Election Day, Parade Day, All in One City

This is a bonanza for news junkies all over the country: Super Duper Tuesday. It is the day that will not decide who will win the Democratic nominee since it's apparent no real front winner will be announced at evening's end. For New Yorkers, it's also the day the Super Bowl Champs will arrive to be driven down Broadway for their celebratory parade. The news broadcasts' forecast for the traffic woes is disheartening. The subways, headed downtown, will be jam packed with people in Giants gear, hoping to catch a glimpse of their new heroes. With so much going on, it's hard for New Yorkers to prioritize--go to work, vote, or go to the parade. This idea of skipping work is problematic since all indications point toward a major recession, a deflation where many will be humbled by their shrinking investments.

This week's New York magazine was sobering, indeed. They listed cheap places for hair cuts and eateries where $16.00 can buy you enough food for more than one meal. With private equity and hedge fund money now being compared to the 80's junk bond hey day (anyone remember Mike Milken?), well, it seems the party is now over. Of course, these new kings of private equity and hedge funds will have an opportunity to remake themselves into the mold of Milken, now listed as a philanthropist, new age guru, and general Los Angeles crazy person with too much money.

Another article in the depressing issue of New York magazine also dissected how money, the illusion of it, the lack of it, adds to an illusory deflation or inflation of one's real self worth. And how with more than a few people being brought down to a level, not of the masses, but down a notch or two, may do wonders for the psyche of the average man. Perhaps if the city, particularly those making as much money as the budget of small or mid-size nations, is not doing as well, the focus will shift from consumption as a past time to something less tangible. If people were worried about belts being tightened, even if those belts are Hermes, they might spend their energies in other ways that doesn't involve profligacy being the center piece of their project. This city may finally become a city of dreams, but also heart. It's an interesting idea, don't you think?

It's interesting for me to be here just as another era, the one defined by private equity, hedge funds, and private jets, is coming to a close. I've just left a city that is all about glitter and illusion. It is a city where people, living in studio apartments, lease cars that are equal in cost to the mortgage of a house in St. Louis. It is a city where you can peel away the many layers of gilded paint, revealing just plaster underneath. It is a city where flash trumps substance, where money, or the illusion of it, is the ultimate game. And where this parlor game gets played on all socio-economic levels from the gated homes in Holmby Hills to the barrios far east. Everyone gets caught up in, regardless of the size of your pay check.

I know money is the blood line for New York, yet...I haven't felt the anxieties most describe about being surrounded by such uber-wealth. I find enough people here are realistic about their lives. Perhaps that is the difference between LA and New York, two similar animals, yet also diametrically opposite. LA is all about illusion instead of the concrete and metal that dominates New York. The ever-present sun in LA shimmers much like fairy dust, casting a light that is quite breathtaking, no matter how illusory. It's the sun that can turn the ugliness of Sunset at Vermont into something approaching grandeur. Again, illusion, nothing tangible. It's only when the sun is gone, replaced by gray and rain, that the true grit of the city reveals itself, much to the distress of its citizenry.

For the average New Yorker, reality, the grim and the transcendent, presents itself on every street corner. It's hard to get caught up in games that aren't germane to your current life, no matter how tantalizing it might be. So, the 'old' money of private equity and hedge fund will be, no doubt, replaced by some other game of cards. It will give birth to another batch of super kings, who will, like all their predecessors, face their demise at some point. The city will get caught up in the major sport of consumption, the memories of reflection, introspection, and kindness all a dim memory. And in another decade, the New York magazine will, again, spell doom and gloom for this city that seems to survive, despite it all.

Super Bowl Champs

Our son, who'd never paid close attention to football, had been excited about this Super Bowl since his home team, the Giants, were playing for the big title. We didn't want to tell him what a long shot they had of winning. It seemed cruel, even for us, to deflate his enthusiasm by telling him the Giants were going up against one of the best teams in football's history. It was exciting for him, and for us, to have arrived here, a city that has a team, and to have that team go on to the biggest sporting event of the year. It felt much like Cinderella arriving at the big ball, disbelief marking each magical moment.

I baked our chicken as my boys got ready, the big one with his six pack, the little one with his plate of gourmet cheeses and crackers. The game, by all accounts since I didn't watch all of it, was exciting, nail-biting till the very end. Our son finally went to bed, his eyes drooping despite his best efforts to be a big boy and stay up. In truth, I fell asleep, until my husband woke me to tell me the Giants had won. His voice, which I recall, sounded incredulous, a man struck dumb by the lightning bolt out in an field.

The morning papers arrived, each one with a snapshot of the winning team, hoisting the trophy into the air, confetti falling around. This morning's drop off was all about each child having the bragging rights to claim having stayed up to watch the big game. It's funny, how even at such a young age, they understand the significance of such moments. It's unlikely any of them may end up as a player in the NFL, having their lives defined by such a cataclysmic event. Yet, it is the participation in these collective moments, the team's victory hoisting each of us up, even if just for a moment. And even at the age of five, each was now a participant, no matter how peripherally.

All of the parents rushed outside to be met with the falling of big, downy snowflakes. It's the kind of day when curling up with a book, slippers on one's feet, and a bowl of something hot in a mug, is the ideal antidote to such a gray, wet day. We haven't had any significant snow, yet. In fact, my son's in disbelief that it snows in the city at all since he's always asking to go to places where it snows. But as that Prince song goes, it can snow in April, so I'm certain by this winter's end, he will be a convert to the vicissitude of winter here in the city. And when he is much older, we will remind him how his first year as New Yorker was capped off by the fairy tale win of the Super Bowl by the Giants.

Visitors--Most Unwelcome

We've had two visitors, those who actually stay with us, thus far. One was my crazy aunt, the other, my crazier mother. Both being family makes them the easiest to have spend a night or two on our very comfortable (we've been told) pull out couch we spent a fortune purchasing when we moved here. We've had another visitor here the last two nights, convincing me to make sure our place is never too comfortable to warrant more coming to stay.

Our visitor, someone I only met in Aspen at the writers' conference, is a person I don't know well. I found it quite remarkable she asked to stay with us while attending the AWP conference being held here in the city this week. I know such a thought would never, ever cross my head, much less have it voiced. And being so conditioned to be proper and nice, I said yes. A decision I instantly regretted and resented. I fretted, oh how I fretted, about how to get out of this gracefully--an impossibility since she'd already purchased plane tickets.

So, I did what I could to circumvent her need to stay with us for 6 nights (yes, 6 whole nights) by telling a fib, and thereby reducing her ability to stay with us down to 3 nights. This is the worst solution since I am the world's worst liar, ever. I was the kid that always told the truth, no matter what the consequences since lying was something that would only get me into bigger trouble. And since I was such a lost cause when it came to lying, well, it always seemed more prudent to admit, 'yes, I'd gotten drunk last night'.

