the case of the broken glass

The first year that I went to college, art school, Parsons School of Design in New York City, I lived in their "dorms," a few floors in a high-rise on Union Square. The understanding was that by the end of the year students would need to find other accommodations  to make room for next year's influx of art students. I looked at a few places over the summer, but nothing was working out, until I lucked into a place in Park Slope, sharing it with a girl who modeled in one of my art classes. The real bonus was that as nice as she was, she spent a lot of time at her boyfriend's place, so for the most part, although it sometimes got lonely, I had a large, railroad apartment to myself. During that sophomore year my roommate eventually moved out, and when one of my classmates found himself out of his latest digs I was more than willing to share my good fortune, telling him to come and stay until he found his own place.

I was a bit of a stray collector in those days. I never intended to have my classmate become my permanent roommate, but if that had worked out, I probably would have been fine with it. But that's not how things worked out. It's always hard to live with people. We all have our quirks. I had grown up with a brother, so I was used to hair left in the shower, or the toilet seat being up. Those really weren't  a big deal. But being sneaky or dishonest was a deal-breaker.

"A Broken Glass," by Kit Umscheid

So what happened? 

We were living in Brooklyn, but we both would also still go home and visit our families on the weekend from time-to-time; my family in New Jersey, his in upstate New York. I had returned from such a weekend to find a sink full of dishes — again, not exactly a big deal, just a small annoyance. I didn't have that many glasses or dishes, so would have to wash what was in the sink to be able to use them. I turned on the water and grabbed a sponge and some dish soap and started washing the plates and forks, my mind drifting. I then reached for a juice glass, putting the sponge inside, and turning it, twisting it, to get the suds over the inside of the glass. Suddenly I glanced down into the sink and wondered why it reminded me of the shower scene in Psycho. Blood was swirling down the drain. I looked from the bottom of the sink to the glass and my hand. My hand was bleeding, between the thumb and index finger. The glass had been broken, perfectly, horizontally, and then put back together. Put back into the sink. As if done by a three year old. Maybe she won't find out. She won't know that I did it. What a jerk. Luckily, the gash wasn't deep enough to warrant stitches, but I still have a scar.

I gave him until the end of the week. I never really got angry with him, or scolded him, or told the story (much), but we were never really friends after that incident. Understandably. A few months later, as I was going through some of my books in a bookcase I heard something drop down to the floor behind it. I fished out the object. It was my grandmother's pinking shears, broken, hidden behind some pieces of trimmed cardboard. He had used my seamstress grandmother's pinking shears to cut thick cardboard for some project. And then apparently broken them and hidden them. What sort of infantile behavior would do crap like this? Twice?

Things get broken. It happens. But every once in a while I have to wonder how and why this brand of sneakiness, something that I have dealt with on occasion with my daughter — who's nine years old — had extended into adulthood. Granted, twenty-somethings are not as grown-up as they think they are, but to put a broken glass back in a sink instead of just throwing it out. It still boggles my mind.

mom the painter

In my continuing effort to keep my mom's mind and memories engaged we have been displaying a lot of her artwork around the apartment. Here are three that I particularly like. The first two were also entered into local art shows.

This painting of trees makes me think of one of her favorite painters, Edvard Munch. I love the palm trees and ocean inserted into the background, and the squirrel in the foreground.

This painting was a surprise to me when we pulled it out of her closet. It is a highly stylized view out the front window of my former Park Slope, Brooklyn apartment. I love the collage elements and how she transformed a fairly brown and gray landscape into this colorful, playful street scene. I lived in Brooklyn for over ten years — while I went to Parsons School of Design and after. Mom visited me quite often, but I never knew she took photographs of this view or did this painting.

This is a quite large-scale painting of a very familiar local view — what one sees when crossing the Royal Palm Bridge from Palm Beach into West Palm Beach. Of course not everyone is lucky enough to see a gigantic flying silver fish.

sometimes i wish life was like thirtysomething

I definitely caught some of the show first run, but I always found the character of Hope insufferable. I mean, I always wanted to have a kid, and understand how that completely changes your life, but she seemed the essence of the obnoxious sort of mom who comes barreling at you down the sidewalk with her stroller, brandishing it as a weapon — "Step aside or be run over — baby on board." As if being a mom made her more important somehow. I don't get that.

