first grade (lyn)

I have always been an educational snob.  

My sisters were happy to go to good state universities (in exchange for a car).  I passed on the car and went to a private university instead.  Who knows if it were really better.  But we all started out in the same place.

My sisters and I began first grade at The Forest Avenue School, affectionately known as The Little Red School House.  It still exists, but is now a museum.  Built in 1875, it closed in 1963, four years after I completed second grade.  This school is now listed on the National Registry of Historic Places, along with Grand Central Terminal and Bunker Hill Monument.

The two-room schoolhouse was an easy walk from my home.  The neighborhood kids would all gather and together we would travel the short distance to the school.  It was a 15-minute walk, though it did involve cutting through a small woods and crossing a busy street.

When the bell rang, first graders would line up at the right door, and head for Miss Stevenson’s classroom on the first floor.  Second graders would stand in front of the left door, and go up the stairs to Mrs. Lucia's room.  There were about 35 of us in each class.

This was before Ms. was a title.  Before overcrowding in classrooms was a thought.  And before parents worried about six and seven-year olds walking through woods alone. 

At noon, we would be dismissed for lunch.  There was no cafeteria in this two-room school.  We would all walk home, have lunch, and return until three.

I remember in first grade frequently being in Miss Stevenson’s chatterbox, which she drew on her blackboard.  You were allowed one warning.  A check mark next to your name meant staying after school for five minutes.  I frequently stayed after school.  There were others who got multiple check marks and stayed longer.  

The most memorable things about second grade were Mrs. Lucia’s bra strap that was always showing, her collection of hummel figurines, and the departure one day of Johnnie G who was returned to first grade in mid-year (and later became co-head of one of the largest privately held companies in the US).

Strange the things we remember.

May 1959, with Valerie in front of our house;
I'm in second grade; Val's in Kindergarten

enjoying my city (lyn)

Out of the house by 9:30.  Am only ¾ ready when M says, “Ok, I’ll meet you outside.”  She’s anxious to start the day, despite nothing being open.  

We walk to Bloomingdales where I return something.  We then end up in the vast makeup department where we both buy conservatively (two lipsticks for M and a rose-tinted cheek stain for me).   Next, we stop by Sam’s office where he comes down to say hi.  Then, it’s over to the jewelry district where we shop and don’t buy.  Our goal is to find a new chain and setting for a necklace of M’s.  Within a half block, M decides to (1) sell her necklace as it's doubled in value since she bought it, (2) alter it slightly, AND (3) keep it as is for her future daughter-n-law(s).  Clearly, she is conflicted. 

We have lunch at Pret A Manger, a great sandwich and salad place.  We split two different wraps, each with a mixture of many ingredients, but with a relatively low calorie count (320).  It’s crowded and the tables are so close that whomever your are sitting next to, you are actually sitting with.

M starts a conversation with the guy next to us… a Vietnamese jewelry designer.   Before leaving, he says in hard-to-understand English, “Nice meeting you.  Hope to see you again.  I come here every Wednesday and Thursday for lunch.”   He’s about 25.

We scoot over to Saks and browse the Gucci purses and McQueen and Loro Piana scarves.  Again, we buy nothing.  We say good-bye, and M heads off to my place to collect her luggage and car.  I head over to Playwright's Horizon to meet Jill.  We see Detroit, a nice little play with David Schwimmer and Amy Ryan that has nothing to do with Detroit.

On my way home, I notice my glasses are missing.  I call the theater, and am relieved when they call me back to tell me they’d fallen between two seats.  But now I’m stuck on the bus, unable to read or play Words With Friends.

I have an excellent dinner of filet mignon and string beans almondine, leftover from last night. 

I love this kind of day.  Full of  exercise (a lot of walking), seeing friends, flitting around the city, and spending almost no money.   

quick trip to nyc (m)

I drive to New York to bring my son, Sam, some things for Fall....his Barbour jacket, a comforter for his bed and "shoe covers" for when it rains.  Shoe covers?  You mean rubbers? I ask.  I notice he can't ask his mother to bring him rubbers. The word will not pass his lips.  I order some Totes on Amazon and pack up the car.

I tell Sam we will go out for dinner.  "Mexican?" he asks.  No...too fattening I say.  "Italian?" he asks.  No, no, I say.  Something good.  I suggest seafood or steak.  I tell him that if I'm coming all the way from Boston, I don't want to go to some burger joint.

"Okay," he says later.  "I booked Palmone".  That's how I heard it.  Palmone.  All one word.  Palmone turns out to be The Palm.  Not cheap.

Sam travels in packs, so he invites 5 close friends.  It's always been this way with Sam.  The more the merrier. 

Lyn and I get a manicure/pedicure before we head to the restaurant.  It's cheaper to get this done in New York and I needed it as I noticed a woman staring at my chipped crimson toenail polish while in a meeting the day before.

What a treat.  The best mani/pedi followed by a 15-minute backrub on one of those massage chairs.  It was so good and Sara's hands were so strong, I fell asleep.  Thankfully, there was a napkin on the part where I put my face so that the drool was contained.

All this for $39.

Lyn's post described the whole scene at the restaurant.  It was excellent and surprisingly affordable given the prix fixe option.  Lyn starts out, of course, by asking the waiter to take our picture.  This, coupled with the fact that she insisted on sitting next to me at an empty table set for eight, made me feel compelled to tell the waiter we were not a lesbian couple....not that there's anything wrong with that.