This visitor does leave each morning, and stays out all day. But again, she's someone I know so tangentially, so having her in our place is something of a nuisance. I don't think she was bothered by any of this since we just saved her a small fortune in hotel costs. I couldn't figure out why she was coming since the conference is always interesting in concept, but always disappointing in reality. When I asked her what she hoped to get from the conference, she admitted she just wanted to come to New York--and stay for free. That's when I realized we absolutely must not have an apartment that is too comfortable, by any means. I know people always want to come here, and if they can stay for free, all the better.

There are friends and then there are the freeloaders, like our current house guest. She, of course, arrived without a hostess gift, and so far has been the worst house guest. This would be somewhat excusable if she weren't as old as she is since she has daughter's just a few years my junior. Thankfully, one more night and she will have packed her bags for wherever her next free lodging may be. She did offer, as some consolation, if I ever wanted to come to Boulder, Colorado, I'd have a place to stay. Hmmm. I've been to Boulder once. And that would be about as many times as I'd need to go to that quaint, college town. The inequity in her offer is lost on her, obviously.

This all gets to the heart of my problem: my inability to say no. It is something I must work on. Really, none of this is this woman's fault. She asked. I answered. Bottom line. So, next time some other cheap person, who is barely an acquaintance, makes this same request, I know to answer with an affirmative, 'no!' Of course, I'll have to do it all on paper or, better yet, in an email.

Childhood Freedoms

It would seem a strange notion that kids in this city enjoy freedom of movement, rarely experienced by their peers in suburban towns. How, you might wonder, would I arrive at such an observation? I can only compare the life our son had had until his move to the city, a life that is now more mobile for him.

In Los Angeles, our son's first four and a half years were spent with him strapped into a car seat. Bicycles, skooters, skateboards were all toys to be used sporadically in the backyard of our home. Despite living in a cul-de-sac, a round-about that Armenian teens liked to screech around in high speeds, leaving behind skid marks, he was rarely given freedom to use his skooter around the neighborhood. Life in suburbia creates more acute anxieties about child abductions or kids being mowed down by distracted, or worse, drunk drivers. We were lucky enough to live in a neighborhood that felt "safe" enough for kids to be pushed around in their strollers, offering nannies or moms an excuse to gossip and get some fresh air. But even this illusion didn't lessen our hyper-control over our son's movement.

To get anywhere else, school, activities, play dates, was all managed with him in a car seat, being chauffeured around the congested roadways of LA. Therefore, his sense of freedom and mobility was dictated by us or his nanny, again, his world lived entirely within the confines of a car seat.

With our move to the city, all of this has changed. We walk everywhere, using public transport whenever needed, a cab if there is an issue of time or weather. With all of this walking, I've noticed how much freer his life is now, no longer strapped into a car seat. The razor, a vehicle of choice among his classmates, is no longer just a toy, relegated simply to a backyard. But now, it is a way for him to get around the city, on his own terms. "Little Manhattan", a movie about first love among Manhattan kids, clearly illustrates this freedom of movement for kids here. I can't help but notice kids, some as young as eight or nine, getting on and off of the buses, heading home from school. Such an idea would be unheard of in LA or any other suburban town where moms, caretakers, or school buses would be the only acceptable mode of transporting a child from school to home. I'm certain parents here are no less worried about their kids facing dangers. But you manage your parental concerns differently here. I'm certain by eight or nine, our son will be given a five or three block radius where he can move about without the constant watchful eye of either me or my husband. I can see the ties loosening even now. In LA his use of the razor as a way to get around would have been unthinkable. Yet, here we are, me walking briskly behind him as he pushes his skooter up 20th Street to his school.

We're reminded of how much more confining children's lives are in suburbia whenever we visit our extended families, where he is again strapped into his booster seat. Despite the "quiet" streets where both of his grandparents live, he is rarely allowed out to play, again relegated to the backyard as the only option. I'm certain all of this freedom comes at a price where kids become savvy, city-smart, and sophisticated beyond their years. Isn't that the stereotype of kids who grow up in big cities? They've seen it all, done it all, some finally seeking a simpler life in rural or suburban areas when they are given the choice to create their lives. And their suburban and rural peers, desperate to leave behind the quiet, seek freedom and excitement in the big city. I suppose none of this will ever change, therefore our son's desire to move to the woods of Vermont when he is an adult, seeking quiet and freedom to live in a more natural setting, will not come as a complete shock to either me or his dad. We would expect no less.

School Interviews

My husband and I attended the last obligatory event at a potential school, just last night. We had finished our very last interview Wednesday afternoon at one of the highly touted schools. This flurry of tours, interviews, and child interviews has given us an interesting perspective about this city, its neuroses, its drives, and its insanity. The rigors of doing this in such a truncated period has felt like we had run a marathon, competing with world class runners, except we hadn't trained properly. The exhaustion from just going and coming to so many schools has been beyond anything I'd ever experienced. Then you add the anxiety of finding out February 15th your child hadn't gotten in anywhere, well, you can see how high the stakes are for all of the families involved in this process.

Last night's event, hosted by one of the schools, was a discussion about 'diversity'--code name for, we try to have some brown faces as to not appear completely racially insensitive. The issue of diversity is complex, to say the least. And diversity goes far beyond race, color, but is really about having a representation of the world at large. In a city where the middle class is shrinking faster than most actresses post pregnancy, what you see is a polarization of two worlds: the haves and the have nots with most have nots being the ones that also represent racial diversity.

My husband and I have fully accepted the reality that our son will always be different than any of his peers, that is unless he ends up in school with Tiki Barber's kids. The chances of him having a classmate with his racial, cultural makeup are about as likely as us winning the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. With that in mind, we can hope to have a class where his black peers' families will feel much like ours. And that there will be some Asian, possibly even Korean, peers to reflect both sides of himself, even if they aren't mixed in quite the way he has been.

We found last night's event troubling in its tone of victimization. It is the classic mistake for 'liberal' or 'pc' mindsets that diversity, or being diverse, is a negative which has to be bolstered. This belief that diversity, or rather, creating an 'inclusive' world where the benefit is only for those of color is truly a narrow way to view the notion of diversity. A diverse community and its benefits is a two way street in this ever-changing world. If this current election is any indication, our country will have to grapple with gender and racial politics in a way it hasn't done, ever, in its history. Words like marginal only add to this sense that those of color are somehow in need. There is some veracity to the inequities that have be overcome, even by such fabricated methods, but the victim mentality is one that can debilitate those who don't need anything else to hinder their progress.

