A Chief in a China Shop

“I’m sorry, Miss, we allow dogs but not horses in the store,” the security guard at the 59th and Lexington Avenue entrance of Bloomingdales said jokingly as Debra and I entered the store. Chief was looking dapper in his matching collar and leash combo that I chose especially for our day of shopping. It was easy to dress him up, wipe his drool off a block away and brush off the excess fur from his coat, but it was hard to disguise his size.

Debra had come to see the new apartment earlier that morning and to compare notes on cohabitating with our respective boyfriends and their dogs. “I got this great leather cleaner,” I said sipping a Chai Tea Latte. “It’s amazing for removing dog slobber. Oh, and you must get Nature’s Miracle, it removes dog accident-stains.” I brought over my cleaning supplies, one by one showing her the miraculous powers of my cleaning arsenal.

As Debra inspected the bottles, reading the back of each for the active ingredients, I mused at the scene. “You realize, we are sitting here comparing notes on CLEANING? What’s happened to us? A year ago when we had a day off from work we would still be hungover at noon from a night out at Marquee.” But that was a lifetime ago; our world’s changed for the better as maturity and time altered our existences.

We decided to make the most of an overcast, unusually chilly, August day. With registry gifts to purchase for a battery of weddings this summer and the ever-present need for new jeans, we decided to head to Bloomingdales. “I can’t leave Chief,” I said as we were half way out the door and Chief was mauling a rawhide bone. “I have someone coming to change the closet configuration.” Realizing I would be a shut in waiting around for workmen, I opted to bring Chief with me. “I’ve seen dogs at Bloomies. I mean those rat terrier ones, but they can’t discriminate based on size, that would be illegal.” Debra didn’t say anything; she just looked at me as if I told her I was planning to shop naked.

Once we made it past security, I thought we were home free. “See, simple as pie,” I said, giving Chief a pat on the head and shooting Debra an “I-told-you-so” look.

“Second floor?” Debra said as she got on the escalator and I followed behind at Chief’s pace. Reaching the foot of the escalator, Chief paused. Had he ever seen an escalator? As a new New Yorker, Chief hadn’t been exposed, as many city dogs to marvels of city life: brazen city pigeons who don’t duck for cover when they see him coming, a limited selection of trees on which to lift his leg and store escalators. He looked at the escalator; weary of it, he looked up at me, confused. “Most people carry their dogs on the escalator,” a high-heeled woman said lifting her Bijon Frisse into his Burberry carrier and blowing past me leaving me in a wake of her perfumed trail. “I don’t think that’s an option for you,” she shouted as the escalator transported her away from me and an embarrassed Chief.

One elevator ride later, we found Debra examining a Juicy sweatshirt. I headed over to the sales rack to inspect some of last season’s bargains. “What kind of dog is that?” A crowd had formed around Chief and me and a row of white linen pants. “Can I pet him?” a little girl with her mother asked as she reached up to rub his ears. A half-dressed woman charged from the dressing room, sporting a shirt with tags on and buttoned incorrectly rushed towards us. “Someone in the dressing room was saying that a dog the size of a bear was out here. I love big dogs. I have two Labs,” she said as she joined the group of gawkers that congregated around Chief from all areas of the floor.

Debra approached us, carrying a Medium Brown Bag which held the new Uggs hat she had just purchased. “You would have thought Paris Hilton was tango dancing with Brad Pitt with this size crowd and all the commotion. The woman who rung me up was talking about you guys.” The news of Chief’s presence spread like a VD through a brothel. He was a celebrity of sorts, and as we wandered the floor browsing people shouted to us, “Hi Chief!” addressing him by name. Chief seemed comfortable with his new found fame, wagging his tail, his massive head hanging low as he sniffed the floor.

Up on the sixth floor I was panicked. “One full wag of his tail and that entire display of Baccarat is history. That would be one very expensive day of shopping with very little to show for it.” Searching for some Vera Wang home accessories, we made our way through the Fine China department. “Can I show you anything?” a salesperson inquired. “Some dishes, glassware, a parking space for your dog?”

