure, starting with The Hulk. I took pictures of them with Oprah, the Osbournes, Jessica Simpson, The Rock, and Charlie Chaplin. (Cass said she used to be scared of him.)

Two days down, two to go. I wondered how we would fit all the things they wanted to do into 48 hours, especially with the bad weather.

On Saturday Sandra and the girls went off to find things for their pug, Muffin. Sandy missed Muffin terribly and had brought with her a Muffin photo album. I met them in the afternoon at Century 21, a shopping must for natives and out-of-towners alike. Century happens to directly face Ground Zero. It's still a shock to finish shopping and enter the street to a giant void where the world's tallest buildings used to stand. Cass was visibly stunned. Sandy spotted Burger King on the corner, where, it occurred to me, we had a bird's-eye view of the construction site. Cass took a lot of photos of the site, which is now starting to take shape. For years it was literally empty, and now that cranes and bulldozers are working on the new structures, the site looks somewhat like it did after 9/11. I started getting a little teary myself looking at it. I guess that feeling may never go away.

It was getting late, and the Statue of Liberty was now out of the question. But suddenly I had an idea: We could take the Staten Island Ferry, for free, to Staten Island and back. That's about as close as you can get to the statue without going to Liberty Island. The timing was perfect. We got on the 6:00 boat, just as the sun was starting to set over Jersey skyline. The girls were fixated on the shoreline as the boat moved further away from The Battery. We also passed Ellis Island, the gateway to America for millions of immigrants, and it was easy to imagine their excitement and anticipation as they headed toward a new life in a foreign land. We sat on the outer deck facing the statue, and even I felt a sense of awe. There are so many things I take for granted as a native New Yorker. Sometimes it takes a fresh pair of eyes to lend a new perspective to familiar surroundings.

The boat landed at St. George in Staten Island, and we immediately got off and got on the next boat. We were far from alone. A tour guide holding up a magazine shepherded a whole gaggle of people back onto the same boat.

It was dark and chilly as we headed back, and the city took on a whole different aspect. So many bright lights imbued the island with a sense of mystery and excitement. "You guys ready for some walking?" I asked. Sandra was very excited about our next leg of the journey; the girls were not so keen, but they soon warmed up.

We took the subway up to City Hall and began our half-hour walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. It was nippy, in the 40s, but still a beautiful, clear night. The girls were buzzing about the views. "I will remember this view for my whole life," Cass said. She would say the same thing once we got to Fulton Ferry Landing in DUMBO.

To make up for all the bad fast food we'd been eating, a trip to Grimaldi's Pizza in Brooklyn was in order. One third of the Holy Triumvirate of Cheeses and Marinara (along with Lombardi's and DiFara's), Grimaldi's makes a simple, tangy, chewy pie baked in a coal-fired oven, something that's hard to come by in Manhattan (new coal-fired ovens are prohibited, and existing ovens were grandfathered in years ago). Luis said he would meet us about 8:15. The line was not terrible. Normally on a Saturday night it can snake around the block, but there were only three parties ahead of us. After about 10 minutes it was our turn, and Luis hadn't shown up. I texted him, "batter up," and then we were ushered inside. Normally we wouldn't have been seated without the whole party, but some miscellaneous person entered with us and the host figured he was with us. Just as we sat down, Luis burst through the door, just in time.

The pizza didn't disappoint. The Brits said it was the best pizza they'd ever had. I nodded in a told-you-so sort of way. I couldn't help myself.

After dinner we headed to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, another hidden treasure, for some decadent handmade scoops. It was around 9:30 and Luis suggested that we should go to the Empire State Building, which is open until 2:00 a.m. He even said he'd wait for us. Again I was thankful for the clear weather. The previous night we had tried to go to Top of the Rock at Rockefeller Center, the second best choice for a panoramic view of the city. Visibility was so poor they wouldn't even let us go up.

We drove into Manhattan and took a little spin before going to the ESB. Scores of people were dressed in Halloween costumes, on their way to parties. The girls were tickled, since Halloween is not as big a deal in London as it is here. Some costumes were really lame, but others, like a guy dressed up as tissue box labeled "Blo Me," were pretty clever. Then there were costumes we couldn't really identify, and in some cases those weren't costumes. "Some people just slap a pair of heels onto anything and call it a costume," Luis said.

