that we first landed in the USA...
It's our seven year anniversary of living in New York. Prior to that we had also lived in London for 8 years.
I have to say that I have made far better and deeper friends here than I ever did in London and feel more connected and part of this city. There's a vibrancy here, a sense that interesting people come out and try to bring out the best from themselves. Of course Manhattan is also a bitch goddess who makes you feel poor no matter how much you have (there are always those with so, so much more) and talentless (there are always those who are so, so much more talented) but there's a buzz, a sense of potential, of things happening, that you can dip into and let it carry you along.
So here's to a very happy seven years, with God only knows how many to follow....
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
It's the banker's girls fault...
I read two stories today in the nyt and maybe it was that there were 2 of them, but I feel a rant coming on...
First I read, It's the Economy Girlfriend, where girlfriends and the occassional wife/mistress of bankers were interviewed, saying how their masters of the universe were now clingy and depressed and in the words of one wife (!) 'that's not what I signed up for.'
That article took me to this blog, dabagirls (Dating a Banker, Anonymous) where the comments became more explicit, and the attitudes even clearer. The 'God you are so 24' blog really did it for me. I mean, he's having an affair but he's right - she's complaining that they haven't had a holiday since September and he's telling her he has to lay off 20 people this week... Really, he should just stick to the wife, I don't think his nerves can take the 24 yo narcissim right now (I know mine can't.)
And then we see what happens when these DABA's grow up in the next article - Everybody's Business. The author is so kind when he describes his dear friend, the divorced woman who took on a 2.2 million dollar interest only mortgage (!) that she has no chance of paying off, ever, and has her ex giving her $20K p/month and her current boyfriend paying off her credit card bills and only now she's anxious.
And I just feel angry. What are these women thinking? How could she take on so much debt? If I were in her shoes, I couldn't sleep at night... but that would have been way before September. How could she build no equity in her home? How could she fritter away her children and her future security in that way...
So now I'm still blaming the bankers, but I'm getting angry with their wives/girlfriends too...
(and their added crime - they make me feel old. Even the 40 yo woman in the last article. I felt like an adult surrounded by a bevy of gorgeous, demanding toddlers, and I wanted to send them all to bed to get a much needed reality check.)
First I read, It's the Economy Girlfriend, where girlfriends and the occassional wife/mistress of bankers were interviewed, saying how their masters of the universe were now clingy and depressed and in the words of one wife (!) 'that's not what I signed up for.'
That article took me to this blog, dabagirls (Dating a Banker, Anonymous) where the comments became more explicit, and the attitudes even clearer. The 'God you are so 24' blog really did it for me. I mean, he's having an affair but he's right - she's complaining that they haven't had a holiday since September and he's telling her he has to lay off 20 people this week... Really, he should just stick to the wife, I don't think his nerves can take the 24 yo narcissim right now (I know mine can't.)
And then we see what happens when these DABA's grow up in the next article - Everybody's Business. The author is so kind when he describes his dear friend, the divorced woman who took on a 2.2 million dollar interest only mortgage (!) that she has no chance of paying off, ever, and has her ex giving her $20K p/month and her current boyfriend paying off her credit card bills and only now she's anxious.
And I just feel angry. What are these women thinking? How could she take on so much debt? If I were in her shoes, I couldn't sleep at night... but that would have been way before September. How could she build no equity in her home? How could she fritter away her children and her future security in that way...
So now I'm still blaming the bankers, but I'm getting angry with their wives/girlfriends too...
(and their added crime - they make me feel old. Even the 40 yo woman in the last article. I felt like an adult surrounded by a bevy of gorgeous, demanding toddlers, and I wanted to send them all to bed to get a much needed reality check.)
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The Sparrow
I was going to write this upbeat and happy thing about what I like about Australians, in celebration of Australia Day (Jan 26th) but that will have to be another day.
I've struggling with reading The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell because it starts with a tragedy and goes backwards, so as I read more and more about the characters and grew to like and admire them more and more, I knew bad things were coming. I kept lingering at the good spots, unwilling to go forward.