What is striking about attending such events is how alone my husband and I feel in our own uniqueness as a couple, but also as individuals. It is quite remarkable to us we found one another. We understand the racial politics and the inherent inequities of institutional racism, but we don't ever view ourselves as 'victims'. We don't view our color or ethnicity as a negative, but rather as this beautiful background that poses a different set of challenges and advantages for us as individuals. And what we understand better than anyone else is how different those challenges will be for our child, the progeny of our commitment that the world will be different for him than it was for us.

As a person who has taught, and will teach again, my assessment of schools is more rigorous than others who may not have an education background. There are times when I wish I'd been a baker, blissfully ignorant about the expectations of what should occur in a classroom. My critical eye makes it impossible for me to feel completely at ease with any one choice. I think there are some good choices, but my uncertainty about any one of them being the ideal fit for our son is what keeps me up most nights. It is also the need to flash forward into the future of our son's development, having to make a decision that could determine who he becomes. It is all a swirl in our heads, each of us wondering if this one decision could affect him in ways we can't possibly imagine. Again, this is when we both wish we could be much more insouciant and confident whatever decision gets made will be for the good. This is when the old adage of, 'ignorance is bliss' has some bearing.

So, now we wait along with the thousands of other families all across the city. We will, like most of us did when we'd applied to college, await those envelopes, thin signaling defeat, fat signaling victory for our 5 year old. What has happened to our world that this is apex of childhood is determined by the size of the envelope? That is what I will be mulling over as I, along with everyone else, wait for the arrival of those envelopes.

Asphalt Jungle

My son is learning the rules of the game out on the concrete courtyard where recess is held. So far he hasn't been abused too badly, but given enough challenges to make me want him to leave public school forever. Let me say that any previously held convictions like, public school is important, goes right out the virtual window where your child is concerned. In the beginning of school he told me a boy from another class hit him for no reason. Hmm. This was of concern to me since I couldn't imagine why my son was being singled out. And being a neurotic mother, I spoke to his teacher about the incident.

I've noticed a few things about this school, which was rated an A by the Mayor's standards. It is a good enough school, mostly a neighborhood school. The stream of parents and kids walking down 20th Street in the mornings attests to this school's dominance in this neighborhood. Such a thing never happened in LA where neighborhood schools were forgotten by everyone except those too poor or too unaware to find something better. And the idea of walking your child to any school, even if the school were only two blocks away, was never a consideration for anyone. To be able to walk my son the short block to school has been a welcome change compared to the half hour drive that I had done for so long in LA.

For a New York City school, the lack of real diversity of the school community was a bit of a shock. The student body seemed dominated by the strongholds of Stuyvesant Town, mostly a white, middle class enclave where the rent controlled apartments are passed down from one generation to another. I believe some of my son's classmates are the second generation living in their apartment. With ridiculously low rents, most families have bought second homes in places like the Poconos, the Catskills, and the Jersey Shore. I know, romantic, you say.

The few students of color I did notice seemed to be kids already labeled as "special". I was told in confidence by a mother in my son's class that one of the two black girls in the class (they are the only black students aside from my son's status as biracial) lived in a homeless shelter. Hmm.. No one likes to mention her docility, probably personality driven, but most likely a result of having lived a chaotic life where pleasing others is a survival skill. Or the fact that she is one of the smartest in the class. Whether or not she will be able to get the kind of education she deserves is an unknown, all driven by factors that she had no hand in creating. The other black student in the other Kindergarten class is a boy, who is already labeled as a problem. The first time I saw him was when he was sprawled in the middle of the hallway, mopping the floor with his body, regardless of the various attempts by parents to get him to stand up. It was nearly impossible to not notice that there was something very wrong. Some of it may have been his personality, but I'm certain more had to do with whatever challenges he faced at home. So, you can imagine my shock when my son told me casually that this boy was now chasing him at recess and was terrorizing him. What could a mother do, but to have a serious talk with his teacher about this matter?

It seems he is a 'special' child in a program for kids that are being bused in from other areas. And that he is in need of special care, code word for a child who will be in and out of the system for the rest of his life. My son's teacher conveyed all of this to me not directly, but in the innuendos of what she was avoiding to say outright. The irony of my son's first hard lesson about life on an asphalt jungle coming from a black boy was not lost on me. This issue of color is a touchy subject for him since I don't think he sees himself in that boy. Nor does he see himself in the rest of his white peers. No doubt it will be an interesting life for him as he continually finds himself as unique, different, unlike any other.

If all goes according to plan, our son will be attending a cosseted, private school where such incidents shouldn't occur at all. How could they after the rigorous screening process each student and family undergoes to be admitted to attend their institution? I'm sure the asphalt jungle at these schools will be no less scary, but just different. I suspect I won't be as afraid about his physical safety as I will be about his emotional life. There may be less chasing down of their targets, but the fire coming from words, taunts, teasing. Oy vey, it's enough to make me want to home school him, forever relegating him to a lifetime of being regarded as weird, different, exotic.

New Yorkers are Rude--Fuggedit

There is that long held belief that New Yorkers are rude, pushy, and mean. Or that's what the rest of the country believes about the 8 million inhabitants, and the millions more who come into the city to work (we should note most of these people come from New Jersey, Connecticut, and even Pennsylvania).

So, here's what I've noticed about New Yorkers, thus far. They are fast walkers, a necessity here. They have no problems stepping around you if you are dawdling in the middle of a sidewalk. But they rarely do so muttering profanities under their breath. Actually if they were so incensed they would most likely just cuss you out, right there in the middle of a busy sidewalk. But that is something I've yet to see, or worse be the recipient.

You would think so many people squeezed in together would make tempers brittle, but that is far from the case. On an given day, on a crowded subway car, or bus, I will witness a person giving up their seat to an elderly person or a mother with a young child. These unexpected acts of generosity and good manners reaffirms my belief that people here are not rude, pushy, or mean. I've been the recipient of such generosity whenever I've gotten on a bus or subway with my son where a young man, young woman, or just man, or woman, have gladly given up their seat for us. I've also been aided, unasked I might add, by a passerby about which subway to take to get me home. This gentleman was not creepy, certainly not using this opportunity to ask me for a date, but was helping out a confused damsel.

Why, then, have New Yorkers suffered such labels? It does make you think about it since I'd just left a city full of sun shine and full of some of the rudest, self-involved people I'd ever encountered. It was as if the perpetual sunshine made all of their home training, if they'd had any, disappear along with most of their brain cells. I've seen grown men, sitting, or rather, lounging at the outdoor tables of any number of cafes, watching a woman struggling with the door as she tried to squeeze herself and her stroller through. It was more of a rarity for one of them to get up to open the door for the woman, but rather the norm that they would, collectively, sit and watch as if they were watching television. I've written enough about the craziness of LA drivers, how so many of them use their cars as weapons, or rather shields as they vent their frustrations out on the rest of the drivers on the road. LA is the city known for people shooting at another driver in a fit of 'road rage.' Isn't that where this term came from, this land of sunshine and supposedly laid back Angelenos?