An older woman offered me some sound advice as she examined some Nambe candlesticks, “Keep your man and your dog on a short leash, and that doesn’t just apply to the China Department.” Giggling, Debra and I continued walking. “He’s really well behaved,” Debra said in amazement “but you can’t get much done with him. People just won’t let you shop. He’s like a circus attraction.” She was right. There was no way I was going to be able to try on anything; Chief wouldn’t fit into a dressing room. “It’s not like he has any fashion sense. An animal dumb enough to step in its own feces certainly isn’t going to have an opinion on whether or not a dress looks good on me. But he’s easier to shop with than M,” I said. “At least Chief has more patience while I mull over another white tank top.”

“Can I take his picture?” we were asked as a woman pulled out her camera phone as we exited the elevator on the first floor. This request set off an impromptu paparazzi photo shoot as multiple shoppers and counter clerks rushed to take a picture of Chief. “Chief, Chief, Chief,” one woman shouted, “Chief move your head to the left. Chief, look at me!”

“Lady, he’s a dog! He can’t strike a pose. Maybe if you smeared peanut butter all over your face, you may have a chance.”

Chief couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about as flashbulbs went off in his face. “Ok, I had enough,” Debra said as she kissed me goodbye. “This is too much attention for me.”

Once I extricated myself from the throngs of camera-weilding fans, I dashed to the men’s department purchasing M three pairs of dress socks, what I came for initially. “Will you take the dog in trade?” I said exhausted and handing over the cash.

“You might have better luck in the furniture department,” the clerk said. “We have more things that size up there.”

With that, Chief and I left Bloomies. On the way home, we made two stops: a tree and the pet store. As I paid for Chief’s new bone and a box of Scooby Snacks, Chief wagged his tail in exaggerated excitement he knocked over a table display of sale merchandise. “Well Chief, it’s just a good thing that wasn’t the Baccarat….and that there wasn’t a team of paparazzi to catch you in the act.”

FOR MORE ON CHIEF AND M, PLEASE CHECK OUT THE COLUMN "THE HUNT" IN THE NEW YORK TIMES THIS SUNDAY, OR READ IT ONLINE AT THE NEW YORK TIMES WEBSITE.

Tying and Untying the Knots

“I am freakishly strong,” I said to the mover as I offered him my assistance in lifting a 32 inch television. He looked at me as if I was on drugs, his sleeves rolled up as his muscles strengthened from years of moving people for a living protruded out like mountains. “I’m serious. I can lift anything,” I added as if I was a Wheaties commercial or an anti-steroid campaign picture. Needless to say, I couldn’t even move the TV an inch but it was not from lack of trying.

As my movers carried in the larger pieces, I lugged in the lesser items; framed artwork, DVD player, computer boxes. The move took 8 hours from start to finish. M arrived home to utter chaos. Broken down boxes were pushed into the hallway, packing paper was strewn on the floor like shag carpeting and my clothing lay in piles after I finished stuffing everything possible into my closets. “What the hell happened in here?” M said. “Where is all this shit going?”

“This shit? This shit is my clothing, my possessions, me.” I was clinging to a cashmere Burberry scarf like a baby blanket. “We need to get some sort of portable closet for the rest of this stuff. They make porta-potties, they must make portable closets.” I rushed right to the computer to search for some storage piece which will keep my shoes and purses safe from dog spit.

The next morning I awoke to sore muscles, walking like a Cro-Magnon man I limped half upright to my closet only being able to select items from the lower shelves. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it,” I said to M in a state of high drama and exaggeration. “I’ll check on you this afternoon but I think you’ll live.”

Popping a few Motrin, I attempted to put away the most egregious of messes – using the second bedroom/office as the staging ground for my war against clutter. Anything which did not immediately have a home found a temporary spot in there. The room was piled with crap up to the ceilings, precariously resting on a totem pole created from abandoned shoes and brown boxes.

“Are you home?” Keri “Soon-to-be-Cherry” asked as she dashed about town finishing the last of her pre-wedding errands. “I’ll pop by.”

Appreciative for the distraction, I made a pitcher of lemonade and tossed in a dash of vodka hoping that combined with the Motrin the pain in my lower back may subside. I was buried (literally) and in over my head (literally) with organizing, I needed to just kick back on the terrace with friends and drinks.

When I opened the door to an overheated Keri, we were mirror images of each other; running pants, Old Navy tank top and flip flops. We looked each other up and down laughing at the Upper East Side uniform for chores and errands. “Why are you walking like the hunchback of Notre Dame?” she inquired.

