Me versus the Splinter

Four days after my thyroid surgery, I did something stupid.

While I consider myself an overall lucky person, I tend to be a magnet for stupid situations. While I love a good medical drama as much as an other ER-loving fan, this particular incident registered as pretty benevolent on the medical radar. I seemed to have gotten myself a splinter under my left big toe.

This was not just a regular thin, easily removable garden-variety splinter. No, no - this was no ordinary sliver of wood. This was an object that would engage me in a struggling battle me for 3 ½ hours on this Tuesday morning.

I googled how to get bad splinters out. A suggestion of some black salve called Ichtbhammol promised to suck the splinter out over night. Seemed possible for something that sounded so German and authoritative. “I will suck the splinter out of your toe,” I imagine an Arnold Schwarzenegger-live voice promising. Good back up plan, I thought. (Note to self – get black German scary extraction salve.)

My father didn’t think I had 24 hours to wait. “You can’t get an infection NOW!” he screamed, stressing the NOW, very Doctor Primetime Drama. Referring to the proximity of time to my surgery – I certainly wasn’t asking for an infection, but even with the HUGE splinter, really?

My father suggested the emergency room. That’s right. You would think I would have just gotten a heart transplant and couldn’t run the risk of organ rejection.

I thought podiatrist, maybe – but ER? (Incidentally, my father loves to suggest the emergency room for ailments of all sorts when he doesn’t know where else to direct you. It’s part of his trifecta of prescriptions. Either eating lemon, putting alcohol on it, or if all else fails, the emergency room. Sore throat? Eat lemon. Pimple, cold sore, an unexplainable rash covering half your body? Rub some alcohol on it. Big splinter in toe? Emergency room.)

My friend, Michelle, who professing her wilderness first aid training, offered to take a taxi to my apartment during lunch to extricate the sucker. “Let me see what I can do,” I told her and began the splinter removal surgery.

First order of business. Gather my implements.

• Large pot for soaking foot (good thing we made lasagna last night so the big noodle pot was already soaking in the sink)
• Two sizes of sewing needles
• Good tweezers
• A gallon of rubbing alcohol
• The suture removal kit we stole from the hospital

I figured the boiling water would sterilize the pot (I worried later, though, when, after I dumped out the water, little bits of pasta floated out). The stolen kit was already sterilized. But I did need to sterilize the tweezers and the needles. So I set them under the fire of a match (don’t they do that in war movies?) I didn’t know for how long but figured when the needles starting turning different colors – they were ready. Just in case – I drenched them in alcohol and heard the sizzle. Now I was bonus satisfied.

With my sterilized tools laid out before me, daytime TV glaring behind me, and boiling water at my feet, I begin the first soak. The first soak was the longest soak – almost 45 minutes. I then went on to make the original “pick-incision” via needle. First the big needle and then, when it hurt too much, the smaller one. I just couldn’t get close enough to the huge thing wedged in my toe. Meanwhile, my foot (broken just last year and aching in the rainy weather) was starting to spasm from holding it in a foot calisthenics position for half an hour.

So I go back to soaking. And more picking.

This time it seemed I had picked off enough millimeters of skin to warrant a cutting off of the dead skin. I needed to clear the area to work. So I get the nail clippers and repeat the sterilization process. I clip away the clipped away toe bits. Bye-bye toe skin.

My poor body has endured quite a lot this week – first half the thyroid and now toe bits into the boiling foot water in the pasta pot.

I soak some more and then I pick some more and eventually the length of the little shit reveals itself and it seems I could really grab a hold of him. So I grab my familiar tweezers. My Russian hairiness has ensured that I have developed a mastery of the tweezer. A tweezer artist, if you will. I decided to treat the splinter like an unwieldy, short, thick hair. I’ll play this on my court!

So I secure the subject – slowly and steadily, maintaining a fixed and consistent withdrawing pressure and I feel it slowly slide out of the meat of my toe. SUCCESS!

The blood drips down my foot and I feel so euphoric from my splinter extraction! I birthed the splinter all my own; via cesarean section nonetheless. I call everyone with my announcement “It’s a wood! About ½ an inch big. Quite a stubborn fellow. Mom is doing great!”

Quite a looker I am, my neck wrapped, my toe bandaged, limping under a bright red scarf, happy as can be.

I’ll note that everything in the hospital suture kit (bad plastic tweezers, dull scissors, small gauze) was useless to the splinter removal procedure, reinforcing the moral of the story: don’t take anything because eventually the bad karma will come back to splinter you in the toe.