I'd bought tickets to the ESB online, so we breezed right in past the ticket line. The line wasn't that bad, but it would have added an extra half hour or so to the visit. I'd only been to the top once before, in the mid-1990s. It's another one of those things I'd never do myself, but when accompanied by excited newbies, it's a giddy experience.

We spent about an hour in the building. Luis very sweetly waited for us, then drove them back to their hotel. I felt like we had put a very big dent in the list of sights. The next day we were going to see "Chicago," courtesy of our family friend Steven, who's the stage manager.

On Sunday morning I got a call from Mom, asking what we were up to today. I said we were going to see a show and then having an early dinner at Junior's in Midtown. Mom asked if she could come. I was shocked.

"I thought you wanted nothing to do with them," I said.

"I never said that," she said.

"You may not have used those words, but you didn't seem the least bit interested."

"Well, it's..." she struggled for the words, "I don't know. I can't even explain it....But I would like to meet them."

"OK," I said. "It's up to you. We're meeting at Junior's around 5. If you want to join us, you're more than welcome. After dinner we're going to take a horse and buggy ride around Central Park, and you can come on that, too."

I met the lovely ladies at the Ambassador Theater at 2 to see "Chicago." The male dancers were brutally hot. "Dressed" in fishnet and leather or spandex, they looked like they'd come straight from Folsom East. During the show I started to wonder if the adult content was too risque for a 12-year-old and 17-year-old. I mentioned this to Sandra at intermission. "Are you kidding?" she said. "They could tell you a thing or two."

After the show we went back to Fifth Avenue and did some shopping, then met my mother at Junior's. As with my aunt, things went very well. There was no awkwardness, and it was as if they'd known each other forever. After dinner my mother stopped a pedicab driver to ask where we could get a horse-and-buggy rides. He, of course, wanted to take us there, but we would have had to rent two pedicabs and it would have taken forever to get there. We took a cab instead, and the cab driver took us right up to a line of available carriages on Central Park West. I hadn't taken a carriage ride since senior prom night 30 years ago. Our hopes were almost dashed when the driver said he couldn't take 5 people in one carriage; the law allows no more than 4. But since Sandy and Cass were small, he finally relented. We took the long route, up through Strawberry Fields, Tavern on the Green, and Wollman Skating Rink. I'm embarrassed to say that I know little or nothing about Central Park. I live right near sister Prospect Park, so I have little reason to go to Central. It was chilly and we were all wrapped up in a heavy blanket. It was the perfect way to end the visit. About an hour later, we ended up where we started and thanked our horse, Walter, and his driver, Jose, for the ride. We said our goodbyes and put the Brits in one cab, while mom and I took another back to Brooklyn.

On the ride home, we talked about everything I'd done with them during their visit. "We did pretty much everything they wanted to do," I said. "It was exhausting, but fun."

Mom said, "I had such a good time. I'm so glad I met them. They're really nice."

"See?" I said. "Look at what can happen when you open your mind."

Parenting is such a hard job.

Continue reading...

Tear the roof off the sucker

Our building looks like a bomb hit it--and that's a good thing. Today was the first day of demolition. We've waited two-and-a-half years for this moment. It's the first actual sign that something is happening. The ceiling on the first floor came a-tumbling down, revealing beams that were a little higher than we thought.

We're doing limited interior demolition so we can see how much of the building we can salvage and how much will be new. It looks like we'll be saving very little. We also have to have four giant test pits (3 ft by 3 ft) dug on the first floor to determine the composition of the foundation. The second and third floor were never fully built out, so engineers need to test the bearing capacity of the soil underneath.

It's all very exciting, and now we just have to hope that getting a construction loan in this credit crisis isn't too difficult. Otherwise, we will need to call our building The Money Pit.

Continue reading...

Free from the GRE

"What are you taking?" I asked the perky blonde chick waiting in the hallway of the Prometric Testing Center in downtown Brooklyn.

"Pharmacy boards," she said.

"And you?" I asked the Indian woman waiting with her.

"Dental boards," she said.