“Moving injuries. I have a knot in my back the size of Chief’s head” I answered pointing to the 200lb Mastiff who lay spread out in front of the sofa. “I was contemplating going to get some bath salts and taking a long hot bath otherwise I will be forced to live life on the bottom shelves of Food Emporium eating dented canned goods.”

“Grab your keys. I got a better idea.”

Keri took me a few short blocks away to a small doorway on 2nd Avenue and 57th St. “Where the hell are you taking me?” I was worried. This barely marked doorway to a Chinese massage parlor looked like the kind of place where the menu of options included illegal options. Gong Tui-Na was located on the 2nd floor of a low-rise building, a small sign on the street level alerted passerbys to “Chinese Acupressure and Acupuncture”. Ready to try anything, I lumbered up the flight of stairs.

“All this stress of wedding planning, this has been my saving grace,” Keri said. “Ron and I escape here in between seating arrangements and writing thank you notes.” With merely hours until their wedding, Keri was holding up magnificently under the stress. “This is my utopia,” she said as they led us in separate directions to curtained off cubes.

A half-hour of bliss later, I emerged upright – like a human being. Every knot untied, pounded out and massaged into oblivion. Keri poked out from behind another curtain, radiating health, stretching as if she awoke from an unencumbered slumber – wedding stressors gone, the looming weather report for rain a lightening clap away from thought.

At $28, less than the cost of two martinis at many Upper East Side lounges, this half hour of ecstasy was well worth its weight in moving boxes.

His and Hers

His and Hers

We did have a laundry bag on our laundry list of needs as we headed over to Bed, Bath and Beyond on 61st and 1st on Saturday afternoon, but we also had a long list of other essentials we needed. From towels, to bathmats to plastic outdoor glasses and a state of the art ice bucket with all the bells and whistles, M and I set out to collect the necessary pieces to make our apartment a home.

“It’s too nice to spend the day in here,” M said as we entered through the sliding doors and into a world of gadgets. I was determined to not do this alone. I had already made 5 trips to Bed Bath this week and now I wanted company. It was Saturday, time for him to focus on work outside the office.

M had put together the grill that morning, waking up at the crack of dawn. Determined to make fire and grill meat, his manly duties, M unpacked the grill from the oversized box that his movers wrestled to get into the apartment. The grill came in a million little pieces; screws and nuts, bolts and mini wrenches – methodically M removed all the materials before taking a step back to look at the project in front of him. I watched from my perch on a chaise lounge drinking an iced latte. “Need some help?” I offered as he ran his hands through his hair and exhaled deeply. My offer of assistance was purely cosmetic, I knew I could be of no help unless handing him a “Do-hickey” or a “thingamabob” was helpful. “No, just go inside and get me my tool box,” he said.

Shirtless, M lifted the heavy pieces, one by one laying them out in an assembly line. He opened his tool box and began the enormous job of putting the grill together. I sat and watched. “I never knew a Jewish guy to own a tool box,” I said. “But I bet you knew a lot of Jewish guys who were tools,” he shot back. He was right. Most of the Jewish men who I dated were more adept at building a wardrobe than building a grill and deck furniture. Living with M not only did I have an amazing boyfriend, but I also had a true live-in Super. An at home staff to build furniture, set-up computers and hang things. There appeared to be many advantages to co-habitation.

M labored away, baking in the hot sun constructing the grill. Hours passed. I stayed inside in the air conditioning making a list for Bed Bath and Beyond and watching M through the window. Slowly, the pile of metal and pieces began to resemble a grill. He emerged, 3 hours later: the grill complete. “We need meat,” he said wiping sweat from his brow and dropping ice cubes into a glass of water.

I dragged him kicking and screaming a few blocks to Bed Bath and Beyond. Armed with my scribbles of needs, M pushed the cart. “I’ll push,” he said grabbing the cart from me like a little kid excited to place it in the shopping cart escalator which whisked our items up to the second floor. I darted through the sections pulling items from shelves and tossing it into the cart. “What the hell is this? Why do we need,” he paused picking it up from the cart and looking at it, “a paper towel holder? It comes on its own holder…that cardboard thing in it.”