In fact, most of the characters in thirtysomething, at one time or another, were pretty annoying. But I did love, if not the characters, their home. I loved their broken-down but charming house in Philadelphia. For one, it wasn't New York (where I lived at the time), so it escaped the pretensions attached to life in the big(gest) city. But mostly I loved the house because it was so welcoming. It wasn't the improbable sitcommy situation of Costanza or Elaine or Kramer always coming by Jerry's apartment. It was a big, warm house, a sort of hub for a ragtag group of people who had connections to each other, some close, some dependent on inter-relationships. It was a welcoming house, uptight Hope or not. I could believe that everyone wanted to drop by for a Sunday brunch of bagels and hang out. thirtysomething was a yuppie "message" show, but the '80s were like that.

I always wanted a house, a home like that. A place where my friends and family could feel they could drop by anytime and hang out. Raid the fridge (as well as stock it). Talk about the topics of the day. Drink or just watch television. I'm no longer thirty-something and I don't live in the suburbs. I don't even live near any of my friends anymore. I'm not sure if people I used to hang with are really still my friends. If you haven't seen or talked to someone in over a year are they still your friends? Facebook helps give the illusion of that. At least with the folks who bother to send you a message or "like" your posts.

I know that there are still a few true friends out there. But I don't have a cute Gary who will cruise by on his bike in the way home from work, or a quirky Melissa who will come and dump her latest boyfriend troubles at my door, neglecting to ask how I am. I kinda miss that.

For a while, in the late '80s, early '90s, I guess I had a quasi-thirtysomething thing going with my Brooklyn apartment. I had a fairly open door policy. Friends could drop by if they were in the neighborhood. Of course the Manhattanites rarely found themselves in Brooklyn (horrors!).

What we call today my BFF, my friend Mary, was also my roomie in that Park Slope apartment for a while and then got married but lived just around then corner — we were in and out of each other's apartments and lives all the time. I remember being hit hard with a stomach bug — the kind where just getting back and forth to the john is an effort — and she came over, an angel of mercy, with juice and soup and some trashy magazines. And this was way before texting and cell phones. I do miss that.

When I lived in D.C., my cousin Ann and I made a concerted effort to see each other often. She definitely had a thirtysomething house, where friends and family felt free to swing by often — and they did. The two of us maintained a "Sunday family dinner" date, even after my daughter was born and when our schedules got hectic. Even during her illness. But Ann died about a year and a half go and we left D.C. and that way of life seems finished.

We all grow up, and that unfortunately means that we also grow apart, either emotionally, or merely geographically. We've been here in Florida a little over a year so far and I'm still finding my way socially. I don't work outside the home, and I'm needing to be on hand more and more for an aging mother. It hasn't been easy to start a whole new real-life social network. I'm gearing up for another big change, leaving a job I've held for over a decade, and I'm not sure if I will feel even more isolated when that ends, or if I will finally be able to get out more and meet some new people.

The apartment where we live is certainly big enough to entertain. There's a doorman, so the act of dropping by might be a tad more formal than the days when someone used to ring my buzzer in Park Slope and I'd throw them the key inside of a sock or glove out the window, but it's still doable. I'm always up for a Sunday brunch or just yakking about a book or a movie. I like that.

one more mother's day story . . .

A friend's Mother's Day blog post reminded me of a particular Mother's Day I experienced when I was still living in Brooklyn, in my twenties. I had come into the city to hang out with friends that day. I'm pretty sure we had dinner and then continued on to hit a few bars in the East Village, which was our usual haunt at the time, before it became first NYU-ified, and then whatever else it has become today.