I said I was taking the GREs, and it had been 23 years since I'd been in a classroom. I don't know why I feel compelled to tell people this. Well, actually I do. I want them to say, "Wow! You don't look that old!"

It works almost every time.

But today I was feeling that old as I chatted with these fresh, young test takers. The blonde, originally from Buffalo, exuded an eager innocence and enthusiasm that sparked a glimmer of recognition. The Indian woman was practically delirious about dentistry. When I was their age I had those same dreams, and like dreams, you never really know how they're going to turn out.

Now, even though I love learning, my desire to go to graduate school is pragmatic rather than ardent. If I screw up this exam, I reasoned, I'll lose nothing. My career doesn't depend on it, I'm not trying to remedy a deficiency, and my company will even pay for me to go to school. All I need is the willpower.

I spent most of yesterday and this morning cramming algebra and geometry formulas into my head. I think I may have ended up using one of them. The Princeton Review is really big on plugging in and process of elimination as strategies. I found those useful in maybe one or two math questions.

The analytical writing section was annoying. I had 45 minutes to write about an issue and 30 minutes to critique an argument. In the issue section you're given a topic and asked to take a side, refute the other side, and support your side, as in a typical essay. I must have stared at the screen for a good 10 minutes before writing down anything. The more I saw the clock count down, the more panicked I got. I write for a living, but I usually have lots of time to do it, so having the time constraint was stressful. Princeton Review advises you to write as much as you possibly can, since length counts. So, let's just say mine was not that long.

Next, you are asked to examine an argument by looking at the premises, conclusions, and assumptions and write a "cogent" essay in 30 minutes. The time pressure was, again, irritating. Unless you're a news or TV reporter, that kind of time pressure is unrealistic. I think I did a little better on this section, but not great.

After the writing section I had the option of taking a break, but I was already numb and decided to press on with the math and verbal sections. The math section consists of answering 28 questions in 35 minutes. I would say that at least half of the questions looked like hieroglyphics to me. I tried plugging in and process of elimination, but, honestly, most of the answers were guesses. I got to the last question about 4 minutes before time was up and spent that 4 minutes furiously trying to plug and eliminate.

The verbal section was fairly easy in comparison, though I answered some hard questions--the antonyms and analogies sections seemed incredibly difficult. I mean, I have a decent vocabulary, but these words must have been unearthed from the archaic section of the OED.

I got to the end of the verbal section and thought I was done. But ETS threw in an extra, "experimental" section, another writing section. It's optional, but ETS offers a dubious $250 incentive to the top 100 essayists. I was pretty fried by that point but decided to do the essay anyway. Sadly, I did best on this section, but it doesn't count.

The exam was officially over, and now I had to decide whether to keep the scores or cancel them. I really thought I had done pretty badly on all but the verbal section, but I had come this far and I had to know. First, I had to choose the schools I wanted to report my scores to. Only then could I find out my math and verbal scores.

After choosing the schools, I nervously clicked the Report button like I was about to launch a nuclear warhead.

Verbal: 650, Math: 620. Not too bad. Let's see how the Analytical Writing section turns out. I'll get that score in the mail in 2 weeks.

I came home exhausted, with a headache the size of x to the nth power. Bye, bye, binomials. Farewell, factorials. I switched off my brain, took a nap, and ended the day watching my new favorite indulgence: Scott Baio is 45...and Single. Thankfully I'm not the only Brooklyn boy going through a midlife crisis.

Continue reading...

Our house, in the middle of...

We met with our architect this week to finalize interior demolition plans for our building. We've seen a lot of ideas on paper over the past two-and-a-half years. Now we will be happy to see beams and bricks fall. When we bought the building in early 2005, none of us envisioned that we'd still be at the drawing board at this stage. It's that pesky drawing board that stands between us and our 600-square-foot grassy yard, our light-filled living room, and walk-in shower.
It's not our architect's fault that things have taken so long. New York City's zoning rules, requirements, and fees are so arcane, it's truly amazing that any construction gets done in New York City. And still, I pass buildings on my way home from work that were started after we bought our building and were finished long ago. They didn't have to deal with community, environmental, and appeals boards. They just had a lot of money and connections.

Do I sound bitter?