I attribute this disconnection with propriety, good manners, consideration for others to the simple fact that life is constantly filtered through the windshield of a car. If you deal with people in the most limited, and in most cases, synthetic manner then you are apt to live in a bubble where anyone else's consideration is never considered. Angelenos can drive past the many homeless, an easy thing to do if your car radio is blaring the newest Radio Head song, allowing you to pretend that the body buried under a sleeping bag on the sidewalk is of no consequence to your immediate world.

New York, a city where you are constantly juggling yourself against the multitude of citizenry, makes it difficult for you to filter the world, in any manner. You are always forced to consider how your action, or inaction, affects someone else, even if most are strangers. Each time you walk past a homeless person asking for a quarter, or better yet, a dollar, you are forced to consider so many personal, and public questions. And no, you don't hand over a quarter to everyone that asks. But this doesn't mean you don't think about it.

I also think one's constant contact with the general public forces you to behave humanely. Look, if you were a young guy, sitting there as an old person with a walker stood by your chair, I am certain most around this young man would say, or do something to point out his lack of consideration. It is the pressure of the collective that, in the end, makes all of us just a bit nicer, just a bit more considerate, just a bit less aggressive.

A life, or rather, a city that is always lived behind gates takes this pressure off of the individual, giving you a false sense of privacy--something that can be abused. That is the strangest thing of all, this city of 8 million, can, on most days, make you think about your anonymity, your face just one of many. Yet, the sense of privacy that most in Los Angeles feels is their God-given right, is not something we can assume as a way of life here. No, we are always forced to deal with all of humanity: the good, the bad, the fragile, the hopeful, the beautiful, the ugly, the helpless, the frightening, the weak, the mentally ill, the young, the old, all of it, day in and day out. And perhaps that is what debunks the myth about New Yorkers since each of us can see something of our own fragility, humanity, in the face of someone else, thereby propelling you to act as you would hope someone would act toward you. Whatever the case, New Yorkers certainly do not earn the rudest people on the planet moniker. No, I would say some other town or city may deserve that stereotype.

What I Love About New York

Since I thought about those things I love about Los Angeles, I felt I should do the same for this city, now my home.

1. I love the Union Square Farmer's Market, even on a cold day where you can purchase endless varieties of apples.
2. I love that Trader Joe's and just about any other store will deliver all of your purchases.
3. I love that I can put on a full length fur coat and get on a cross town bus, knowing that not one person on the bus would give me a second glance.
4. I love that I can order a book online from Barnes and Noble, and have it delivered that very afternoon.
5. I love walking down a street, only to discover a cobble-lined street of old carriage houses, all of it reminding you of this city's long history, but also a time when Edith Wharton had lived.
6. I love the sense of anonymity the city affords you.
7. I love that a walk down any street will surely make you think about all of life's absurdities and cruelties, no matter where you are in the city.
8. I love that the bus driver and riders will wait patiently as another wheel chair bound rider gets hoisted up on to the bus, making you realize how fortunate you are to have the ability to walk on and off.
9. I love that you can get into a cab, never knowing what language will be spoken by the driver into his Blue Tooth ear piece.
10. I love that New Yorkers view "eating out" an event, much like attending the opera, going to the museum, or going to see a movie.
11. I love that you will walk into a restaurant on a Saturday night and know every woman will be dressed, not a pair of jeans in sight.
12. I love that sample sales are another subculture of this city.
13. I love being on a subway or bus, noticing how many people are reading books, magazines, or even the Post during their daily commute.
14. I love that every street, no matter where you live, will have a Duane Reade, a Bodegga, a bagel shop, dry cleaners, Dunkin Donuts and a pizza place.
15. I love that you can be jaywalking across a boulevard--a right of passage for a New Yorker-- and glance up to see a sea of bodies doing the same.
16. I love that women of all socio-economic levels dress themselves as if constantly on parade.
17. I love the fact the city looks even more mysterious and beautiful on the grayest of days.
18. I love looking out our apartment window at dusk, noticing all the other lit windows, reminding you that you are hardly alone.
19. I love playing tennis under a strange looking dome underneath the 59th Street Bridge.
20. I love that a walk to a bus or subway may mean a slight sprint to reach the vehicle in question, even in four inch heels.
21. And I love, more than anything, just walking, taking in all of the city, the people, the stores, the sights, the smells of Gyro cars, and just knowing that this is where I was meant to live.

Cruise Ship

I am one of those snobs, whose disdain for those hotels on the water, otherwise known as, cruise ships, has me making disparaging remarks about never being stranded on one of those vessels with all of those people. You know the type. True, I did grow up watching "Love Boat," where each new batch of lonely souls arrived on the ship being greeted by perky Julie, the cruise director, and Gopher. But somehow, the idea of traveling, or rather, seeing the world from the limited purview of a ship seemed wholly unappealing, again an assault on my snobbish views about people who experienced the world this way. And yes, I do know such people who travel the world on board a cruise ship. They are, each in their own way, a bit provincial (no matter how much money they have), and one of those people who, if they didn't have as much money, would be shuttling on and off tour buses in far flung destinations. They would be the tourists I held in such disdain when I lived overseas.

So, you can imagine my disbelief as I pulled my overnight suitcase up the gangplank of the newest Gem of the Norwegian Cruise line. I was, along with my husband and new friends, headed for a 12 hour cruise around the New York harbor, a glorified booze cruise for adults being hosted by American Express. The evening was sold as a dining experience for the gourmand since some of the hottest chefs in New York would be cooking dinner, all capped off with a performance by John Legend in their theater. And since I and my husband have such strong feelings about cruises in general, we thought this would be the most ideal way to do it since the whole venture was no more than 12 hours.

As I headed toward the Norwegian Cruise Ship greeters, I noticed two Purell dispensers, which we were told to use liberally. Yes, there have been all those strange ship viruses that had run cruises aground, its participants heading to hospitals, some unknown virus taking down an entire floating hotel. After dousing my hands with that strange cool liquid, I found myself surrounded by people of all sizes, mostly large, and colors. I made my way to my cabin, which was the size of a hotel room in Japan. Again, I marveled to find myself here, of all places. We met our friends for cocktails, and then headed up top to see the ship leaving the New York harbor. The view of lights as the ship sailed further away made this strange trip well worth it. The dinner was fine, not as good as I've had at Gramercy Tavern. John Legend gave a heartfelt, condensed version of his show. It was a bit strange seeing him perform in a setting similar to a Las Vegas hotel. Wasn't that the place performers ended up as their name became synonymous with what had once been cool? For someone, whose career, should still be relevant, well, it was odd indeed.