“Just be quiet and push,” I said ignoring his question. The store was packed with people; new college students with parents purchasing halogen lights and Yaffa blocks, skilled cooks sorting through the cookware looking for Teflon pots and pans and newly co-habitating couples.

“Enough with the wicker,” a beleaguered looking guy said to his girlfriend their cart filled with wicker baskets, wicker chairs and a wicker hamper. “How much wicker can one man take.” She ignored him – continuing to pile the cart sky high with bath mats and tub liner and wicker storage filing boxes.

“See, I could be like that,” I said to M as he listened and laughed at their conversation. “I could fill our entire home floor to ceiling with wicker and hearts and pink throw pillows and flowery dust ruffles. I’m not. So be quiet and push.”

“Can we go to Home Depot?” M said as I tossed in tissue box holders and toothbrush holders. “I need to get some plants and planters and some potting soil and stuff.”

“When we are done here, we can go and do that.”

“And can we go and get some meat? I want to make a T-bone for dinner tonight. I’ll make Chief one too.” I could see him salivate at the thought. Promising him we were almost done and that he could push the cart into the escalator thing again, M pushed on accompanying me into the candle section.

At checkout, the clerk rang us up – one item at a time as I cleared out our cart onto the conveyor belt. M entertained himself playing with the impulse purchase items lining side. “We should get this too,” he said throwing a handheld massage tool into the cart. “That will be $362.49,” she said. “Credit or Debit?”

“What the fuck did we just buy?” M said handing over the plastic to the woman. “How the hell did we just spend almost $400 on shit? Do we need all this junk? I don’t need a toothbrush holder. I just leave it on the counter. Why do we need so much stuff? I never had any of this when I was living alone and I think I was living alright.”

Later that night, while I put away my newly minted purchases, M cooked a blood rare T-bone for himself and for Chief and me on the terrace. While Bed Bath and Beyond may be as torturous to a man as a day of shopping with me for shoes, he did enjoy the set of grill tools we purchased. Like towels, some household chores and duties are better left to his and hers.

Domino’s Pizza School of Life Philosophy

There was no furniture in our new place yet, as I sat and waited for deliveries. The apartment smelled of fresh paint and bleach and there isn’t a smudge on the window or a dog hair fur ball in sight. It is brand-spankin new from the glistening refrigerator drawers to the power washed terracotta tiles on the terrace. It will never look this clean again.

“The sofa will be delivered between 8am and noon,” the man from Bloomingdales informed me the night before by phone. With M at work, I scheduled all of the deliveries and installations in the hours between 9 and 5, when I could be working from the apartment and he wouldn’t have to deal with the hassle. Putting my event planning skills to work, I packed my morning back to back with Time Warner, Bloomingdales and Best Buy – lining everything up so I could be out of the house in the afternoon to spend my day in Mecca and the aisles of shelving, closet organizational tools and Egyptian cotton 800 thread count sheets at Bed Bath and Beyond. But the Beyond was going to have to wait, as I waited and waited and waited for the deliveries which didn’t know show and got Beyond enraged.

“Hi, yea. Um, I have a delivery that was supposed to be here by noon,” I said to the fifth person I was transferred to as I tried to locate my missing couch. Looking at my watch as the little hand slipped past 2, I was getting pissed. “Let me check on that,” a very disinterested customer care(less) agent said as she clicked away on a keyboard and then put me on hold to listen to Dionne Warwick belt out “Friends”. Ten minutes later, she came back on the phone with no answers and more excuses. “I see that your delivery was scheduled between 8 and 12.” Yea dipshit, that is what I just said…ten minutes ago…to you and four other people. “Right, and it is 2 pm now. And my sofa is not here.”

“Uh huh,” she said.
“I am a surgeon and I need to get to the hospital to perform a lifesaving Siamese twin separation surgery. I really can’t wait any longer for this delivery. Can you call the driver?” I improvised and perhaps told a little white lie. On hold again, I was treated to the musical stylings of Marvin Gay as I attempted to vacuum up the little white packing beads that littered my apartment floor like snow flakes

“Miss, we can’t find the driver of the truck,” she said when she came back on as if she lost her valet claim check for her car and not a gigantic truck with a 110 inch sofa on it. “He isn’t answering his cell phone.”