The structural engineer doesn't think we can salvage a lot of the building. The bottom story is brick, and the top two floors are frame. New construction requires building with flameproof materials, so most likely we'll tear down most of the two top floors. Since we're building out the two top two floors from 30 to 70 feet, we have to do test pits in the foundation to find out the bearing load of the underlying ground. That will set us back another month.

It's very cool that we will one day be living in a space that we chose everything for. The hard part is having an endless variety of options. Envisioning how things will look together is a challenge, and we're trying to double up on as many things as possible (appliances, materials, fixtures) with our friends so that we can economize.

This whole experience is like living in an Agatha Christie novel. I can't wait to see how it ends. One day, the mystery will be resolved, and we'll look back and say, "Aha! I always knew it would end this way."

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Communion

I made my first Holy Communion 36 years ago, together with my friends Arlene and Kathy. Looking back, we were little angels then, so impressionable and eager to receive this most blessed of sacraments. The girls, in white lace dresses and veils, looked like little brides of Jesus, and the boys, in navy blue suits, resembled miniature Christian soldiers. On the day we first tasted that pristine white wafer on our eager tongues (a phrase that would acquire a new meaning in junior high), we were one step closer to becoming adults in the Catholic Church.

Much has happened in the intervening years to negate the sanctity of that day. I have failed to be the model my church elders hoped to mold me into. Before receiving Communion, Catholics must be in a "state of grace." This means going to confession to cleanse their souls so they can receive Christ's body and blood. Since homosexuality is considered a mortal sin, I can never achieve that state of grace. Frankly I don't care how other humans judge my soul; I know that if a higher power exists, it made me this way and doesn't judge me.

Catholics believe in transubstantiation, the process by which symbolic substances (the communion wafer and the wine) are converted into the actual substances (Christ's body and blood). Technically this belief makes Catholics cannibals. However, I'm sure anyone who's been shipwrecked will tell you a communion wafer tastes nothing like a thigh.

Today Arlene's daughter Gabrielle is making her first Holy Communion. Luis and I go to the Mass and sit in the very last row. Despite not having gone to church for about 20 years, I still remember every single part of the Mass--every prayer, every genuflection, every gesture. If I could somehow download this knowledge to a memory stick and clear out my brain, I could concentrate on winning a Nobel prize. But there it remains, like a needle stuck on a broken record.

Gabrielle and all the 8-year-old boys and girls look sweet in their dresses and suits, so solemn and wide-eyed, beaming all the way to their pews. All, that is, but the very last child, a chubby Hispanic boy dressed in a white suit, standing at the back of the church, sobbing uncontrollably. I look over at his pew and see an empty space where his parents or godparents should be. Another woman, maybe his sister or aunt, cradles his head in her hands and strokes it while his body heaves with tearful gasps. I can't help looking at him, wondering what could have happened on the day he is to get his first taste of Jesus. It didn't look like a case of nerves. Judging from the women crying around him, I suspect it is something terrible. I never do find out, but it haunts me for the rest of the day.

I pray for Mass to end; Luis tries a different tack.

After Mass we go to a Communion lunch at Monte's, the oldest Italian restaurant in Brooklyn. It's three doors down from our new building, so we spend much of the lunch explaining our plans. Neither of us knows many of the guests. Arlene introduces us to some friends of hers.

"This is Kieran. We've known each other since the third grade." Some people nod, mildly interested in this pedigree. "And this," Arlene says, "is his partner, Luis." More mild interest. "Luis helped us sell our house." Suddenly eyes light up, oohs and aahs are uttered, as though a celebrity is in their midst. Such is the of a real estate agent in Park Slope.

This is an emotional day for Arlene, maybe even a bigger day for her than for her daughter. She's been through a lot of rough times, and seeing everyone close to her in one room moves her to tears.

Arlene is telling her husband's aunt about the longevity of our friendship.

"Don't ever lose that," the woman says. "I live down the block from my best friend. We've known each other since we were six. I'm 71 now. I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Kathy and I have known each other since first grade. We've known Arlene since the third. Throughout our formative years, into high school and college, we were inseparable. We know things about each other that probably no one else knows. Kathy was the first person I came out to. Arlene taught me how to dance. I was Arlene's shoulder after breakups. Time and distance have separated us physically, but in communion, we are a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

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Psoas to cause a problem

Over the years my body has become like a bowl of Rice Krispies. My hips snap, my neck crackles, and my finger joints pop, all at will. When I crack my neck, people, and by people, I mean Luis and my mother, often say they expect it to roll onto the floor. I think they're just jealous that they can't do what I can.

