Jul 30 2004
Seen in Manhattan:
The fabulous Ed Ruscha exhibits at the fabulous Whitney;
Tall buildings;
Not one famous person;
Taxis (but not for Suzy!);
But that’s OK – she’s shopping in the Village (including a pink wig!);
A tree grows in Manhattan;
Better be careful! (the entrance to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel); and
Next: Hamptons Diary!
Jul 24 2004
Coming to you from New York City – the state of my birth, though not the city (that distinction belongs to the unlovely town of Syracuse, and that’s the only distinction it has). New York City has plenty of distinction, but also lots of myths and legends which are not entirely accurate.
Myth: It’s sooo easy to get a cab in New York.
Truth: It’s completely impossible. Especially on a hot, humid, and rainy Friday night after a concert in Central Park. Literally the minute the show was over, it started to pour in an epic and Biblical manner (I can’t get used to it raining in the summer – it only rains in the winter in California). It was like walking through a waterfall.
Within minutes I was soaked to the skin, and the streets became mini rivers. I made my way to Madison Avenue and tried desperately to hail a cab. You know it’s bad when a girl in a soaking wet and form-fitting shirt, transformed into a transparent shirt thanks to Mother Nature and her sick sense of humor, can’t get a cab. I walked ten blocks or so before I finally got one, and if I hadn’t been so wet and cranky, I would have been flattered by the alacrity with which the cab driver swerved through traffic to pick me up. Instead, my only thought was, “I have never been so glad to see a cab in my life.”
I ended up taking all my clothes to the hotel laundry to get them dried, including my dripping Keds. It was hard to get them to understand that I didn’t want them laundered or dry cleaned – they had been thoroughly laundered and wet cleaned by Ma Nature – I just wanted dry clothes. More than anything.
I finally got my point across, but they sure looked at me funny. Good practice for the Hamptons.
Jul 14 2004
How unfair is it that my sensible sis Beth was invited to the Buckingham Palace garden party and I wasn’t?
I would have shopped with enthusiasm for a hat to wear, and it would have been a totally over the top, My Fair Lady number. Of course, I’d have to get new shoes to go with the fabulous new hat, and nothing in my wardrobe would be up to the challenge, so I might actually buy the first suit of my life. Or maybe a flowy summery dress. Something good enough for the hat, anyway. And no-one could complain about the shopping, since it was really out of respect for Her Majesty.
But my sis was stressed by the shopping, bored by the party, and pretty much unimpressed with the entire thing. Even though she got to walk through the main gates, through which we have often watched the changing of the guard, and through part of the Palace. She did say the gardens were lovely, however.
Maybe I’ll get invited next year. I’ll have to start thinking about what to wear!
Jul 12 2004
This could be a good investment for me. My burning isn’t just confined to appliances – I am on my second sunburn of the summer, and we aren’t even halfway though July. First the ballpark burn, and now a burn I actually acquired through my clothes. Did anyone know this was possible? The ozone layer must be thinner than Kate Moss.
Jul 11 2004
Proof, if any were needed, of how very domestically disabled I am – one of my birthday tributes was this mug, so it appears to be a matter of common knowledge – is at hand. In attempting to toast a crumpet (well, I am half-English) in the toaster oven, I managed to set the crumpet and the toaster oven on fire.
It was a mini-inferno before I even noticed, and once I did, I had no idea what to do. Throw water on it? Maybe that makes it worse, though. Do I even have baking soda – doesn’t that work? Why don’t I have a fire extinguisher? Is there a responsible adult in the house who could fix this for me? Now? All these thoughts scurried rapidly through my petite mind – they didn’t have far to travel – and finally what I did was grab an oven mitt, then the hunka hunka burning appliance, and toss everything outside. The rain put it out for me.
Toaster oven is a write-off, and the outlet into which it was plugged looks a little Dali and is no longer white. As if all this weren’t embarrassing enough, my brother is a volunteer fireman. Don’t tell on me, ‘K?