In the book we find music from another planet, not only conclusive evidence of sentient life, but also of some technological progress - at the very least they have radios. So while the UN and everyone else argues over what to do, the Jesuits at the Vatican buy a mining asteroid (it's set 20 or so years in the future, the book is now 10 years old, but I think it should still be read as '20 years from today' to allow for the technological advances that she needs) and put together a mission of 8 people to get there first, including 4 Jesuit priests.
But the book starts at the end - one priest has returned under the most suspect of circumstances, and the rest of the party is dead... What happened? And finding out what happened is the rest of the book.
Very nicely written, with lots of thought and care. There are 4 Jesuits and the Vatican is involved, so there's religion here, but really warmly and beautifully portrayed. I struggled with getting into it not because it was bad, but because it was good. I didn't necessarily want to know what happened to these fine folk... but I was sitting in a New York cafe as I read the denouement and softly crying there... Really moving. She wrote a sequel and I'm going to read that too. Emotionally engaging and genuinely thought provoking, like all the best science fiction should be.
I've struggling with reading The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell because it starts with a tragedy and goes backwards, so as I read more and more about the characters and grew to like and admire them more and more, I knew bad things were coming. I kept lingering at the good spots, unwilling to go forward.
In the book we find music from another planet, not only conclusive evidence of sentient life, but also of some technological progress - at the very least they have radios. So while the UN and everyone else argues over what to do, the Jesuits at the Vatican buy a mining asteroid (it's set 20 or so years in the future, the book is now 10 years old, but I think it should still be read as '20 years from today' to allow for the technological advances that she needs) and put together a mission of 8 people to get there first, including 4 Jesuit priests.
But the book starts at the end - one priest has returned under the most suspect of circumstances, and the rest of the party is dead... What happened? And finding out what happened is the rest of the book.
Very nicely written, with lots of thought and care. There are 4 Jesuits and the Vatican is involved, so there's religion here, but really warmly and beautifully portrayed. I struggled with getting into it not because it was bad, but because it was good. I didn't necessarily want to know what happened to these fine folk... but I was sitting in a New York cafe as I read the denouement and softly crying there... Really moving. She wrote a sequel and I'm going to read that too. Emotionally engaging and genuinely thought provoking, like all the best science fiction should be.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Love Song
I was watching Colbert Report last night, and he was interviewing Elizabeth Alexander, the poet who had read the inaugural poem (as a side note, I thought she was a better poet than presenter - and why not, they are 2 such very different skills - in that I liked her poem, but she did not read it as well as it could have been read...)
Just blogging her name, Elizabeth Alexander, I saw that the poem she wrote had been an occasional poem, written expressly for the inauguration. I hadn't realized that.
Anyways, she was being interviewed by Colbert, and he was being very funny, making lots of allusions (a poetic term!) to the Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. Which brought me to thinking about TS Eliot's early signature poem. I studied it at uni (or, in College, as they would say here) and have read it from time to time again, but that theme of middle aged hesitancy and fear of being made a fool of might speak more clearly to me, now that I am middle aged.
T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.
1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me. 125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
I'm still not Prufrock (and who would want to be!) but I can see him so clearly, that fussy, too smart, too timid man. And it has so many wonderful phrases, (or fragments, to use Eliot's world view) that you just recall - life measured in coffee spoons, the mermaids singing, but not for him, the do I dare to eat a peach, so much depth and richness there. When I first read it, (25 years ago!!) I remember feeling annoyed and excluded, all these images and references I didn't get and had to learn. But now that it is more familiar, the stuff I don't get doesn't bother me as much, and the images that do speak to me, speak more clearly.
Just blogging her name, Elizabeth Alexander, I saw that the poem she wrote had been an occasional poem, written expressly for the inauguration. I hadn't realized that.
Anyways, she was being interviewed by Colbert, and he was being very funny, making lots of allusions (a poetic term!) to the Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. Which brought me to thinking about TS Eliot's early signature poem. I studied it at uni (or, in College, as they would say here) and have read it from time to time again, but that theme of middle aged hesitancy and fear of being made a fool of might speak more clearly to me, now that I am middle aged.