I have my chiropractor to thank for my flexibility. My biweekly visits to her for the past 8 years have definitely prolonged my athletic career. A lot of people don't understand why I go to her so often, or even at all, but I could really care less: she helps me stay aligned and healthy, and that's all that matters. I rarely get sick. When I told my aunt I was going regularly, she assumed I had some crippling lower back pain or scoliosis or something. No, I patiently explained, it's preventive. No one in my family understands what that word means, at least not when it comes to their health. Prevention to them is drinking a glass of milk to coat the stomach before consuming alcohol. It would never occur to them that the body is like an engine that needs regular maintenance.

I went back to the gym on Monday after being away for a week. I did a very intense workout -- 12 rounds of boxing, 20 minutes of plyometrics, a few sets of weights, pushups, pullups, and situps. Normally when I take a week off and come back, I snap right back into shape. But this time, about halfway through my workout, I felt nauseated. My stomach felt like it had a tennis ball lodged there. I had some trouble breathing, not a suffocating feeling but uncomfortable enough.

I came home and had no trouble eating dinner. I had an appetite, so it wasn't parasites. My stomach started feeling tighter right under my ribcage. I thought I had ingested something that was stopping up the plumbing, but I had no trouble in that area either. Tuesday morning I still felt the tightness and thought it might be heartburn. Should I go to the doctor? No, I reasoned, I am dying and that's all there is to it. I worked out Wednesday and felt about the same, and then Thursday the tightness was back. I started thinking darker thoughts. Could I be having heart problems? Do I have a tumor? Did I, in fact, swallow a tennis ball?

Last night I went to my chiropractor, the tightness still lingering under my ribcage. I decided I wasn't going to mention it to her. I had entered the bargaining phase of dying, and well, I didn't think an adjustment would really help much. After all, the Tums hadn't worked. After her usual manipulations of back, hips, neck, and head, Dr. A stopped and looked me over.

"Something's still not right," she said.

"I know," I said, "I don't feel right." I explained about the tightness under my ribcage and how I'd had it for three days. I thought I might simply tell her that I was dying, probably of a tumor that would soon be the size of a bowling ball and would soon make adjusting me a whole lot more difficult.

"Lie on your back," she said. I usually respond to this command only when a man says it, but in this case it seemed the right thing to do.

"Raise your right leg all the way up and when I push on it, try to resist." I raised, she pushed, I resisted. My leg immediately sank all the way down to the table.

"Now try your left leg." Same procedure, different result. I resisted completely.

"There's a muscle called the psoas [pronounced so-az] that runs under your ribcage to your hips," she said. "I'm going to see if I can release it." She positioned her hand under my ribcage and, although it sounds like something out of a zombie movie, started manipulating my organs. I really wouldn't have minded at that point if she had just dug right in and ripped my whole stomach out. Her manipulations were a little uncomfortable, but I knew she was on to something. She pushed my stomach apart from my ribs and I felt a little snap. I felt instant relief. The psoas muscle, she said, had probably pushed my stomach up under my ribcage and it got stuck. Like Willy, it wanted to be free!

I immediately felt like a new man. Here I was preparing myself for a Brian Piccolo moment, complete with a deathbed confession and a letter to Jeremy Piven asking if he would consider sleeping with me before I die, and all my psoas needed was a little attention.

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The wearing (down) of the green

I like green. I like beer. But I don't like green beer. Nor do I like window displays adorned with leprechauns, shamrocks, and harps. Tired, tired, tired. When did St. Patrick's Day become a season, like Easter or Christmas? Hoboken had its St. Patrick's Day parade on March 3. This past weekend, on a visit to Lambertville, NJ, for the day, I thought I had landed in Dublin. The local bakery had green petit fours in the window. I am sorry, but green cake just makes me think of mold. Shamrocks--stenciled, cardboard, and plastic--were more plentiful than on the rolling hills of Eire. Thankfully, there was no riverdancing in sight.