“Don’t you have some sort of two way radio thing or GPS tracking on the truck? How can you not be able to locate the truck or the driver?”

“Miss, please remain calm.”

“What? Remain calm? I am calm. I just want my sofa. Lady, I haven’t showered since yesterday morning. I am sitting on the floor of an empty apartment. The Time Warner people showed up with the wrong equipment. I got a 200lb dog arriving here tomorrow. I need my sofa, otherwise I am going to have to sit on the dog.”

“You are going to need to call back,” she said giving me yet another 800 number that surely will have a twenty minute list of menu options of which none will be what I need. Then I will press any number, oh let’s just say three for the fudge of it. And then I will be transferred to some half-tart who doesn’t know their ass from a noodle. When I finally am able to convey in short and simple words the present issues this wiz kid will transfer me again to another brain trust who had to get his finger out of his nose to answer the frigging phone. I was sick of being transfered, I was tired of explaining, of repeating my phone number, the last four digits of my social and my address.

“Riddle me this,” I said to the woman as I reached my saturation point of frustration. “When I order Domino’s pizza, if the pizza doesn’t arrive in the 30 minute window then it’s free. Are you going to give me a free couch? Cause I think you should. The world should work just like Domino’s Pizza,” I said my voice elevating.

“Miss we aren’t delivering you a pizza. We are delivering you a sofa.”

“Exactly, so deliver it” I said clapping my phone closed. I was out of words, out of breath and my butt was numb from sitting on a wood floor for hours.

The sofa was finally delivered…a few minutes before M got home from work. “What’s for dinner,” he asked as he came into the apartment and laid down on the sofa pulling off his brown loafers and tossing them to the side. “Wanna order sushi or something?”

“Nope. I am really in the mood for pizza tonight. I have a hankering for Dominos.”

The Calm Before the Storm

The air was crisp like fall. It was the type of weather which reminded me of apple cider and hay rides, of new Trapper Keepers and making book covers from recycled supermarket bags as the school year began. Weather marks change in seasons and changes in life. This weekend was no different.

“Take a jacket,” my mother said to my brother and to M as we left the house for the concert on the beach in Nantucket. Although it was the middle of August, the temperatures dipped at night into the 40s which was a welcomed change from the oppressive days of 100 plus degrees of recent weeks. Boys always seem to think that they are immune to the plunge in mercury; they never need coats keeping warm with pure machismo. I bundled up; pairing a broomstick skirt with a zip-up sweater knowing as soon as the sun set and the Mojitos were gone I would be freezing before the Boston Pops finale of the 1812 Overture.

We brought a picnic dinner of Lobster Rolls and giant homemade cookies (made in someone else’s home) to the beach with 7000 other tourists all fighting for a speck of sand to park their picnic baskets and beach blankets. Some of the more advanced beachgoers arrived with all-terrain wheelie picnic carts that folded out James Bond style into a full-on dining table replete with candles, wine goblets and silverware, but we opted for the more philistine method of plastic bags and paper cups.

The concert began at 7 sharp, but the beach filled up early. By 5pm the crowds pushed back to the water line praying high tide would wait until after the show. Bernadette Peters, the New York stage star from Broadway hits such as Annie Get Your Gun hosted the evening. Tim Russert co-chaired as well to ensure a true Nantucket gala event.

My brother had ignored my mother’s request to dress appropriately for the unseasonably cold weather. “I am an adult,” he mocked her wearing bathing trunks and a t-shirt with no jacket in sight. “I am never cold,” he added. But this time, mother did know best and my brother shivered and dug holes in the sand to bury his frozen feet. “Told you so,” she said shooting him a look while my brother still refused to acknowledge his goosebumps.

The band played – a tribute to the 1970s with hits such as the theme from Godfather and Star Wars. I sat quietly with M and my family trying to enjoy the beauty of the amber sunset and the lapping of the waves against the fuchsia sky. I tried not to focus on the week to come…the days ahead of movers, installers and deliveries. Like with hurricanes, right before they strike - before a Nor’easter rolls in off the Atlantic slamming white shutters against clapboard houses, uprooting trees and eroding the beach – there is a serene peace. This was our peace.