Six months later

Six months ago today I had a partial Thyroidectomy. Translation: half of my thyroid and half of my metabolism was cut out. I had a large nodule on one side of my thyroid that had begun to produce extra thyroid hormone and made me hyperactive. The surgery was a great success. The nodule they removed was completely benign. It turns out, I had two nodules - a secret twin! For those confused by the reference, do yourself a favor and watch this 1-minute clip.

I just read through some of my highlights of the surgery that I wrote immediately after. Like I predicted, it made me laugh. (My sister always said I should be a comedist.) I’ll publish what I sent to my friends after the surgery. I’ll leave out some of the gory details. But here are some highlights:

• Dr. Daniel Roses is a thyroid surgical genius and I am eternally grateful for all of the thousands of patients before me that served as practice.
• That said, I happily accepted the slightly cocky bedside manner*** when I discovered that my scar will be half the expected size (2” instead of 4”) – thanks again Dr. Roses. For a further description of a slight incident that justified the ‘cocky,’ see below.
• A good anesthesiologist is worth her weight in gold if you successfully wake up AFTER the operation and not during it.
• Morphine shots in the stomach didn’t take me to the good place everyone told me about and they hurt like hell. Getting them also made me feel like the medic in Saving Private Ryan.
• I discovered this secret anti-nausea “patch” they gave me to put behind my ear. Not sure why it’s so secret, but every single person that I asked about it post-surgery acted like they had never seen such a thing before. Why such mystery about an anti-nausea patch? I immediately thought this was something to mass market. Think about it – too many Cosmos the night before, no worries – just stick the patch behind your ear and you’re good to go!
• Pajamas seemed to work better than the hospital gown for me. Apparently I was so warm after the surgery in post-op, that I kept kicking my blanket off and well, the gown doesn’t leave much for curiosity.
• Number of drugs pumped into my veins to “put me under”: 6.
• Number of additional drugs it would take to put me under for life: 1.
• Number of nurses that “cared” for me while I was in my own room: 3. Out of those, the one with the most seniority had been there for 5 months.
• Nurse Idiot # 1 botched up a blood test. I practically showed her how to do it and then stopped her before she collapsed my vein. She just kept using the two S-words: Shit and Sorry. Then she forgot the gauze. So I had to give her a napkin to clean up my spilling blood.
• Oh yeah, and then Nurse Idiot left her “bible” (translation: every patient’s medical chart in one handy binder) in my room. Lucky for me, my sister happened to enjoy reading about Mrs. Horowitz’ mastectomy. So much for HIPAA regulations.
• Pain medicine prescribed by the surgeon: Over the counter Extra Strength Tylenol.
• My private room in the hospital was larger than my Manhattan living room, complete with a wall of windows with a view of the East River, the UN and the Chrysler building. Thanks Andrew.
• Even in the midst of some scary pain, my sister manages to get me rolling with laughter during an impromptu hospital photo shoot staring “the drain.” Thank you Reena.
• Child labor was still worse.

***PS: I saved the “why I deemed Dr. Genius Thyroid Surgeon as having a cocky beside manner” story for the end since some of you might be bored by now. If you’re not – you can read on.

Well, lets imagine what your throat “wound” would feel like less than 24 hours after a major incision cutting through all sorts of of bloody stuff in your neck? Oh yeah, and for about 24 hours, there was also a drain coming out of the corner of the incision in my neck. The drain, neatly safety-pinned to my $3.50 Old Navy long sleeve t-shirt, pooled into a plastic container that was for some reason or another shaped like an army grenade. I wanted to rip it off and throw it across the room, my blood splattering across the floor. (Sorry for the Quentin Tarantino - like digression.)

Anyway, so in the morning Mr. Resident Clueless removed the drain. The drain removal could best be understood if you picture a fisherman yanking the fishing pole out of water when they get a bite.

So the drain is removed and my incision “taped.” This tape is probably some specialty government-designed tape that is stronger than any other tape known to man. I think they should market this as a hair removal solution for sure. Like better than the Epilady hair removal system. This was serious stickiness. A few hours later, when I was just getting adjusted to life without the bloody grenade, Dr. Genius Thyroid Surgeon comes in.