T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.
1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats 5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question … 10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, 15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; 25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate; 30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go 35
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— 40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare 45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, 50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— 55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? 60
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress 65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets 70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, 85
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while, 90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— 95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while, 100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: 105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . . 110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use, 115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … 120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me. 125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
I'm still not Prufrock (and who would want to be!) but I can see him so clearly, that fussy, too smart, too timid man. And it has so many wonderful phrases, (or fragments, to use Eliot's world view) that you just recall - life measured in coffee spoons, the mermaids singing, but not for him, the do I dare to eat a peach, so much depth and richness there. When I first read it, (25 years ago!!) I remember feeling annoyed and excluded, all these images and references I didn't get and had to learn. But now that it is more familiar, the stuff I don't get doesn't bother me as much, and the images that do speak to me, speak more clearly.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
An Historic day
I watched the the Inauguration ceremony today, together with old friends and work colleagues.
It was freezing in Washington, and it looked it, everyone rugged up, the crowds below red faced, the children hiding behind their scarves. I was glad I wasn't there.But I was also glad that I was with friends, with company, it seemed the sort of thing to do with others, not on your own...
And I have to say, I loved Obama's speech. For the past few years I've felt a real incongruity in America. We're at war, but only those directly involved feel it, there's no tax, barely a mention, no sense of a nation with a purpose gearing up behind it. We have an economic crisis but all the New York Times is doing is blathering about how $1250 designer handbags are on sale for $699. I thought to myself, there's no recession if people are paying $699for a handbag! In November everyone was talking about the recession in all the Tribeca restaurants, and all the restaurants were full to overflowing...
DH said we would see it more clearly in January, and indeed, some of those strange little boutiques that I would walk by and wonder who they sold to - they have closing sales signs in their windows. Restaurants are still full, but no one is buying the top of the wine list, and some are not buying wine at all.
And then there was the speech. I really feel that the president will mirror what is going on in the country, and stop giving us that weird feeling of disconnect. Obama is connected and telling the truth, 'the path will be hard' he keeps saying.
Times are tough and some of the fault goes to us, for not looking closely at where we were going. Sure there were those more than willing to lead us astray, but we weren't looking closely. "Our collective failure to make hard choices," I'm glad that he says straight out. We were binging on designer handbags and lifestyles that we absolutely could not afford, and now comes the vomiting and indigestion that follows. I want less excess, less everything, and here is a man, a President, telling me how it is, not how he wants it to be, or how it should be if only those silly Iraqi's knew what was good for them. This is not a man who would tell us to save the economy by going out shopping. This is a man who tells us to save America by making things of worth and giving careful consideration to what we buy and why we buy it.
I really liked his reminder of previous generations and the sacrifices they made 'for us', and what are we doing, the recipients of all this sweat and toil? We need to be worthy of it, and to pass better on to our children, as they passed better on to us. It made you feel like you were in a chain, linked past to future, obligations and efforts flowing all ways...
I like this message and I'm so glad he gave it to us.
It was freezing in Washington, and it looked it, everyone rugged up, the crowds below red faced, the children hiding behind their scarves. I was glad I wasn't there.But I was also glad that I was with friends, with company, it seemed the sort of thing to do with others, not on your own...
And I have to say, I loved Obama's speech. For the past few years I've felt a real incongruity in America. We're at war, but only those directly involved feel it, there's no tax, barely a mention, no sense of a nation with a purpose gearing up behind it. We have an economic crisis but all the New York Times is doing is blathering about how $1250 designer handbags are on sale for $699. I thought to myself, there's no recession if people are paying $699for a handbag! In November everyone was talking about the recession in all the Tribeca restaurants, and all the restaurants were full to overflowing...
DH said we would see it more clearly in January, and indeed, some of those strange little boutiques that I would walk by and wonder who they sold to - they have closing sales signs in their windows. Restaurants are still full, but no one is buying the top of the wine list, and some are not buying wine at all.