People jumped to attention as the last remnants of the day drizzled behind the horizon and the sun made the last of its downward descent into the Western sky behind the bluff. Camera lights flashed as tourists tried to save for posterity on film the amazing sunset. I followed suit, grabbing my camera from my lightship basket and clicking away as I have tried so many times before. But I am never able to get the light right, to photograph the sunset with its magistry of true colors.

The grand finale included a laser show and fireworks. Green laser lights pierced the black sky with precision and smoke plumed around the stage as the lasers intersected it creating a visual atmospheric phenomenon. Due to a poor choice of footwear, the blisters on my feet required bandages before we could enjoy the rest of the evening’s festivities with Rachel and Amy in the VIP tent for the post party. "Hurry darlin," Rachel said into the cell phone. "The wine is getting warm and I must see you and meet M who I have heard so much about." Rachel was at her parents, visiting for an extended weekend from San Diego, giving me a chance to get a little "Rach time" which has been limited since her move across the country.

M and I dashed out before the firework show began, hoping to beat the crowds and make it home for a quick backstage outfit change. Grabbing the miniature flashlight we walked along the back side streets and thru the brush covered paths the back way to our house. The boom of the fireworks sounded like bombs dropping as M hurdled bushes and dunes in the wild outback of Nantucket. A pair of flip flops and a smear of lip gloss later, we were back at the beach with Rachel and Amy.

We danced the night away to a live band with the Madras blazer wearing crowd. Far from thought, far from the Upper East Side and the melee of the move to come, we drowned thoughts in wine and stifled concern in the stiff breeze off the ocean. The calming effects of a crisp and tart Chardonnay should never be underestimated.

But back in the city today, my cell phone buzzes continuously. The spreadsheet of deliveries from Bloomingdales and Verizon DSL appointments has replaced suntan lotion and Nantucket Nectar Half and Half. The calm was over. The storm was beginning. And soon the flood of packages and breaking down boxes and clatter and thunder of movers dropping chairs and beds on newly stained oak floors will wash away the calm of the weekend. But that’s the thing with storms, after they pass….there is calm again.

Food for Thought

Food for Thought

“It’s Vegan?” I said to Audrey as I deliberated whether or not I wanted to join her and her friend for dinner. The thought of eating grass and weeds seemed as unappealing as nibbling on my Chia Pet. But, company outweighed food and I decided to venture out into the PETA world of fine dining.

I am a carnivore; a good steak, chicken wings and tuna tartare are food. Smashed chickpeas drizzled with beet juice is not. Audrey has an adventurous palate. A few years ago she took me to a raw Vegan place during that fashionable dietary craze. Nothing was cooked and everything tasted like cardboard even though the monikers of “Meatloaf” and “Fried Chicken” tried to trick the mind into believing soy paste and bean curd tasted like meat. I was expecting the emptied bag of a lawnmower on my plate at this fine dining establishment, but I was pleasantly surprised.

Candle 79 located on 79th Street between Lexington and 3rd Avenue and boasts Vegan cuisine on a different level. I surveyed the menu when we sat down in the well appointed Feng Shui dining room. I could deal with a meatless meal, but without the benefits of milk or eggs in creating sauces I was unsure what a Caesar salad would taste like. Sticking to items with recognizable ingredients, I decided on the eggplant Napoleon and a salad.
“Anything to drink?” the waitress asked.
“Diet Coke,” I said closing my menu and handing it to her as I stole a quick look at her shoes.

Plastic. A material Jimmy Choo wouldn’t include in his fall line. Even my fashion sense is inexhaustibly carnivorous.

“We only have organic sodas,” she said looking at me as if I had ordered a New York strip steakwith a side of dead bird. “We have a great green tea drink.”

I chose water. It seemed safe.

The people watching was great. My eyes scanned the room for footwear selections to see if people chose this restaurant based on moral principles or taste. It was a mixed bag. A hip lesbian couple one of who had biceps the size of Hulk Hogan was splitting a dessert at the table next to use. There were more tattoos and nose rings than on St. Mark’s street, but there was also a familiarity of yuppie Upper East Siders who just wanted a healthier alternative.