“My residents make me look bad,” he says as he comes, fingers toward my neck. I don’t have enough of a chance to tattle tale on Mr. Resident Clueless when Dr. Cocky goes on to (and ladies, you can truly appreciate this), in a wax-like motion, rip off the layers of tape that were so carefully holding my throat together. My throat and the HOLE from where the tube was coming out.

I was sure after he did the rip, I would see a steady fountain of blood shoot out from my neck, but alas Dr. Cocky looked around and grabbed whatever the hardest napkin he could find was. He used that to aggressively wipe up whatever mess he just created and then cut his own tape. This tape was half the size of the other one.

He stepped back, pleased with his work. “There!” he said, a smile crossing his face. “That’s much smaller.” He didn’t want anyone thinking the scar was that big.

“Perfect,” he uttered, satisfied with his work and he went on to usher his worshiping posse out of my room.

On the roof

After Sunday's rained out attempt, we ventured down Muesum Mile once again and finally made it to see the art installation of sculptures by Jeff Koons. Set on the Iris and B. Gerald Cantor Roof Garden of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the creations were dramatic and awesome against a Central Park and Manhattan skyline.


Jeff Koons
Sacred Heart (Red/Gold), 1994–2007
High chromium stainless steel with transparent color coating


Jeff Koons
Balloon Dog (Yellow), 1994–2000
High chromium stainless steel with transparent color coating


Jeff Koons
Coloring Book, 1997–2005
High chromium stainless steel with transparent color coating

Love letters version 2008

This morning I ran out to do a few errands leaving my sleeping boyfriend in bed. When I returned two hours later, I sat down on my computer and found this. My boyfriend loves me. Ain't love grand?

Bitch*

Getting fired last month was the best thing that had happened to me all year. I mean don’t get me wrong. For the first two hours after that bitch∗ terminated me I sobbed with my whole body. Heaving up and down, I could barely utter a word. My dad, my boyfriend and my assistant bore the brunt of my hysteria. They reassured me that this was for the best; they reminded me how miserable I had been for the last year and a half. This was a good thing – a great thing. But still – they were the ones rejecting me. This was quite a beating for my ego to withstand. I was hurt.

Everyone knew the firing was bullshit; corporate rules they themselves created to a game they invented. So why had I lost the game? I knew I didn’t deserve this. Those that mattered to me knew it. So why did I give a fuck? I was so disappointed that they were the ones that ultimately kicked me out; I always wanted to be the one to leave. Gone were all the imagined scenarios of how I would go in and tell the bitch I was quitting. But it didn’t matter if I quit – or if anyone quit … there was no trumping her.

Beyond the hours, I gave work my passion, my creative ideas, my motivation. I wanted to believe in what I was doing so I came in everyday and gave it my all. As a practice I don’t do things half-assed and if it has my name on it, I want it to be outstanding – not just mediocre. Life is too short for mediocrity and while I’m not entirely black and white on the issue, one of my biggest struggles at work was that an environment surrounded me where mediocrity was the norm. Why do extra if good enough was good enough?

I always thought I’d l leave on good terms. No matter where I went, I imagined the lines of communication would be left open – bridges solid. I would have given them the expected two weeks notice. I would have backed up all my work, explained and transitioned everything to the next person, and documented completely. They always knew how well I documented!

They, however, did not give me two weeks notice. The bitch called me in during lunchtime on a Wednesday. By the time I got back to my office 10 minutes later, my phone was disconnected and my computer logged off. My security badge was deactivated. I gave them 4 ½ years and they gave me 15 minutes. I needed to leave immediately.


I wonder if the bitch feared her life or something. Did she think I would go loco and pull a Falling Down reenactment, smashing everything in sight? I had no such urge. I just wanted to get out of there very fast. So I packed up my office into the 6 shopping bags and multi-colored recycling bags I had stuffed in my bottom drawer. As I was leaving, the bitch had one last comment. “Will I hear from you again?” she had the audacity to ask. “I doubt it,” I managed to utter out and then waked down that gray, depressing hallway one last time.

No matter how much unfairness I felt at the time, I never felt vindictive or angry. I believe in the greater reason behind things and more importantly I believe in karma. I knew that it would come back around.

Never did I imagine karma would deliver so quickly. A month after the firing, I had arrived at a very good place. I was very happy. I felt like I was walking between the raindrops, the sun shone everywhere I went – I was euphoric. I was taking the summer to be with my son, to write, to travel, to figure out a better path.