After the festivities I was walking west towards Broadway on my way home to the subway, probably the Broadway Lafayette station—or I may have even been walking a friend home towards the West Fourth Street stop. But I distinctly remember that as soon as I hit Broadway I realized, at 12:01 am, that I had just missed Mother's Day. I'm not sure if it was the high spirits, but I knew immediately I HAD to call my mom and let her know that I hadn't forgotten. I called COLLECT from a phone booth on Broadway (when they still had phone booths) to wish her a happy Mother's Day and she wasn't pissed. We had a short conversation and then I hung up, feeling a teensy bit ashamed at almost missing it, but mostly relieved that I was able to tell her those three words (and relieved that she is a bit of a night owl, giving me that opportunity.) The true meaning of being a mom is in there somewhere.

So again, a day later, Happy Mother's Day!

afternoon (de)light

I was thinking of all the different places I've lived this morning.

When you live in older houses or apartments you are coming into spaces lived in, loved in, by others. Do the former inhabitants leave traces? The only place I have lived so far that was "new" was a model home ranch house that my parents bought when I was ten. I think I will think more on this, blog further on this train of thought, in future.

But the image that popped into my head this morning was the memory of the afternoon light in my fourth floor railroad apartment in Park Slope, Brooklyn. No matter what was going on in my life at the time, just hanging out in that room in the afternoon was always a soothing and reinvigorating experience.

To all the rooms we've loved before . . .

seeing stars

For Brian, by request

A friend recently told me a fun story about a celebrity sighting when he was living in New York, and it got me reminiscing about the many famous folks I ran across in my years there. Now in D.C., the biggest famous face I have seen so far is our president, and believe me, that was extremely cool.

But as Austin Powers would say, for sh*ts and g*ggles, I thought I would try to list some of the other cool folks I stumbled upon over the years. Part of the allure of living in New York is the illusion that it is the center of the entire universe. And as the rest of the planet at one time or another shares this view, practically everyone will want to blow through town at least once (if not actually live there), so your opportunities for seeing famous folks are pretty high. Add to that the fact that I worked at a museum in midtown (fancy shops, touristy things) and played downtown (cool restaurants, clubs, funky shops) my potential to see someone famous was extremely high. So here goes.

At MoMA I saw:

While visiting, as an art student - David Bowie, Liza Minnelli (who is miniscule, and was as interested in all the folks watching her as the Art of Vienna show she was supposedly there to see)

While working there, I got the opportunity to attend art openings - I saw Steve Martin & Paul Simon & Julian Schnabel together (many celebrities like to travel in packs - it's safer). The thrill about this encounter at the Warhol opening was that while we were all waiting on the drinks line I actually stepped on Steve Martin, who was right in front of me, and he turned around and said "Excuuuse me." God, I love him. There were tons of the famous at that opening (Bianca Jagger, Sylvia Miles, etc., etc.), but Steve was the coolest.

Random visitors to the MoMA bookstore, where I worked (these were all folks with whom I had some real interaction) - Sharon Stone (fully aware of her allure after Basic Instinct and not afraid to use it, but actually came across as a pretty fun gal), Richard Gere (very sweet and wanted to talk about art writing and films by Jean Renoir), Vincent Price (!) with wife Coral Browne, who, when I asked him some question replied very theatrically, "No, no, no!!!" a la his campy Theater of Blood movie. Coral walked around the store, looking for him, calling "Vinnniiieee..."

Sightings in the museum - Cher (coming for a premiere party for Moonstruck), Michael Palin (walking around and looking adorably confused - he's very tall, so John Cleese must be a giant) .

Random sightings on the street:

Arthur Ashe (the very first celebrity I saw in New York - probably my first week there.

In the "can't believe they're so tall" category - Michael Caine, Pedro Almodovar, and while hanging outside the Guggenheim on my birthday waiting for my dad to drive in from N.J. so we could go out to Fiorello's for my birthday dinner I saw Bill Murray walking with his brother, Brian Doyle-Murray.