This evening would have been fine, if not for the hordes of people on the ship. I don't consider myself a true misanthrope, but it is experiences much like this that makes me think living among the people is not for me. I had the same feeling when I had to serve on a jury in Los Angeles, a jury that was in no way a 'jury of my peers'. What was most striking about the ship was how much like Vegas it was. There was the sense of time being inconsequential, so much so, that the ship actually promulgated the idea of the watch or clock's irrelevance on board. People, despite the short duration of this trip, partied as if it were 1999. The casino was full, people gambling away the hours, much like I've seen in Las Vegas. The Duty Free shops opened once we got into neutral waters, so that people could browse after dinner for that Rolex, which would now be duty free. Couples lounged in the bar where beds were used instead of chairs, all in their quest to live out a long held Bacchanalian fantasy.

After watching John Legend, my husband and I headed to the disco where they promised an evening of reliving "Saturday Night Fever." Images of John Travolta in that infamous white suit was not far from my mind as I figured the disc jockey would be spinning tunes from that much parodied era. You can imagine my shock when we arrived to find the dance floor empty, a few overgrown adults dancing to familiar songs coming from, not a disc jockey, but a band of performers from Manila. I had noticed the plethora of Filipinos, who worked on board from maids, waiters, to bar tenders. But this band of performers, singing all the old standards from the era of Studio 54, were definitely Filipino. It was as we watched this band perform, "We Are Family," that we had to leave.

Aside from the Filipino staff on board this Norwegian cruise ship, the thing I noticed most was the amount of food available for consumption at all hours of the day. It seemed as if you couldn't walk more than ten steps without hitting another restaurant, hence, the explanation for the numbers of overweight adults. But then, that's a problem prevalent throughout this great land of ours.

After sleeping too little, we packed our overnight bags, and headed to the breakfast buffet (a staple of cruise ships, I've learned). Again, I was struck by the sheer number of breakfast foods available. I could see, if one were inclined to overeat, how tempting it would be to sit there for a few hours, sampling everything from the omelet bar to the waffle station. We disembarked, heading out into a gray New York day, a bit wiser, definitely feeling our 40 years, but definitively clear in our knowledge that a cruise would not be in our future.

Rockefeller Center

My son and I trekked to Rockefeller to meet our friends, who were visiting from Los Angeles. We took in the tree and the throngs of people, all there for the quintessential New York experience. Families posed in front the mammoth tree and gawked at the skaters on the rink below. Fifth Avenue is congested, making the stroll down the glittery street an impossibility. It is enough to make you turn into Grinch. I now understand why most New Yorkers avoid mid town this time of the year.

Every restaurant was full with tourists catching their breath from the strolling down 5th Avenue. This weekend, another whirlwind of seeing friends from Los Angeles, passed in a blur. Again, it seems every other week brings another friend from the West Coast out for a visit. This thread of our past getting woven into our present is making for an interesting tapestry to our days here.

Perhaps the visits will curtail once the harshness of January settles all around us.

Lincoln Center Jazz at Lincoln Center

Last night we went to hear Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz at Lincoln Center. After all these years to finally hear this jazz ensemble in their natural habitat was beyond cool. No other word can describe the experience. The irony of all this is we were invited by friends from LA, who are in town visiting this weekend. We'd been here all these weeks, but so busy getting our lives set up that such an outing seemed like an extravagance.

The evening ended with drinks at the nearby bar, something we would never have done in LA. Late nights here are as normal as our early morning routines had been in LA. As we were driven home, the city seemed dressed up for a formal occasion. Each lamppost bedecked in garland and lights, store windows gleaming in its holiday get up. Even the cold didn't dampen the entire experience of this evening. What I remember from the night was the encore the group played. The audience, a well-heeled group, clapped and swayed as the band loosened up and really began to swing. It's moments like this when a little pinch is required for me to appreciate how different our life has become in this beautiful, crazy city--now our home.

Radio City Music Hall

We took our son to participate in the New York tradition of seeing the Rockettes' holiday extravaganza. My husband, who had never seen the show, bought tickets as much for our son as for me. My own parents used to take me to see the shows at Radio City Music Hall when I was a child as part of our monthly sojourn to the city from suburban Philadelphia. I have no real memories of the shows themselves, but just the sense of wonder, magic, and awe these trips inspired in me as a young child. So, we shuttled into a cab to take us the short distance to Radio City. The streets are already brimming with tourists and people, flocking to the city for shopping and all these traditions that make New York the real capital of our country.

Our son's cries of awe upon seeing the Christmas tree dangling from the ceiling, bedecked in crystals, was validation enough for us to endure crowds of people from New Jersey, Connecticut, and other far flung places. People posed their kids, dressed in holiday attire, in front of the wooden nutcrackers, hoping for that holiday photo to send as their holiday cards to family and friends. Since this is America, there were kiosks on every level selling Rockette dolls and t-shirts. And a bar for the adults where an eggnog martini arrived with a stirrer that lit up in the dark. On one hand the whole experience was kitsch in its truest form. And were it not for our son, I would have found it all a bit too much.

But they say one must have a child to re-experience life again. And how true that is. Christmas after the age of 16 feels less magical and more a time for families to torture one another, so that each holiday season's arrival is met with a certain dread by all. That is until you have a child. The cynicism and dread are replaced by the more pure emotions of hope, expectation, and magic--all that the holidays are supposed to be if we weren't so tired, cranky, and full of disappointment. Our son found the show magical, even with the incessant questions he asked during the entire hour long production. For me, when Santa made us put on the 3-d glasses to go on his sleigh through New York, my ears welled up. Again, it's hard to believe we are here, not as visitors but as residents.

Both my husband and I have such moments of incredulity as we go about our life here now. We went to see a movie at the Angelika theater in Soho, stopping for a cup of tea before our dinner date with friends. As we sat by the window, nursing the hot drink, each of us admitted how surreal this is, still.

So, we sat and watched this show that is as much propaganda about this holiday as it is about New York city. I held my disbelief and critical theorist hat in check, soaking up our son's bewilderment and awe of this spectacle. After the final 'Joy to the World' we rushed from the theater, trying to dodge the crush of people. We stopped to get a hot pretzel on the street before hailing a cab ride home.

Holidays are upon us

The holiday season has begun, or so the Today Show reports, since this day is apparently the start of the travel weekend. The city hasn't dressed itself up for its role as the most romantic place to be during the holidays. Rockefeller's humongous tree will be lit next weekend with festivities taking place before the big moment when someone, some celebrity, will switch on the thousands of lights. Lord and Taylor's windows are already a glow, readying itself for a bleak shopping season by all the analyst reports. The retailers are hoping all the Europeans will come to New York for a shopping extravaganza, if only JFK weren't the world's worst airport and delays surely to be one of the worst of the year.