I was sitting in Union Square when my old assistant called me from her cell phone. She was whispering so I could barely hear her. I wasn’t going to believe what happened she was saying. The bitch was fired.

The bitch was the Vice President of the branch of the company I worked for. She had been running this group for the last 20 years since the larger company acquired her smaller company. She commanded the group like it was still her own company, rather than a division of the larger company. Her better-than-them, apathetic attitude finally had some repercussions.

The bitch was trumped.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

∗ I think that ultimately using the term “bitch” to describe my boss is rather cliché. However, it really fits. Calling her my boss would imply she provided any guidance, encouragement, mentorship or inspiration. Her name didn’t even appear on my paychecks. She was a self-centered, delusional, bitter woman who earns no other title than bitch in this account.

Hearts in Armor

Sunday we went to The Met to see the Jeff Koons sculptures on the roof. We got rained out so we took in the Art of Ancient Egypt and the Arms and Armor exhibits.

The boys liked the swords and Egyptian tombs.



I found hearts from 500 years ago.









Tomorrow we conquer the roof!

I eat too much pizza

I can’t remember the last time a week went by without one whole meal revolving around pizza. It’s disastrous (and when I say one whole meal, what I really mean is at least two whole meals). Why do I continue to justify this gluttonous, not-all-that-healthy, and overly lazy excuse for a meal? I'm not sure but it was love at first bite for this immigrant child who still holds onto that original Queens pizza taste from 1979.

Nowadays I try to diversify my pizza consumption - albeit mildly. Nick’s on the Upper East Side one day, Dean’s in Tribeca another and John’s on Bleeker on a rare trek to the West Village.

My local pizza shop is Sal’s on Madison – right off the bus stop. My only diversity there is whether I order a medium or large (plain cheese) pie. But I stress out when it’s time to call Sal’s. Like everything in my life, I take my pizza too seriously. I like my pizza to be well-done enough to be perfectly crispy - but not burnt!

Under-cooked pizza creates a fondue-went-bad texture on a still-taste-the-yeast crust. (For me, that is - everyone is entitled to their own bad taste.) So I like to ask for my pizza to be well-done but I want to do it in a way that doesn't insult Sal's pizza making skills into spitting on my pizza. I wanted Sal to understand that I fully acknowledge that there is a fine, yet blurry line between well-done and burnt.

I’ve come up with the brilliant line to use when I call to order pizza. It goes like this: ""Well-done but not burnt. You know.”



This is the pizza box that Sal's came in today. Seriously? Is this what we're doing now?

Welcome back, Pogo Stick

Playing Rayman: Raving Rabbids on the Wii this morning meant I spent Sunday morning sipping coffee and shooting rabbits with plungers. It seemed most appropriate that Jake would have an outburst of distress when a plunger attacked us.

First he said, "I'm going to get your bunny butts." Two seconds later, he told me he shot the plunger at his penis. Oops. Finally, he burst out, "Pogo Sticks in San Francisco!"

What?

He said he was thinking about my sister, Reena who used to live in San Francisco and it just came out.

Bringing back the pogo!

Believing in Life (and grandma)

If you’re lucky enough to have a grandma, she probably comes with grandma-isms (or nana-isms). In my case, they’re baba-isms – phrases my grandmother uses over and over. For instance, every time my Russian-speaking grandmother meets someone English speaking and I happen to be standing there, she points to me and proudly says: “She is my granddaughter number one.” You could be her surgeon or her butcher.

Sometimes you get extra bonus lucky and your very own personalized baba-ism. Reserved only for you – from baba’s mouth to your ears only. Mine was, “You … you, I don’t worry about.”

It wasn’t until baba was diagnosed with colon cancer that I realized exactly what she meant. It was at this same time that I realized that I never worried about baba either.

As one of the strongest women I’ve ever known, baba has had a life spanning three continents and hardships worthy of Oscar-winning performances. Baba came ready to deliver a “when I was your age” story that was sure to trump all others. But her delivery was never overly dramatic – just dictating the minutes of her life to a stenographer.

An orphan at seven in the former Soviet Union, she lived through a famine, a World War, and the teenage death of her only sister. But baba is a fighter and maintains the mantra that it will all work out.

Baba is a great business woman of another generation with a keen eye for cards and cash. When everyone else was making $175 rubles a month in the factory, baba took a second job washing drapes in her bathtub. Pulling in a solid $350 rubles a month, baba always made it work out and then some.

So no, I never worried about baba.