Even La Villa, the local Italian restaurant around the corner from my house, had shamrocks painted on the windows. I can't imagine the local Irish pub putting up pictures of the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria on Columbus Day.

Ah well, this St. Paddy's Day I will be in a place where, rest assured, I won't have to worry about leprechauns or shamrocks or green beer: London.

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This new house

We've owned our "new" building in Brooklyn now for 2 years. At the time we bought it, we were sure we'd be all ready to move in right about now. Silly us. The biggest hurdle to get over was obtaining a zoning variance. On paper it looked fairly easy; in practice, it was slow and painful. Appraisals, air testing, community board hearings, design revisions, city hearings--at each step of the way, we could have sided with the Cowardly Lion and turned back on the road. But we finally made it through, and Emerald City is looming in the distance. Last night we celebrated the end of one phase with our friends and architect. From the beginning we had always liked her design, but she made it even better than it was. Last night she unveiled the new plans. Now we can go ahead and get bids and financing and invest in some serious caffeine. It will be at least another year before we're done, but we're going to have a kick-ass space, just in time for the opening of a Whole Foods three blocks away. We're very excited.

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Sign of the impending apocalypse #2

A new sign! And boy am I glad, since I've been meaning to have a little one-on-one with the Prince of Darkness.

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Sign of the impending apocalypse #1

A neighborhood resident posts provocative signs in his window from time to time. I don't know whether he's an "artist" or insane, or both, but regardless, the signs do elicit a reaction. I don't want to identify where he lives so that I don't end up being made into a lampshade in the event he is not an artist. From time to time, I will post the signs as they change.

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Goldilocks had an easier time

For the past few weeks Luis has been conducting research into why he sleeps so poorly. He has had this problem ever since I've known him, which is almost 9 years, and things haven't gotten any better. He's tried humidifiers, memory foam, ear plugs, caffeine reduction, breathing strips, linen spray, orthopedic pillows--nothing has helped. Lindsay Wagner has become his personal hero, since she has found her Sleep Number and Luis is intensely jealous.

I, on the other hand, could sleep standing up on a moving bus.

Luis begins conking out at around 10:30 p.m. Our friends know that when we are out, regardless of where we are or what we are doing, Luis's batteries are beginning to run down when he suddenly announces, "I have to leave." The instant his head hits the pillow he is sound asleep. He recently discovered that falling asleep within the first five minutes of lying down is a sign of sleep deprivation.

He sleeps soundly for a while, but invariably he tosses and turns and I hear a gagging sound like he's being strangled. When I go to bed I try to insinuate myself like Tom Cruise in Mission: Impossible trying not to trip the lasers, but he always wakes up and doesn't remember a thing the next morning.

I've been telling Luis for months that I think he has sleep apnea. He's finally coming to that realization and is going to look into a sleep study. Personally I think he has a deviated septum, but that's something a doctor should determine.

While researching sleep studies, Luis came across an article about mattresses. "Oh my God!" he said. "Listen to this: 'In 7 years your mattress will double in weight due to sweat, dust mites and oil from your skin, so plan to get a new one every 5 to 7 years and you should be in good shape.'"

"Ewwwww," I said. "How old is our mattress?"

"At least 10 years old."

Yesterday afternoon buying a new mattress became our top priority. And there is no place more apropos than Sleepy's.

Buying a mattress is far more intimidating than buying a car. At least you can take a car for a test drive and return it if you have buyer's remorse. Mattresses are very much a personal choice. You have to lie down on each and every one and extrapolate it to 8 hours every night for the next however many years it takes for your mattress to double in weight from all the schmutz that gets into it.

It was Saturday afternoon, and no one was in the Sleepy's showroom but a salesman. He rose from his desk chair as we walked in the door. Dressed in a cheap grey suit and smelling of eau de something bad, he looked like a cross between Dustin Hoffman and Bela Lugosi. "Hello," he said in a vaguely Eastern European but not altogether coherent accent, "and velcome to Sleepy's. I am guessing that you have come because you vant to buy a mattress."

That kind of shtick may go over well in Minsk. Luis and I just let out a hollow laugh.