“Are you a Vegan because of moral reasons or health reasons?” I asked Audrey’s friend with whom she went to Wharton. He went on to explain the atrocities behind where meat and milk come from. I am from the school of “ignorance is bliss”. As an animal lover, mostly of furry cute domestic pets, I am enraged by countries like Korea and China who could stir fry a poodle or Garfield and serve it with a side of rice. I prefer not to think about Bessie the cow who gave her life for my filet mignon. “They cut off the beaks of chickens while they are still alive,” he continued as my stomach turned and I gave serious thought to living the rest of my life munching on greens. "And milk! That's the worst. Have you ever seen utters of a milk cow?" he asked me. "They hang down because they have been pulled and tugged on." It conjured up images of breast feeding mothers whose boobs hang down around their Seven's waistbands. Both images sent my hunger away.

When our food came, I was shocked. It was tasty. Somehow organically the chef was able to fool me with the eggless Caesar dressing and the cornmeal coated eggplant. I tasted everyone’s food and everything tasted great.

On the way home, I thought about becoming a Vegan…for a few seconds. Marinating in the idea of going meatless, I liked the concept that I was saving the lives of some barnyard animals. Yes, I could be healthier, I thought. I love salad. I can eat artichokes and lettuce and be full and happy! I ran through all the things in my head which I would still be able to eat. I thought about the pounds of flesh melting off of me as I gave up fleshy fare for sprouts and beans.

But the idea of buying plastic footwear was just too much. Somehow I just would like to believe the cow which gave its life for my pair of suede boots last year, was just a little bit happier in his afterlife as pair of buttery soft mocha colored knee high stiletto boots.

Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed - Something RED

The age OLD and time honored tradition of the bachlorette party was celebrated this weekend as we sent Keri Millstein off into the world of wedded bliss and a lifetime with the name of Keri Cherry. That fact alone is reason to drink.

What was supposed to be a 2 ½ hour excursion to Foxwoods in Connecticut turned out to be 5 hours of sitting in a parking lot on I-95. Three car loads of girls left from the Upper East Side of Manhattan bright and early expecting to reach our intended destination with ample time to work on our tans before dinner and gambling. But the best laid plans….

“Are you guys there yet?” Charley asked Keri who had left two hours before we did. We were just past Greenwich when the traffic came to a complete stop.

“Nope, not yet.” I could hear Keri on speaker phone. “Working on my tan in the car though,” she said. With the top down in a convertible, Keri was multi-tasking. Charley and I made a few pit stops along the way; a rest stop for some Slim Jims and Laffy Taffy, a Burger King to fuel up on junk food and a gas station to fuel up finally pulling off at exit 92 and onto the Indian Reservation. It was after 5pm and the good hours of tanning were behind us, which was fine with me considering the amount of food I had consumed required the gym and not a bathing suit. How Charley managed to scarf down more food than a Sumo wrestler and maintain a 22 inch waist is a mystery that could take a lifetime to unravel.

Foxwoods was NEW to me – I had been to Mohegan Sun on a few occasions, but never ventured further north to Mashantucket Pequot reservation which was home to Foxwoods Casino. With just enough time for seven girls to shower and get dressed, we managed to work in a surprise tribute to Keri’s ending bachlorette-hood with a champagne toast and gifts of an edible candy bra and penis jawbreakers.

Keri tossed on a white tube top to show off her new tan from her ride up in the car. “Ker, you realize you not only have tan lines from your tank top, but you also have a lovely tan line from the seatbelt,” Stephanie noticed. As the day progressed what began as peachy bronze color turned into a scorching angry shade of red.

“You are going to need to fix that,” I said. Keri looked confused. “Aren’t you wearing a strapless dress for your wedding in a few weeks?”

“Shit,” Keri said finally realizing that a bad sunburn not only meant aloe lotion and chills, it also meant discovering a way to mitigate the zebra effect before her wedding. Sipping champagne we sat in the suite before our dinner reservations. “I forgot a sweater,” Keri said as she rifled through her bag looking for something to throw over her sunburn. To the rescue, I reached into my overstuffed overnight bag and pulled out a white knit sweater with sequined cuffs. “Try this,” I offered handing Keri the very bridal looking garment.

It fit perfectly. It matched perfectly. “Wow, I love this,” she said.

“Consider it my BORROWED gift to you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep, one less thing to pack for my move next week.”