Jul 07 2004
Wishlist for the summer:
The Art Institute of Chicago’s special exhibit on Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, put into context by paintings by his contemporaries, such as Monet, Pissaro and Renoir. Not to mention that when in Chicago, I can meet up with Colin, Chicagolimited’s very own unlimited source of knowledge about Chicago’s architecture. I might be lucky enough to take one of his personalized skyscraper tours.
Seeing Wilco while they’re on tour for their great new CD, A Ghost Is Born.
The Art Gallery of Ontario’s brilliant exhibit: Turner, Whistler, Monet. Are they the first museum to put on an exhibit which acknowledges that Turner was the first Impressionist – 50 years before the Impressionists were given that name? And to those of you who think that Whistler is just “Whistler’s Mother” (not the title of that famous painting, by the way – it’s “Arrangement in Grey and Black: Portrait of the Painter’s Mother “) – check out his Nocturnes.
Spending a few days in the Hamptons with my old friend Paul, who also hosted sis’n’Me in Florida in February. Before you start getting any ideas, he does catering for the rich folks, he ain’t one himself. And I can bring down the tone in the tony Hamptons as well as I do in tony Pacific Heights. I’ve had years of practice.
Visiting the fabulous Kathleen in Motown for her birthday!
Jul 05 2004
The ballpark burn is now peeling in a very unappealing manner. My arms look like I have leprosy lite, and it appears the burn is going to devolve into a tan – one that ends abruptly at the elbow, where I rolled up the sleeves of my Giants shirt. Gives a whole new meaning to tan lines.
On the bright side, when I was out shopping for some new music, the clerk at the record store, who looked to either be in college or fresh out of it (possibly everyone looks young to a vintage babe like me) complimented me on my taste in music. Here’s what got the 20-something Record Store Clerk Seal of Approval:
Madvillain: Madvillainy
Gift of Gab: 4th Dimensional Rocket Ships Going Up (silly names on both of them, but both are fab. He’s one of the Blackalicious vocalists)
Wilco: A Ghost is Born
Nappy Roots: Watermelon, Chicken and Gritz
J-Kwon: Hood Hop
Cee-Lo Green: Cee-Lo Green…Is the Soul Machine
Jul 03 2004
I’m fortunate to have the company of lovely Rita this weekend while her guardian is at a Tai Chi workshop.
Rita reminds me a lot of Jed the Wonder Dog. They’re both girls, both adorable, both around 10 years old (despite the whole dog years thing, dogs don’t seem to worry about their age as much as girls do), both well-trained, both smart and sweet-natured and both want to be with the people. They would both chase the stick until their big old hearts gave out. They both charm complete strangers. If I were a single guy, walking either Jed or Rita would be an infallible way of meeting girls. They both have very high “Awwww” factors, which would reflect well on me. Does anyway.
Having a temp dog is great. For one thing, it gets me out of the house a couple of times a day to go to the park and throw the stick. Being underemployed has somehow translated to my being underexercised, too. You’d think that not having to waste 8+ hours a day at the office would make it possible to go to the gym all the time and get all kinds of things accomplished, but not the way I do it (or don’t do it). Fortunately for me and my cellulite, Rita is very motivational.
This morning, I shoved my feet into sandals, grabbed Rita’s leash, and headed to the park in a non-caffeinated state. Walking dogs seems to be the only thing I can do pre-coffee. She chased the stick happily (she has more moderate stick taste than Jed, who prefers the huge and unwieldy style, bigger than your head and often accessorized with pine cones or nails or other hazards) and wandered around on the grass.
It was a perfect summer day: not a cloud in the resolutely blue sky; warm, but not hot; a light breeze; the air scented with flowers and cut grass; the trees lush with green leaves. It reminded me of the summers of my long-ago childhood. When you look back through the soft focus of 25 to 30 years, you only seem to remember the good things. It seems like it was always summer then. We were fearless in those days. My sister and I walked to school together through the woods, unconcerned. We could stay on the beach without our parents for hours at a time. Our parents limited our TV watching, avoiding our exposure to violence both real and fictional, and we played outside year-round. It was a more innocent time, pre-9/11, pre-Internet. I’m glad I grew up when I did.
Guess Rita traded me a walk in the park for a walk down memory lane. And we’re both happy with the trade.