I slept in Lyn's son's bed.  I think it's a trundle bed.  I'm 5'3 1/2" and my feet hit the footboard during the night. 

We get up, dress, and head out.  We walk and walk and walk.  This, to me, is the biggest difference in our lifestyles.  You walk everywhere in New York and drive everywhere in Boston, especially in the suburbs.  My legs start to burn after about 3 hours.  It does feel good.

We walk to Park Avenue and I text Sam who comes down for a hug and kiss.  I give him $20 even though he will make more than I do this year.  It's like when my grandmother used to slip me a Hershey bar every time she saw me.  This, at least, has zero fat.

Lyn and I continue our walking/talking/shopping expedition. 

At 2:40 p.m., I get in my car, cheeks red, knees throbbing, and head home.

Just a quick jaunt to the Big Apple to change the pace of my life.

dinner with M and others (lyn)

At 7:15 my phone rings.  “Hi, are you up?”  “Of course I’m not up.”  Ignoring this response, M tells me about this phone call she just received from the mechanic who is fixing her car.  “I can’t believe he called me at 7 to tell me about my car.”  What can I say? 

M is coming to New York today.  Last week Sam (M’s son) said he needed, “those things you put over your shoes when it rains.”  “Rubbers?” she asks.  “Is that what you old people call them?  Whatever.”  It 's just the excuse she needs to drive to NY to see him.

Tonight we are meeting Sam, his girlfriend, and three close friends of Sam’s for dinner at The Palm, a total of six.  The reservation is for 8:30.

M and I arrive early.  Despite M’s protests, I ask the waiter to take a picture.  I feel compelled to say, “We are just friends.”  To which M quickly adds. “What she means is, we’re not gay.  Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay.”

By the time everyone shows up and we place our orders, it’s about 9:15.  The last to arrive is Sam’s roommate, Michael, a Wall Street slave like the rest of Sam and his male friends.  We all order the special election prix fixe of filet and lobster tail.  Except for M, we all upgrade for $5 and get “half of a 3-pound lobster.”

The portions are enormous.  Huge salads are followed by entrees, and sides of fries, asparagus, and green beans almondine.    The food is outstanding, as is the banter.  It’s fun to be among this group of young, adorable wall streeters.  The restaurant’s walls are covered in hand-painted caricatures of famous people, and not so famous people, who are (or have been) frequent diners at The Palm.  Fortuitously we are seated at a table near a drawing of a man the boys recognize.  It turns out he’s one of their English teachers from High School, in Boston.  Apparently, he’s a big fan of the restaurant.

Around 10:30, an hour after arriving, Michael gets a text saying he needs to return to his office in order to profile 175 companies.  This is not an exaggerated number.  (We later learn that soon after arriving, Michael is told he no longer has to complete this herculean project by morning; not that any human could have).

Maybe because we are beginning our meal as most are finishing theirs, or maybe because our waiters like us, but the lobsters we get look nothing like any three-pounder I've ever seen:

The pumpkin crème brûlée is excellent also.  And yes, like that old AlkaSeltzer, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.”

yoga for seniors (lyn)

Last week I’m donating a book to the library, and a sign catches my eye as I walk in.

Yoga for seniors.  Every Tuesday and Thursday at 10:30 in John Jay Park.  Must be 60 or older.

I’m going to do it.  I picture myself looking good doing yoga among 80 year olds.  I picture myself getting proficient, and moving on to real yoga with younger people.  I picture myself getting fit.  Worse case, I can write about it.

Last time I tried yoga was a couple of years ago when my fit sister Jean tried to show me the basics.  I think I gave up when I couldn’t get into some kind of uncomfortably twisted position with the word DOG in it.

I reschedule my dentist appointment (for my crown) so that I don’t miss any more meetings  (I've already missed the first two).  I’m psyched, as I picture myself becoming more erect and fit.

The weather is cloudy; not the sunny fall day I envisioned for my first day of senior yoga.  I get to the park a few minutes early, and ask a local park worker where the yoga class is (leaving out the part about it being for seniors).  He directs me to a woman, about my age, who is waiting on a park bench nearby.  Soon, a few others show up, seven in all.  Except for one woman in a beautiful wool sweater and red-rouged cheeks and another in a wheel chair who looks to be close to 90 (bless her), everyone is about my age.  I expect a pony-tailed limber twenty-something to show up to teach.  Instead, Richard appears.  He’s stocky, kind of messy looking, and in his 50’s.  He would have been a great guest on that old show, I’ve Got A Secret.  No one would have chosen him as a stockbroker moonlighting as a yoga instructor.  Turns out Richard is fantastic.

The class is a stretch (no pun intended).  Richard doesn’t pander to our ages.  Even when it starts to rain, no one leaves.  I plan to return on Thursday.  

new month, new goals (lyn)

On September 6, I set two goals for myself:  eat less and spend less.  Both were unaccomplished.  I dropped .8 pounds to 128; hardly the 125 I had aspired to. 

I will try harder in October.  Here are my goals for the next 30 days:

Weight

Current Weight:  128.

Goal weight by month’s end:  no more than 125.

Spending  

No more than three new items of clothing.  This is more realistic than saying zero.

Job Search

Pursue, at a minimum, three real possibilities.

Exercise

A minimum of three times a week.

These should be attainable.  I am posting them to make me accountable.  I’ll update you in a month.