For our family we started a tradition, of sorts, a few years ago with our son. Instead of making our young child put pen to paper, creating a shopping list for Santa, we encouraged him, or he took it upon himself, to take the endless flurry of catalogs from toy companies and circle items that took his fancy. When he was three, the circles were challenging enough since his fine motor skills were in the nascent stage. But today, well, this has become a whole new endeavor for him.

They say kids adopt the behavior of their parents, whether consciously or unconsciously. For those families where parents read very little, if at all, it is pretty much guaranteed your children will not become big readers, no matter how much you encourage and threaten. Or worse, send them to the Sylvan Learning Center. And in truth, there is a bit of hypocrisy in parents imploring their little ones to read--because we know all the benefits of reading for educational, as well as soul enriching purposes--when they don't read a lick, other than the directions on some box.

If this is true, our children picking up our habits, then our little one is doing a bang up job of mimicking life in our household. He, like his parents, has a stack of books on his bedside table, along with his cup of water. The catalogs, collected during the pre-shopping season, is stacked along with a pen. It struck me, as I straightened his room, how similar his bedside table looked like ours.

Since he still believes in Santa Claus, and despite our cynicism, we haven't done anything to dispel his belief (I guess if we did, that would border on child abuse), it has been my job to snoop in his catalogs to see what it is he's circled as items his little heart covets. This anthropological study, of sorts, has been illuminating and hysterical. Since we hadn't set any parameters about what is acceptable, he has felt free to circle to his little heart's content. In each of the eight or so catalogs, he had circled some type of pirate ship. I suppose a pirate ship of one brand or another is bound to end up under the tree. There are the walkie talkie sets, which I know will be fun for one round of play, will end up broken and collectiong dust in the bottom of his endless toy bins. He circled the Harry Potter Legos thing, which is gargantuan and sure to bring about copious drinking for us after helping him put it together. Needless to say, that will not end up under the tree.

Despite my initial thought that the entire magazine would be circled, our son has been discriminating in his wants and desires. This is encouraging, if not a bit unsettling since he is a mere five years old. Somehow, despite his youth, he understood Santa, that most benevolent of characters, would know when a child was being gluttonous. Each day, taking a break from my work, I enter his room to gather the stack to see what more he circled before sleep overtook him. Each new item will mean another day for me, browsing the shelves at the Container Store, trying to figure out how to organize his stuff. His belief in the myth of Santa may only last this year--the day when he'll demand to know the veracity of what his friend had told him about Santa being made up. And with that demand will be the start of the slow unraveling of his childhood innocence.

In no time, I will be snooping in his room for other purposes, more serious, I'm sure. So, I enjoy this new break in my day when I can get inside my child's head, getting a peak into this little person. Some of what he circles sometimes gives me a glimpse, a very quick one, of the man he may become. Aside from chuckling at his grandiose plans to turn his room into a battleship, I also struggle with a sadness of how fleeting this time is for us all. It is usually to keep this sadness from settling into my chest that I sit down at my computer, not to work, but to shop online, ordering items that will, hopefully, bring about shouts of "that's so cool," from one little person--much beloved by his tired parents.

Shopping---Doctors

I'm now meeting with doctors, hoping to replicate the two, Ob and Internist, I had in LA. It has been a mixed bag, this process of trying to find a doctor that will be the right mixture of cautious and neurotic. In all fairness, both of my doctors in LA became personal acquaintances, if not friends. During the course of the ten or so years, they had seen me through pregnancy, illness, and general bad moods. So, trying to replicate these long ties was a tall order. It's no surprise how disappointing all of this has been thus far, even in this area where I'm surrounded by three large hospitals.

I had started this search by sending out an email to those I know here, those I thought would have been conscientious in their own doctor search. It's funny how irrelevant all of this is when you're in your 20's, but more pressing as you turn 40. I can no longer be cavalier about mammograms, high blood pressure, cholesterol levels, and general health concerns for those who are middle age. I need a doctor, whose bedside manner is amiable, but still neurotic enough to get that extra test done if there is a need for caution. A doctor who is all bedside manner, but lacking in aggression in their attack of whatever ailments, is probably not a doctor for me at this juncture of my life, no matter how much more pleasant a visit would be with such a physician.

I made appointments for all this week, in the hope this doctor issue will be sorted before a crisis occurs. The first appointment went well. I thought him the right fit for the general health concerns most of us face. My next appointment was for an OB, who was part of a large group practice. The person who had recommended her had warned she was 'no nonsense.' I had no idea 'no nonsense' meant zero personality. In fact, her personality, what little there was, bordered on the combative. It was a shock to my system since my OB in LA was someone I had a secret crush on for years. He was the one person who could take a needle-phobe like me into a confident pregnant woman, capable of not passing out every time blood was needed to be drawn. He was the man who delivered my son, making sure my phobias didn't turn an already stressful experience into a whole new dimension of stress.

I left her office, wondering how finding the right doctor was like shopping for anything else in life. The only difference was that you don't get to try on for size most physicians, although such a thing should be allowed. But in our age of health insurance craziness, for those of us fortunate enough to be insured, well, the idea of taking a test run on a doctor is not advised or covered. So, there I was, having wasted an appointment on this person, who was clearly not going to remain my OB.

I was disheartened enough to consider the radical decision to remain with my OB in LA, and jetting in once a year for my annual check ups. I know that is not advisable since, God forbid, I would be quite stuck if there was some complication down the road. And as much as my old doctor adores me, I doubt he would fly 3000 miles to oversee my care. So, off to the boards I go as I search some more for a doctor that will be the appropriate fit for me--no tall order given my phobic nature.

The Village

I still find myself in awe with where I am. Yesterday was just such a day as I found myself down in the Village on my way to visit with a new doctor. I stumbled on to a little street called Washington Mews. The stones of the street were as charming as the carriage houses that lined both sides of this tiny thruway, connecting 5th Avenue to University Place. As much as I love the convenience of new buildings, there is something wildly romantic about living in such an old little cottage, tucked away from the city. I walked through, passing various doors, wondering how, or who, had the good fortune to live inside. I could envision a book-lined wall, a small staircase leading upstairs to a bath and bedroom. It was all I could do to keep from peaking into one of the windows, so desperate to see how others lived in such a charming home.

I love walking in cities, no matter how big or small. There is no way to stumble upon such idyllic places except by walking. Paris, one of the best walking cities, is a place where I am always stopping in mid-stride to stare longingly into one of those Parisian apartment buildings, a big wooden door opening on to such a picturesque courtyard. There's nothing more enticing to a voyeur than a walk at dusk, as lights get turned on inside. You can stand on a street, observing lives unfolding behind glass as bodies walk past windows. Aside from the possibility of discovery, I love the anonymity that walking in cities offers--the feeling of being swallowed up by the streets, bodies, and cars.