Before we could say anything, the man escorted us to the back of the showroom, stopping momentarily to ask us what size we wanted.

"Queen," we said in unison, certain that our salesman missed the irony.

"And vat kind of firmness are you looking for?"

We told him that we have a pretty firm mattress now but that we were looking for something that contours more to our bodies. I thought to myself, oh my God, we've been watching too many Lindsay Wagner Sleep Number infomercials.

He took us to a video display that said DormoDiagnostics in giant letters. "Ooh, sleep 'technology,'" I whispered to Luis.

"Now," the man said, glancing back and forth between me and Luis, "do you have any sleep issues? Can you tell? Can you tell?" I was trying my best not to laugh.

"Not really," I said.

"Nothing?" the man said. "Your neck? Your hip? Your back, perhaps?"

I thought for a minute. "No."

"All right, then," he said, dubious about my lack of sleep dysfunctions. Into the display he punched in my name, age, gender, height, weight, and areas of discomfort, then did the same for Luis. He made us each lie on a display bed, which probably had more sweat, mites, and God-knows-what than any other mattress. The DormoDiagnostics display confirmed that I, indeed, did not exhibit any areas of discomfort.

"Congratulations," he said, in a voice reminiscent of The Count on Sesame Street. "Now ve are going to find the right mattress for you."

Luis and I tried not to look at each other. This man was a cartoon character. He clearly believed he had a bona fides in sleep technology.

"Now, you do know that firm is not always better." He bounced his hand along the edge of a softer mattress. "Your body has curves." What a revelation! "So it's better to find something that molds to your body."

The first bed we tried was a plush, suede-topped, queen-size mattress with a velvet bolster at our heads. I felt a little skeeved but tried to push away thoughts that a large, hairy, sweaty man with seborrhea and head lice might have lain in the same spot, ever.

Luis lay down next to me, as our salesman watched us recline in comfort. "Purr," Luis said. "This feels delicious. I could sleep on this forever."

"This is undoubtedly one of our finer mattresses," said the salesman.

"How much is this one?" Luis said.

"2500," the man said.

"Do you have anything less expensive? I just don't think I have it in me to spend that kind of money on bedding."

"Vy, certainly," the man said. "Come this vay." I half-expected Tattoo to amble along behind him.

We lay down on the second mattress, also suede-topped. It didn't feel much different from the first one.

"I like this," I said. "Me, too," said Luis. The price of that one was $1700.

"How about something in the $1000 range?" Luis said. Many years ago Luis had gone mattress shopping with his friend Mel and had been impressed with the way Mel handled the salesperson. It really was not much different from buying a car. I wondered if we'd have to get mattress insurance too...and detailing.

"Ah, yes," the salesman said, unfazed. "Right over here." We lay on the third mattress, which both of us decided felt just as good as the first two. We lay on it a little longer than the others to see if we could feel anything, even subtle, that would make us decide. "These mattresses are made by the Kingsdown company. They are an employee-owned company in North Carolina, and they are crafted--vell, I can't say that they are all made by hand--but they are vell made and they have been around for 100 years." I hoped he was referring to the company and not the mattresses.

After a few minutes the salesman walked away and Luis and I rested for 5 minutes.

"Hey, BooBoo," Luis said.

"Mmmm."

"What was that Martin Short character?"

"Oh my God!" Our salesman sounded just like Franck Eggelhoffer, the frenetic wedding planner with an unintelligible Eastern European accent played by Martin Short in Father of the Bride. I unleashed a reflexive shriek and began laughing uncontrollably. Now I couldn't stop the tears spilling out and accelerating the saturation of this particular mattress with moisture. I had to lay on the bed until I could compose myself again.

That mattress was $900. "One more," Luis said to Franck. "What else you got?"

"Vell," Franck said, "this one here is a stripped-down version of the second one you saw."

"What makes it stripped down?" I asked.

"The top on this one is cotton, and on the other it is suede. It is essentially the same mattress with maybe a few less coils and some more foam."

I have to say, I didn't notice any difference, really, in any of the four mattresses. I could easily have slept on any of them--but then, I'm not the one with the sleeping issues.

The stripped-down mattress was $1200. We liked it, but Luis felt that even that was a little too high.