Andy Warhol - I used to see him all the time, flanked by two very blonde, handsome, young men. His studio was a few doors down from the Parsons dormitory and he used to go to movie matinées - he would be coming out of the theater as I was going in, probably after one of my last classes. I would usually see him on University Place or near the Waverly. He was always very friendly, in a calm, detached sort of way, nodding hello.

Matt Dillon (I used to see him around downtown, especially 8th Street, A LOT)

Willem Dafoe (running around SoHo, and then one time on the F train, sat next to him and his little boy while some fan boys across the way tried to get him to talk about To Live and Die in L.A., "DUDE! You were so cool!" He commiserated with me till he and his son could escape at Broadway/Lafayette.)

Trolling around Soho - Iggy Pop, Robin Williams, Ben Stiller

At play (in a club or bar, etc.):

Mick Jones and Don Letts right before they formed Big Audio Dynamite. For a month or so I saw them everywhere, it seemed - Danceteria, bars, etc. Mick seemed very friendly and approachable and I thought about flirting with him, or even just talking to him, but Joe Strummer was always my favorite in The Clash and they had just disbanded...

Billy Idol with his guitarist at Danceteria being extremely boisterous at the bar, Rod Stewart (apparently I stepped on him at Studio 54, but I don't recall much of the evening in question...) Here's some advice - stepping on a celebrity may be a good intro...

A very drunk Matt Dillon at The Cat Club who kept asking me to dance...

Robert DeNiro (very surreal - we actually had drinks with him in a place across the street from The Public Theater where we had just seen him in a play. It was like watching him do a "greatest hits medley" of his past characters - all the vocal tics and mannerisms. I couldn't watch his movies for a few years after that).

Ranking Roger and Dave Wakeling of General Public. Roger had his hair dyed in stripes and we followed him around at a roof part at Danceteria for a while.

At art openings:

Francesco Clemente (I used to see him a lot, especially in the small East Village galleries - always a thrill, and he was very friendly and urbane)

Jean-Michel Basquiat (sigh) - I watched him graffiti the gallery walls of the Whitney at the Julian Schnabel opening(!), Keith Haring went to all the openings...

My friend Steven Parrino introduced me to Robert Longo at Metro Pictures when we were checking out Longo's show. Longo was so high-wired he made me even more nervous to talk to him. He was very short, but his hair was so high he was almost as tall as me!

While living in Park Slope, Brooklyn I would see my neighbors Steve Buscemi, outside my local D'Agostino's and Jon Turturro in my nearby market, the Yiyo, buying staples. Both friendly.

Does any of this really matter? Not really, but it's fun. Are celebrities just like us? Not really. And they have way more money. But these are still fond memories. My mom lived in Hollywood for a while and told me about the time she met...but that's another era, another city, another story.

Note: This list doesn't include all the people I may have seen in a concert or a play, etc. Didn't seem fair to count those.

is there an I Love Lucy reference for everything in life?

Just wondering. I know I bought the DVDs (for my daughter, really) and some episodes are fresh in my mind, but lately it seems like Lucy references are everywhere.

A friend posts some photos and video of adorable baby chicks and the episode where Lucy tries to raise chickens in the "country" (Connecticut) comes to mind.

There's a loud party going on upstairs and all I can think of is the "breaking the lease" episode end hope I don't end up wearing plaster like Fred and Ethel. I'm writing this late at night. I've been known to throw a loud party or two myself in a previous life, so can't get too annoyed. Ahhh...city life.

I've been spending part of my week off updating our genealogy on ancestry and scanning in some really old family photos and remembering Lucy's Scottish highland fling and her disturbing discovery about her roots. And I don't mean her brunette ones, but the "McGillicuddy Curse."

I guess it could be worse.

At least I'm not sunburned and trying to wear an extremely itchy designer wool suit, or getting locked in my walk-in freezer, or trapped on the subway with a trophy stuck on my head...

That bass sure is loud, though. That plaster's coming down...

laundrophobia

If there is any constant in my hectic life, it is laundry. I am trying to cut down from having to do it two times to only once a week. Not sure this will save me money in the laundry room, but at least it will save me time. Theoretically.