Baba was the first one in our family to immigrate to America and the reason I live in New York City (eternal gratitude for that one!) She’s a famous cake maker, my baba. And when I say fame, I mean of the Brighton Beach variety. Step into the famous International bakery and ask for the Kievsky cake. Then tell them you're Maya's granddaughter. Stand back!

And from Brooklyn to Bakersfield, baba knows somebody everywhere. Way beyond the Hudson River, baba has friends everywhere. Los Angeles, Cuba, Calgary, Springfield. Wherever I’m going anywhere, she has a friend there. Or knows someone moving there. Or has a friend with a daughter who lives there. And they all come with a descriptive story.

Baba hears everyone’s stories. You can imagine what happens when someone who knows everyone gets a hold of everyone’s stories. Lets just say if you ever want to spread a good rumor, baba is old school viral marketing.

Seven years ago baba had brain surgery for an aneurysm that she had knowingly walked around with for the last decade. When the pressure of the aneurism caused her to go blind, she acquiesced to brain surgery. It was 5 months before granddaughter number one was going to get married and she wasn't going to not be able to see here granddaughter as a bride. This surgery, considered moderately complicated 10 years before, had now earned a difficulty rating of highly complicated. But baba wasn’t worried. She had faith that she would be fine.

It was also at this time that I noticed she starting thanking God a lot. Three weeks after the surgery, on her first day home from the hospital, baba kicked the home health nurse out of her house. Apparently she didn’t know the right way to make tea.

Baba is a walking Mapquest. Wherever you’re driving, she knows how to get there. Lest you cast doubt on her navigational acumen, she’s right there route number dropping. “Are you taking 80 or 64 … because I like 80. It’s so much greener.”

PS: baba doesn’t drive; she’s only the ever-present front seat driver. She gets nauseous in the back seat so when baba gets in the car, it’s has to be in the front seat. Taxis are no exception.

So life hasn’t always been easy for baba. But it has been life served up with an exclamation point –with all the #@$$#%$^%& between it. Her life has been up and down and gritty and hard and full of tears and full of joy and full of love. It’s a life full of stories and strength and survival and faith and family. She lives this life, the star of an extraordinary epic that is only hers. It’s a life that has made my baba who she is … and has consequently made me the granddaughter she never worries about.

A cake baker, a story keeper, a driving compass. No, I never worried about my baba.

When my grandmother was diagnosed with colon cancer last month, we all exhibited some textbook reaction. My mother, completely in denial, cursed the doctor that sent her for the colonoscopy in the first place. My uncle shifted into medical action mode – commanding the entire operation. I stood one generation removed; powerless in decision making and sitting in an uncomfortable back seat.

Then I reacted in a way that was foreign to my reaction repertoire. I was overcome with a sense of faith. Not necessarily in the religious sense, but in the higher force sense. I have faith in life. Because at 78, baba still has plenty of living to do, stories to retell, great grandchildren to meet and baba-isms to bestow.

To put it bluntly – I think this Russian Baba can kick cancer’s ass.

A Modern Lily Tomlin

It’s been about 8 years since I have had go on a formal job hunt. By formal I mean having to involve a recruitment agency. So here I am – back at a recruiting agency – performing the same dance to a different tune.

I’m waiting in a conference room that smells like the corner of career aspiration and stale office carpet. The overly heavy and overly bitter receptionist has a voice that is piercing through the makeshift conference room with walls that only go up about 7 feet. Like an annoying hiccup, she keeps repeating “Good morning, Hudson. Your name? Hold please.” Over and over again. She is an extra large version of what the rest of the world has automated already.

(If you’re not getting the visual, you can use the famous Lily Tomlin operator bit – it will suffice.)

After the “hold please” she parks the calls on various lines. After she parks the calls, she does the page. “Tom Brady parked on 22 for Becca. 22 for Becca.” And the pattern continues. “Alan Gold parked on 18 for Tracey. 18 for Tracey.”

She hates wrong numbers, this receptionist/operator/non-welcoming person behind the leased office furniture desk. There have been two wrong numbers so far. She instantly clicks into the annoyed, patronizing tone. “What? No- this is a recruitment agency!” The ‘Duh – idiot’ being implied in the statement.

She is eating extra crunchy chips from an extra noisy bag. I hear the brassy rumbling of the bag as she reaches further and further into the crunchy satisfaction. She chomps her chips like she speaks – aggravated and ready to devour them.