I'm finally cutting all ties with my former life as I forge new relationships with doctors here. Each step in establishing a life in a new city takes me just a bit further away from my former life. I feel quieter about all of it now. I am settling into the realities of the day to day life here. Groceries get ordered and delivered, meals prepared, coffees drunk with new friends, all the while taking note of how dramatically different my life is to where it had been a year ago. How my reality today was impossible to fathom, no matter how desperately I wanted it to happen. How things can change in a moment.

I have weaned myself off of movies set in New York. The city is becoming too intimate, too familiar for me to luxuriate in images, usually idealized by others as the perfect city. Now, I have real concerns about buses, subways, and getting my son to school on time, even if the walk is a mere one block.

City Experienced Through Movies

When I was in LA, a condition I have a hard time categorizing as living since it felt more like treading water, I used to savor and devour any, and all, movies shot in and about New York. No matter how inane, sentimental, absurd, or just plain bad, I would sit through any movie that captured this city on film. You can imagine how rabid I was about watching "Sex and the City," since the city was a character as much as those singletons desperate for love. You know it's bad when I made my husband sit through "Autumn in New York," one of Winona Ryder's last movies, and for good reason if anyone has seen it. And Woody Allen, pre-scandal, was at his most prolific when allowing this city to be the main feature of his movies. I think it interesting that as he gets older, more jaded, and less creatively prescient, he has headed across the pond for inspiration.

When I found life too grim, which could be most days in that sunny environ, I would rent out all the classic titles starting with Woody Allen's "Manhattan," and ending with any of Nora Ephron's films set in this city. The day would be spent aimlessly watching the movie, not for story sake, but simply to absorb the images of this much beloved city. Yes, I have watched "You've Got Mail," more than any sane person should admit to. My husband, who knew the drill too well, asked recently how many times I had watched a certain movie, which happened to be on one of our many movie channels, being watched, yet again. He teased that it must exceed ten, if not hobbling toward 20. I laughed along with him because, well, in my few sane moments, I knew how crazy all of this was. But a part of me realized that all of this living vicariously through film had now come to an end. That I was now living the life I'd imagined for so long. And being me, well, that has created a certain anxiety--much to be expected for those familiar with my particular peculiarities.

I have corresponded with an old neighbor about how the fires have, or have not, affected our old neighborhood. She was full of complaints about the air quality, which on a fire-free day is just on par with Mexico City. I couldn't imagine how bad it must be, and to see no relief in sight to clear out the smoke and ever lingering smog. It was during such days when our son's asthma would kick in with a severity that would require him to stay home from school. The drizzle that made umbrellas a necessity on our morning walk to school felt like a gift from above. The chill in the air feels like it will stay awhile.

My son rarely mentions LA now. He no longer complains about walking everywhere even on those days when it is rainy and gray. This new life is now every day for him, and for the rest of us. We, each of us, is rejuvenated by the changes, the pace of this new city life. My work is going well, or rather, I'm working again after so many years of not. I find the hours between 8:30 and 2:30 passes too quickly as I look up from staring intently at the computer, only to realize it is time to pick up my son. The somnolence of the last five years have come to an end as everything in my life has gained such clarity: my work and my family. Reading, something that offered and continues to offer such solace, is like everything else clearer. I'm no longer reading to escape my world, but reading for all the reasons a writer is supposed to read.

I feel this last half of my life as a writer will be the most productive. There may be another book in me, if not a few more books. I know the blistering pace at which I work will not put me in the category of Joyce Carol Oates, although very few writers are in her league. But I hope and pray I shall not suffer the fate of Harper Lee, who spent the rest of her life trying to write another. God willing.

Literary Society--Mumbai

As I'd mentioned before, there is a large East Indian population here in New York and also on the East Coast. Last night I was invited to a book event for an Indian writer--not really fair since she's a writer of Indian descent--whose book, from what I could gather, was a cross between "Devil Wears Prada" but set in the law profession. The evening was attended by all women, 97% East Indian, and 97% attorneys. I had no idea the preponderance of East Indian women going into the law profession. The book, which I didn't buy, was being hawked, albeit, quietly by the writer, who until recently had been a lawyer. See a theme here?

The evening was funny on so many levels, not all of which I can share. What I took away from the night was how similar my experiences were to those of these women. How certain experiences are universal to the immigrant story, particularly for those of us with transnational parents whether from Mumbai or Seoul. For me, the best part of the evening was talking to a publicist with a publishing house, who works on Marilynne Robinson's books, a writer I have read again and again.

It's now been over a month since our arrival. And much has happened, and then, not. Friendships, nascent bonds, are being formed slowly. Despite the number of days I am alone working, the specter of loneliness does not hover overhead. I can't explain why in the social whirl of my life in LA, the loneliness was so acute, an ache that seemed to spread to the point of suffocation. Our son, who still misses his Tia, asks for her less. By year's end, his life in LA will be a mere memory, something he will be unable to recall as easily as he can now.

Strand Books---Died and Went to Heaven

I'd been holding back from venturing to Strand Books, knowing it would make me nostalgic for all of my books in storage, and that I would, invariably, end up lugging home more books--a big no, no in this apartment. But living so close to it, this mecca for bibliophiles, the lure finally pushed me to go there holding my breath in anticipation and fear.

Let me say for those not here in the city, the weather has been glorious, which we will undoubtedly pay for in January and February. I scheduled a Mommy Alone time for Saturday by getting a massage at a very nice place by the New School. And then I walked around, still marveling that I'm here--I know, I know, it is an annoying refrain indeed--Union Square, passing Jon Stewart talking to someone while holding his young child. If anyone is now synonymous with the quintessential witty New Yorker, it must surely be Jon Stewart. I walked eastward when I stumbled upon the greatest flea market on Broadway. It is at moments like this that I sigh in sheer happiness. How could it be that this remarkable flea market full of junk I don't need--there was one vintage clothier selling fur wraps at a very good price--would be on the very block as Strand Books? Could life be any more perfect?

Reminiscent of my time in Camden Town, London, I walked up and down gazing into stalls selling Pashmina shawls for $5, African bric a brac, the Gyros stand tantalizing you with wafts of lamb, the stall selling toys made in China, another stall chock full of hand bags of every shape and size, and more food stands. This curious browsing was an effort to stall my entrance into this very large bookstore. But the stalling had to end, so I found myself in front of Strands, starting to pore over the shelves on the sidewalk, selling books for a $1. Yup, cheaper than any cup of coffee in town. There's no point telling anyone I found a few things I had to buy. There was the old collection of John Donne's poems, the Amish cookbook--a fetish of mine, really--an absolutely unblemished old copy of Kate Chopin's "Ethan Frome," and a history book of the precolonial slave trade.