"We like this one," Luis said, "but can you do any better on the price?"

It made sense that since buying a mattress is like buying a car, you should be able to negotiate. Franck offered it for $1150, including taxes and a new mattress pad. We took it.

"Ven do you vant it delivered?" Franck asked.

"As soon as possible," I said.

"Good," he said, "because some people, they vant it delivered right now and I say, 'Vat, do you vant me to parachute into your house with it?'"

"Tomorrow will be fine," I said.

When we left, I said to Luis, "I can't believe I didn't think to look in Consumer Reports. I think we were just scared by the idea of mites sleeping with us."

"I know," Luis said. "It's such a scam....though I have to say, I could have slept on that $2500 one forever."

"I don't know. I didn't think it was such a difference."

When we got home I looked on Consumer Reports, which essentially confirmed that choosing a mattress is a completely personal experience and that the only perfect mattress is the one that is perfect for you. Boing!

I did a search on Kingsdown and discovered that it is the originator of the DormoDiagnostics sleep technology, which explains why the only mattresses we were shown were made by Kingsdown.

The mattress came today, and the old one was hauled out. Luis is sleeping on it right now. I don't think it's the cure for his sleep apnea, but as he's resting I imagine Franck telling him in his dreams: "Vell, Mr. Martinez. This is a very, very reasonable price for a mottress of this magnitude."

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Spirit on a stick

Last year at this time, 9 inches of snow blanketed the ground, and transit workers walked off their jobs. Luis was away in El Salvador visiting his family, and the holidays were rather drab and cold. This year the holiday season, by comparison, has been blissful. The city has been empty, the weather has been mild, and the trains are running normally. While the rest of Luis's family went to El Salvador, he chose to stay here and spend Christmas with me for the first time in three years.

Except for a party at my boxing gym and a couple of small get-togethers, I skipped big celebrations. I did most of my Christmas shopping online, and the rest I spaced out over a few weeks. We bought a 2-ft-high tabletop fir for a Christmas tree that fit perfectly on the windowsill next to my father. We had no ornaments or lights: everything is in storage, since we knew we wouldn't be having a big tree for at least another year, maybe two. I bought some vintage ornaments at Bob and Judi's Coolectibles in Park Slope. Andie and Mike gave us a cute, star-shaped ornament with our names on it.



Our friend John from Virginia stayed with us Christmas eve and day. It was his birthday, so we celebrated at our favorite local restaurant, Blue Ribbon. We went to a local get-together, and on Christmas day we went to my mother's for a few hours. We ate dinner at Jean-Georges with Eric and Sheri on Christmas day. All in all, the holiday was low-key.

Now that The Christmas Season starts some time between Hallowe'en and Thanksgiving, the time it takes for me to get sick of Christmas has shortened considerably. From giant inflatable snowmen to dancing Santa dolls to epilepsy-inducing lights, by Christmas Eve I'm weary of it all. It's hard to get the Christmas spirit after the 95th playing of "Jingle Bell Rock."

This year I left some gift buying until the very end, including my mother's gift. Andrea and I decided to brave shopping last Saturday. The weather was stunning, and the stores were not as maddening as we expected.

We started out at Sav-On Fifth, a local discount store in Park Slope packed with useful (and not-so-useful) items for home and personal use. I wanted to buy mom her yearly bottle of Elizabeth Taylor's White Diamonds, which she asks for every Christmas. I wasn't sure whether the store sold it, but it seemed like the logical place.

We started our search in the personal hygiene aisle, which has every hair relaxer and moisturizer known to man.

"I don't even know if they sell perfume here," I said. "But it seems like they should." I realized that Andrea had stopped about midway down the aisle. I turned around and saw Andrea smelling a stick of deodorant. A smile spread over her face.

"Arctic Ice," she said. "It was Richie's favorite. I can't find it anywhere."

"Really?" I said. "It seems like it would be a common scent."

"You'd think," she said, "but believe me, I've tried to find it all over the city."

"Look," I said. "There's only one stick left on the shelf. It's like you were meant to have it."

Andrea bought the deodorant, and I bought the perfume. "I never think to come in here," Andrea said.

"It's definitely a sign," I said, realizing that I had just witnessed the true essence of the Christmas spirit.

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