I don’t recommend anyone with an accent call here.

Font Humor

A few months ago I had a stroke of comic genius - my version of it anyway.

I love fonts and thought wouldn't it be great to create a comic strip or cartoon reenactment of the different fonts and how they would relate to each other. Particularly, I envisioned a plot centered on the potential rebellion against Times New Roman. How did he get to be the default?

Well … these guys beat me to the punch. Check out this video ... Funny stuff for the font lovers in the world.

Career Predictions

My son Jake was watching me upload 150 pictures from our trip to the park earlier today when he had what I call a true A-ha moment. A certain look registered on his face and with a certainty in his voice he proclaims “I think you should be a photographist!”

I remember this usage before – the “ist” suffix in an effort to create a job title. So my mind zaps backwards through a rolodex of memories and out pops a card from 20 years ago.

It's my living room in Staten Island – all decked out in 80s chic: off-white, satiny wallpaper, dog-stained, brown (my mother calls them taupe – fancy Seaman’s talk) leather couches. My sister is watching TV under the plaid wool blanket brought over from Russia just 9 years ago. I am somehow located at the ironing board but this seems odd since I really do not know how to iron. I can only assume I was using it as a place to put my food.

Now here’s where it gets funny – or ironic. Or at least somehow nostalgic.

I was saying something that had my sister laughing. I do not recall a single thing from what I was saying. What I remember is my sister rolling on the couch laughing her Reena woodpecker laugh.

So between the laughing Reena bursts out “You should be a comedist!”

And here’s the ironic part. I cannot remember what this supposed comedist was saying that had Reena laughing so hard. I only remember that hers is the funny that I remember 20 years later.

These two with their career predictions ...

Intelligence Compatiblity

Overheard in Central Park

A couple, clearly very connected – physically, emotionally, intellectually are very involved in a conversation about some movie.

HE: Above all else – the reason I think we’re so compatible is that you’re my intellectual equal.

SHE: Yes, I agree. I mean you know stuff I don’t know and vice versa. We fill in each other’s gaps.

HE: So this movie wouldn’t end … and I didn’t know if I could make it to the end.

SHE: How long was it?

HE: Well the movie wrapper said 120 minutes but I was confused because I clocked it at a solid 2 hours.

SHE: What? That is 2 hours.

HE: It is?

SHE: (Cracking up) Yes … um … so what was that about the intelligence compatibility? What does that say about me?

Neon Nails

Now that I don't have to worry about corporate-friendly nail colors, I've embraced Essie's new neon nail colors.


I've cycled through the pink (Short Shorts) for Cabo, orange (Mini Shorts) for Boston, and the newest shade of purple (Bermuda Shorts) for late July in NYC.

Bermuda would have appreciated my pink nails more than Mexico.


Orange flip flop on Rachel's stairs.


Bermuda Shorts should really be called Red Onion.

The irony of the color names, for those that know me, is that I do not like to wear shorts - short, mini, or Bermuda. I do apparently like to flaunt nails.

Q hearts S

Q & S tattoo their love on the concrete of East 64th Street and Park Avenue. Also featured are my neon nails and is that the first sign of fall I see in the yellow leaf?

Black and white all over

Guess where my son wanted to go again this weekend? That's right ... Penny Park. For those that have skipped my first two posts on the great park - see them here and here.

When we got there, someone was having a party.


How cute are these egg penguins? The body is a hard-boiled egg on a carrot stick. The head is a grape, the arms are prunes and the buttons are cloves. Martha Stewart step back!


This is Shamin, my son's "pet" on the subway. He trekked with us through the sweltering heat. His fur must have made him very hot, but Jacob wanted to remember his journey with us.

Hearting the weekend

SoHo and NoLita hearts were everywhere - especially graffiti and stickers.

When we had our favorite huevos rancheros (with poached eggs LIGHT) at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Mexican Radio, hearts surrounded us. See:

lit up at the bar


logo for Corazon Tequla


on the column above our table


we faced a heart

Stickers around Soho:





Graffiti in a secret alley

And then we passed my future apt with this gorgeous wet-sand reminiscent sculpture in front:


See the heart?

The scissors made me do it

5 minutes and a pair of scissors.

From conservative to Daisy Duke. Then I Andy Warholed my pictures through photobucket.

Here's what happened when an adverturous pair of Banana Republic jeans met a bored pair of scissors.

The PS: my 6-year-old saw the cut off portions of the jean legs and surprised me by putting them on - like leg warmers. Excellent.