The old cliche says something about 'telling a book by its cover,' when in fact you can tell a great deal by what people read. Whenever I'm in someone's home, the first thing I find myself doing is poring over their book shelves. Quite like music collections, books reveal the quirks, obsessions, and tastes of its reader and listener. Unlike art, which is purchased and displayed for public effect, books and CDs are much more personal, intimate. It's as if you had gone into someone's lingerie drawer and were given free reign to roam about, noticing the discolored panties, the boxers with spots. Nothing warms my heart more than to walk into a house that has a nice, healthy collection of books, obviously read and not purchased for appearances. One has to be very suspect when you see a neatly lined bookcase, all the books in uniform leather bound covers of titles you're certain the purchaser had never read in the original, much less the Cliffs Notes version. It says something about this person, does it not?

If there are no shelves filled with even those pulpy novels you buy on the racks in airports, well, let me stop there. No need to comment further. Reading is so many different things to different people, but the most important aspect of this act is in the use of imagination, of hope, of anticipation when you open a book.

I was once at a friend's, whose bookshelves were full of self-help tomes, and not much else. It was an illuminating moment for me in this long relationship. I had to ponder how it was we were such good friends when she didn't read, it seemed, anything but those self-help books, which were obviously not doing much in curing her of the normal ills of an unhappy person. The state of her shelf made me sad really since she was someone who could do with a dose of imagination, hope, and anticipation.

I had to do the most cursory browsing of the first floor, not able to engage in a thorough inspection of each shelf. See, this new life of leisure I've created for myself meant I had to be home by a certain time to wait for the grocery delivery I had scheduled. But this quick stop at one of my most anticipated places in the city was enticing enough to last till the next time I can go fully armed with time.

Blind 'Friend' Dates

I have had three blind 'friend' dates this past week, having been set up by three separate people from LA with friends, good friends, here. And so, I got dolled up to meet these strangers I've only communicated with via Email and one phone conversation. Women, as everyone knows, dress for other women. We are forever putting together outfits, not to attract the whistles or cat calls from men, but to get affirmations from our own gender. We doll up, try to look cute, all for the satisfaction of knowing our girlfriends appreciated the effort, or better, to receive that compliment and cooing when something you're wearing is envy worthy.

This position of being set up is a new one for me. I've never had trouble meeting people or making friends. If anything, I am a pathological people collector, the crazier the better, as my husband likes to say. And with most of the people I know living in the suburbs or in Brooklyn--I am still artsy enough to have quite a few contacts out that way--I have found my social calendar in the city quiet. This quiet for some would be a source of sadness, but for me it has served as a nice refuge from the social whirl of my life in LA and my summer on the Vineyard. But I knew this solitary life would, should come to an end with each passing week.

It's interesting to experience being on a 'blind date' even if with another woman as a possible friend candidate. The expectations and same anxieties prevail despite this meeting not being determined by the possibility of an attraction. Or isn't it? Aren't female friendships as fraught with the same emotional intensity as relationships between men and women? Aren't these relationships also relationships of the heart. Aren't these relationships as time consuming? And aren't these relationships also devastating when a relationship comes to an end? So, there I was, sitting and waiting at various restaurants or venue across the city, all with the same anxiety of: I hope they like me.

Each meeting brought forth another potential friend: one woman, definitely a 'girlfriend' of the drinks and kvetching variety, another of the proper lunch and tennis date variety, the other the one you make yourself see because they are connected enough to warrant time. These blind dates made me think about how we sound on the phone versus the way we actually look. Since I'd had opportunity to speak to only one blind date, my opinions were formed from email correspondences, not the most reliable way to envision someone. Each of us, all at varying stages of Motherhood, bonded over the fact that we were connected to someone they cared deeply about and for. So, each meeting was a total surprise, in a nice way. All of my 'blind friend dates' were a success. I could see the potential for these relationships to flourish in a way most conducive to the personalities involved.

This new life where relationships, each one a brand new start, is a good place to be for now. I wouldn't wish for anything else. I am happy to correspond with strangers, hoping this new connection may be the relationship that will make me feel tethered to this place. But if that weren't to happen, I always have all the other days when I'm quietly thrilled to be here, to be living my life in this city that I'd always dreamed of living.

Play Dates

Play Dates, the two most dreaded words in my world, is how parents, of all stripes, control who and how their children spend their free time, something not in abundance given how over scheduled all our children are these days. I detest these fabricated social events. This hour or, God forbid, two hours is ripe for so many catastrophes. What happened to the days when our parents, truly brilliant all of them, sat around drinking heavily, parenting in what my girlfriend so aptly described as, "benign neglect?"

Yes, the world has changed. Or has it? I'm sure there were pedophiles lurking around every corner when we were children. I'm certain there were as many car crashes as there are today, but we weren't harnessed to the very death of us. There were, I'm sure, all the dangers that have turned our jobs from 'taking care' of our children: feeding, bathing, nurturing, teaching, to policing our children to the nth degree. Believe me when I say after an hour or two of rambunctious boys screaming and playing Indians and Indians (yes, I know how unPC this is, but am too tired to try and correct them), I wish, yearn, dream for the day when I can banish them out of this apartment to run outside. Yes, child welfare services would certainly come to my door before the kids return. And certainly the other child's parent would never, ever invite us to their home or allow their kid to return for another Play Date. I understand all the social taboos about doing such a thing, but surely I'm allowed a bit of day dreaming, right?

David Sedaris writes about how his mother would do just that--lock out all the kids in the winter and not let them in for hours. Again, 'benign negligence,' didn't do him a great deal of harm, right? Yes, he's spent exhaustive time and money in therapy unpacking the complicated relationship he has with his mother, who comes across in all of his work as: funny, alcoholic, funny, and uncaring.

This word, play date, is now so used or overused, it is a given that if you are a parent, you will find yourself using this word more than you care to remember. This event, the play date, is fraught with social disasters, the most noxious being having to spend that time with a woman you don't like or have anything in common with. It is all annoying, to say the least.

But as a parent, you have no option but to engage in this ridiculous charade. If you don't have a healthy amount of play dates, you, or rather, your child will become that odd child no one ever asks to birthday parties. See, what a trap all of this is for parents? Why none of us haven't rebelled against this inane practice is beyond me. If given my way, I'd banish this social obligation entirely, but then my child would be odder than he will surely become given his parentage.

So, another afternoon was spent with my son's play date, this time with the tomboy in his class. It was just raucous enough to bring on a headache only curable with a bottle of wine.