Last night I had six loads: sheets, towels, kid's, mine, cold water stuff. I did the laundry night shuffle. Kid and I go downstairs to the laundry room. She brings a toy and plays while I sort and load. Back upstairs, I get her in the bath, and then apres bath I go down to load the dryers while she watches cartoons in her jammies (What a life! Enjoy it, kid!) Back upstairs to fix dinner, more cartoons, eat, watch Stevie Wonder (Stevie!) on American Idol, and then back downstairs to collect everything. Except - even though I had everything perfectly timed, I must have arrived a few minutes after the dryer stopped. At least long enough for some twerp to dump my sheets and pillowcases on the folding table. I must have just missed him (judging from the clothes spinning around in my former dryer it was a him). Isn't there some kind of laundry room etiquette that a person should wait at least five minutes or so before manhandling someone else's things? At least it wasn't our clothes all over the place. I loaded up the rest of my clean laundry to take back upstairs for folding and just stared at my messed up sheets. I suddenly was angry and skeeved out at the same time. I brought the rest of the laundry back upstairs, grabbed the detergent, went back downstairs and threw the sheets, etc. back in a washer. Craptastic.

Over reaction? Maybe. This isn't the first time this has ever happened to me, but somehow I couldn't imagine us lying on pillowcases that our unknown neighbor had tossed around willy nilly. Maybe if they had been more nicely arranged, rather than so unceremoniously dumped, looking as if they had beeen picked up from the floor. Maybe if everyone and their brother wasn't coughing up a lung these days. I don't know. So - more work for me, and the kid had to deal with a severely cranky mom for the rest of the evening (luckily for her, it was almost bedtime.)

Sigh. When I lived in Brooklyn, I used to drag a huge bag every two weeks to the local laundromat a few blocks away. Then I discovered they actually had a laundry service, so for a few bucks more, I let them do the fluffing and folding. When I moved into this building and saw the huge laundry room I was pleased. It seemed so convenient, I could just hop on the elevator and wheel in my cart full of dirty duds. After I had my daughter the frequency and size of loads increased. And it's expensive.

I'm not ready to look into a laundry service again, and it seems crazy to take my business elsewhere when there's all these machines right here, but...hmmm. Of course D.C. isn't Brooklyn or New York, where there were laundromats everywhere, because most apartment buildings didn't have laundry rooms.

I love living in the city, but sometimes the inhumanity of apartment living can get me down. For such a big building, we actually do know a good deal of our neighbors, at least well enough to say hello to. But like D.C., the residents are pretty transient. I guess in future I will have to make more of an effort to get downstairs before the drying cycle is done, so I don't develop severe laundrophobia.

the Yiyo

When I lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn I used to stop on the way home from the subway at a little grocery store, called the Yiyo. You could pick up just about anything you might need, from the basics of milk, bread, and toilet paper, to other essentials such as roach motels, birthday candles and shoe polish. Ahhh, city life.


It seems no matter where I've lived since there has been a little store like this. Overpriced, for sure, compared to the bigger grocery store four or five more blocks away. But you are paying a premium for the convenience and also helping support a small business, as most of these stores are family-owned.

I think that in my head subconsciously they've all been Yiyos. The little store downstairs on Ludlow Street, N.Y., the "Manhattan Market" on Connecticut Avenue in D.C. Even the Cumberland Farms on Route 9 in Waretown, N.J., which we walked to when we were kids to pick up snacks like Hostess fruit pies, Dannon yogurts, Bravos or Slim Jims. I think that store is in its latest incarnation as a Wawa.

As I look around and see so many storefronts shuttered or empty I can't help but hope that the Yiyos won't be affected. It's tough times all over for sure, and I could probably pick up that can of Progresso soup cheaper somewhere else. But I wouldn't get to exchange pleasantries with the store owner. And my daughter wouldn't get the occasional free Twizzler slipped in the bag. It wouldn't be the Yiyo.