...before


...and after.

Upper West Side Hearts

My good friend Rachel and her husband Bob are part of the "A game" in my book. Transparently basking in the glow of newlywed love after celebrating their three-year wedding anniversary, these Upper West Side residents are competitive athletes, driven career folks, lovers of the arts and as I like to say - good people.

As always Rachel's invitation for drinks before dinner wasn't your usual "grab a Bud from the refrigerator" kind of aperitif. Her scrumptious spread included gourmet cheeses, a sparkly wine called Cabo, homemade breads, and of course a special non-alcoholic drink we called the Specialty of the House: seltzer, fresh squeezed orange juice and the special shprits of lime.

We had dinner at Cafe Frida. Highly recommend it; authentic Mexican without any overwhelming flavors.


We heart Rachel and she hearts hearts without knowing it.


Upper West Side doorknob. Through the glass.


Walking home from the Upper West Side through Central Park. This is the Great Lawn at night. The same Great Lawn that just hosted Bon Jovi and 50,000 of his greatest fans last weekend. This is the same skyline over which we watched the New Year's Eve fireworks. We live in a spectacularly beautiful city.

Happy anniversary

When I first got my Mac, I was exploring all of the applications. I thought it was a good sign when I realized that the icon for the calendar application was the date: JUL 17.

And here's why this date has permanently imprinted itself on my heart...

When I was five years old I really wanted a baby sister. I had been an only child, newly immigrated to America, and in New York City I saw a land with baby carriages all around me. Just as newly immigrated were my parents – and the last thing they needed was a new baby. Nonetheless I was persistent and started the baby campaign. I would longingly look into every stroller that passed our way. I made promises. I philosophized to my mother.

“You have a brother, daddy has a sister. When grandma and grandpa die, you’ll have each other. When you and daddy die, I’ll have no one.” What do you say to a five-year old with that argument.

And VOILA! A year later my sister was born. And I got to name her and feed her and love her and pretend she was mine – until she got old enough - and then she became my best friend.

On July 17, 1998, we wanted to ink our relationship with a tattoo. Just like my life before Reena was born, I don’t remember my back without it.


The Chinese character in the middle means “big sister.” Between the rays of the sun are our initials and our zodiac symbols (she’s very much a Capricorn and I am the epitome of a Leo). Reena’s tattoo is identical, her center character meaning “little sister.”

On the three year tattoo anniversary, July 17, 2001 something special happened. I found out I was pregnant. I knew on that day that the three of us would have a very special bond. How right I was.

She hearts hearts too

Agatha Ruiz de la Prada is a woman after my own heart. Her storefront made me smile.

Downtown is blogerific again!

Ms. Uptown is giving kudos to Downtown again. Last night, Steel Pulse gave a stellar performance at Rockefeller Park. The setting sun provided a stunning backdrop for the hundreds moving and grooving to this 30-year-old, well-known roots reggae band from England. Young and old stood together and shook our bums … the energy was contagious.


Stage was set - quite a backdrop.


Steel Pulse.


Jersey City. Yes, that is a sailboat. Jersey = pretty. Again.

Writing it down

Lately I’ve developed a compulsion to write everything down. Stringing words together and composing sentences in the shower, I want to write it all down – remember it – capture it. I stare at people in the subway and craft their character descriptions in my head...

Divorced, single mom but doing well. She went back to school for medical lab technologists – did the 10 month program but it took her 2 years because she got knocked up in the middle. She saw the ad on the subway and thought now, that’s what I want to do when I grow up. And by grow up, I mean exactly that. She can’t be more than 18.

Do I write it all down to remember it forever or because I like words on paper? What's with the obsession to tell everyone what happened? Does anyone even care about the bullshit of my life? Stories unfold around me, colors surround me, and the world is creating a movie, in which I’m the star.

2008 threw me for a loop -- an easier than expected surgery, a stubborn splinter, a fat lady fell into me and broke my knee. And for the grand finale, I got “terminated.” The mundane dailies of my life that are never truly mundane.

But recently this drive to write has got me thinking – if a person feels this strong obligation towards anything – shouldn’t that define their career path? Can the key to career success be to do what you absolutely can’t go without doing? Doctors are driven by medicine and science – they can’t imagine doing anything else. A passion that comes from within – you cannot teach it, recreate it, or fake it.