Our exceptionally well dressed group head downstairs for dinner, as we assessed the crowds we passed along the way. “Kinda reminds me of Denny’s with a disco ball,” I said as I watched one unwashed gentleman pick his nose and examine his treasure. Unlike the visually pleasing eye candy in Vegas, Foxwoods attracted a different element. The kind of element which needed a reminder to wear shirts and shoes indoors.

We celebrated the evening in a thirty-something sort of way: good food, good champagne, good conversation and good friends. After dinner at the steakhouse we went to the nightclub and then on to the casino. I found a craps table which smelled lucky and got some chips. A very pregnant waitress in a very tight outfit came over and took our drink orders, another reminder that this was Connecticut and not Las Vegas. By 1 am, I was up $100 and tired. I took my winnings and went back to the room where everyone gathered in their pajamas and spread out across two beds. Reminiscent of those slumber parties with Holly Hobby sleeping bags and Smurf ice cream cakes, we sat around cramming more junk food into our mouths and yapping like teenage girls.

In the morning Keri woke up a deeper shade of red. We packed and headed back to the city early hoping to avoid the traffic which we hit the day before. It was a great bachlorette party….some OLD and NEW friends, a BORROWED sweater, and a very very red bride....the color of a Cherry.

Literary Pursuits and Other Girlie Things

I had taken a two year hiatus, but I was back.

Sunday night we gathered at Keri’s Upper East Side apartment to discuss “The History of Love” by Nicole Krauss. The book club which I left many moons ago had grown since my departure and that night twelve girls came from uptown, downtown and even the West Side for wine and conversation.

As Lisa poured a chilled Argentinean white into her glass we took our seats around Keri’s cocktail table. The wine flowed. The spinach dip was passed and the carrots were used as spoons as we crunched our way into a Sunday evening.

Before we got down to the nitty gritty of discussing the emotional depths of this novel, we indulged in girl talk. “Let me see the ring,” we crowded around Alexis’ hand. She had just gotten engaged – in between this book club rendez vous and the last.

“Do you have a date picked out?”
“Where are you getting married?”
“How did he ask?”

We stormed her with the usual barrage of girlie questions as we quickly finished a few bottles of white wine. It was too hot outside to drink the reds which sat in a corner of the kitchen looking out of place next to the fruit salad and hot weather foods. From wedding rings to baggage the conversation bounced. Alissa shared the horrors of her Air France experience, echoed by Jan in almost an identical story of lost luggage. Both of them victims of the airline’s incompetence. Alissa spent three days without her bag on her honeymoon, her husband wearing the same airline Tshirt each day as they dined in the quaint cafes in the South of France. “We saw a lot of other diners wearing the same shirt,” she added.

Air France was kind enough to give both Alissa and Jan an interim care pack which included essentials like an Air France T-shirt, a toothbrush and oddly a condom? Only the French would offer a condom instead of body soap!

The sun had set before we regained focus and conversation found its way to the book.
We were pretty buzzed for a Sunday night, but the chilled wine did go down like water as the thermometer outside still read over 90 degrees. It was a pretty heavy book, much more intriguing and complex than the chick lit novels I read on the beach. Described on Amazon.com as:

The History of Love spans of period of over 60 years and takes readers from Nazi-occupied Eastern Europe to present day Brighton Beach. At the center of each main character's psyche is the issue of loneliness, and the need to fill a void left empty by lost love. Leo Gursky is a retired locksmith who immigrates to New York after escaping SS officers in his native Poland, only to spend the last stage of his life terrified that no one will notice when he dies. ("I try to make a point of being seen. Sometimes when I'm out, I'll buy a juice even though I'm not thirsty.") Fourteen-year-old Alma Singer vacillates between wanting to memorialize her dead father and finding a way to lift her mother's veil of depression. At the same time, she's trying to save her brother Bird, who is convinced he may be the Messiah, from becoming a 10-year-old social pariah. As the connection between Leo and Alma is slowly unmasked, the desperation, along with the potential for salvation, of this unique pair is also revealed.

As we discussed the thematic strings in the novel: loneliness, imagination – the need to create stories and people to make our lives feel full…..It was clear to me. Book club wasn’t just about the book…it was about the tangents of conversation, of life – the wine, the friends, the stories of our own lives and not just those in the book.