My last job was a joke. It was like playing office when I was a kid – only I never liked to play office. My sister and her friend, Simona loved to play office. They put a sign on the door, set up piles of papers across her dressers to recreate an office set up and pretended to be on calls, scheduling meetings. They were dead on – oh the things we learned from TV in the late 80s / early 90s. Thank you, Melrose Place. I have spent 13 years in the career world looking for an office that’s one iota as hot.

Maybe we should think back to the things we liked to do in our childhood and use that as a springboard for determining career satisfaction? And if so, I feel stumped. I didn’t play with toys much. I liked to gossip with the adults and contribute my two cents – always wanting my pedestal to give my opinion, provide my latest rant.

And then there were the forms in the TV Guide. I loved filling those out. Only a few lines per card and they always had wide margins. I was able to perfect my handwriting. The ink would flow out from the different pens and I would watch as the thick card inserts soaked up the ink one letter at a time.

So I find myself wondering … what kind of predictor is that? Maybe my blog needs to go paper?

Jake's secret life

Walking in Tribeca after a fun-filled day, my son tells me that he has a "secret life in his brain." It doesn't take much to bait me and I bit.

"What kind of secret life?" I asked.

"Inside my brain," he goes on to explain. He told me that 3 separate parts comprise this secret life. And within each of these 3 parts, are 3 components. So essentially the secret life in his brain is segregated into 9 parts.

I had to answer a series of questions to be rewarded with the inner brain insights. In the end, I only got 2 of the 3 components. Here is what they were:

IMAGINATION - within which is also INVENTION and CREATION.

These words themselves don't surprise me, but the labeling of his thoughts with the words is what blows my mind. This boy is perpetually creating stories in his head; his imagination is virtually endless. I draw stick figures and see stick figures. He draws stick figures and see a universe.

The second part of the brain was composed of FAMILY, HOME, and ... this was a funny one, FURNITURE.

I love this boy.

Downtown NYC is blogerific!

I’m an uptown girl, but not necessarily by Billy Joel’s standards. I live on 97th street and aside from the biannual Staten Island Ferry ride to visit the grandparents; I rarely schlep my 6-year-old son much lower than Union Square.

Yesterday the weather was ripe for an afternoon on Manhattan’s Southern coast. We ventured down and were greeted by gorgeous waterfront views, larger than life sculptures and a whole lot of pennies.

First stop was the South Street Seaport to see The New York City Waterfalls. Comprised of four man-made waterfalls along the shorelines of Lower Manhattan, Brooklyn and Governors Island, The Waterfalls was created by artist Olafur Eliasson.

They were beautiful; we enjoyed the falling water – the sound, the serenity, the magic if you will.



With Battery Park City as a destination, our walk took us through an eyeful.

In the central fountain outside the new 7 World Trade Center, we saw this tremendous Jeff Koons sculpture of a balloon flower. Standing at nine feet, this multi-lobed mirror-polished, stainless steel sculpture tempted the boy to climb and the adults to love themselves in red.







After the flower, we found ourselves facing the only above-ground remnant to survive the September 11th attacks: The Staircase. These 37 stairs once connected the outdoor plaza of the twin towers to the street below. It will eventually be placed in the National September 11 Memorial Museum.



Then we took a Star-Wars-like footbridge across the highway.

Soon we came to the The Irish Hunger Memorial. Located on the corner of Vesey Street and North End Avenue, it is dedicated to raising awareness of the Great Irish Famine that killed hundreds of thousands in Ireland between the years 1845 and 1852.

Beautifully landscaped, like a gorgeous piece of Ireland in lower Manhattan, the memorial contains stones from all of the different counties of Ireland and incorporates an authentically-recreated Irish cottage of the 19th century.

My six year old used the chimneys to hide from the Star Wars’ Storm Troopers.



Continuing on our walk, we see this idyllic place.



We dinner at PJ Clarke’s where the view trumped the food.

The last stop of our downtown loop was Penny Park. Located within the Nelson A. Rockefeller Park on the Hudson River, Penny Park is Tom Otterness’s public art piece. Officially entitled The Real World, we enjoyed every inch of this park.

With vast gorgeous Jersey City views on one side (yes I used gorgeous to describe Jersey), the expanse of blue sky above us and the green lawns surrounding us, the copper-filled playground was invited us to find treasures at every corner.

Near the water fountain, at the chess table and below our feet.









We followed the water around Manhattan … and eventually the water left us a heart.



I heart NYC.