And then there was the speech. I really feel that the president will mirror what is going on in the country, and stop giving us that weird feeling of disconnect. Obama is connected and telling the truth, 'the path will be hard' he keeps saying.
Times are tough and some of the fault goes to us, for not looking closely at where we were going. Sure there were those more than willing to lead us astray, but we weren't looking closely. "Our collective failure to make hard choices," I'm glad that he says straight out. We were binging on designer handbags and lifestyles that we absolutely could not afford, and now comes the vomiting and indigestion that follows. I want less excess, less everything, and here is a man, a President, telling me how it is, not how he wants it to be, or how it should be if only those silly Iraqi's knew what was good for them. This is not a man who would tell us to save the economy by going out shopping. This is a man who tells us to save America by making things of worth and giving careful consideration to what we buy and why we buy it.
I really liked his reminder of previous generations and the sacrifices they made 'for us', and what are we doing, the recipients of all this sweat and toil? We need to be worthy of it, and to pass better on to our children, as they passed better on to us. It made you feel like you were in a chain, linked past to future, obligations and efforts flowing all ways...
I like this message and I'm so glad he gave it to us.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
West Elm Disease
I've been wanting to get a console table for the area near our front door for a long time. Currently we have this awful shelf thing there that used to hold DS's toys in our previous apartment. When we moved here, it could not fit in his new smaller bedroom, and was placed near the front door in a sort of holding pattern.
It's 3 1/2 years later and finally I convinced DH and DS that I had found a suitable replacement - the parson's desk from West Elm.
So I dragged them out on an snowy weekend, and we find it, we agree on it (though they didn't even consider the glossy pistachio green one that I secretly wanted) but pushing if for the pistachio made it easier for them to chose the chocolate, so be it.
So we buy the table and are informed that delivery will cost $125 (for a $299 table!) we should find a cab. So we find a cab (in the snow) and he looks at us and our flat packed table and says, it won't fit and drives off. So the smart man in the SUV approaches us and agrees to take us and our table home (it's snowing quite heavily now) for $35. DH hates being ripped off, but agrees. Frankly, I think he could have have asked for $50 and gotten (what other options did we have?) and am happy to have a solution.
The four of us - DH, DS, the table and I all get home. And in true style, we then put the large box against a wall and ignore it.
Now it's a week later. We open the box. It looks, not like how we remember it. I say to DH, what colour does it say on the side? We look at the box. It says bronze. (It's a color so suspect, that they don't even have a sample for me to link it to for you to see) We look at the table again. The shape is terrific but the colour, this sort of dull nothing mustardy brown.
We snap into action. We blame each other. Why didn't you check the colour? Who knew... We search for the receipt, you have it, no you have it. I clearly remember DH signing for it on his amex. It turns out I'm right. He then goes through his wallet. An enormous amount of receipts pour out. I'm impressed. Of course half of them are for sandwiches for lunch. But then he finds a receipt that says West Elm. The entire body of the receipt is totally faded, you can't see a thing, only the very top and the very bottom. However, the very top has a phone number.
I call that number, it's 11.55. The machine tells me that the new winter hours, West Elm opens at noon on Sundays. We all wait 5 minutes. I call again. I speak to a very pleasant customer service manager. She quickly agrees that we can use their recommended hire car company to return the bronze table and then take the chocolate table home, and they will pay for the service both ways.
So we call the car company, which arrives almost immediately. We get in, get there, go to the front desk. The girl asks us if we know if they have any chocolate tables in stock, DH tenses. Yes, I reply slowly, the customer service girl assured us. Ah... so they do... The girl frowns, puzzled and confused by the idea of reimbursing us for the car service, well, Ty, the customer service girl, who I mention by name (I've been in the US long enough, always get their names) and so she asks her manager who gives us her the petty cash box key, which she can't use, so we wait 5 minutes more. DH is hyperventilating beside me, so I send him off to stand with the table at the loading dock. Finally, she gives me the $50 cash and we, having double checked the box, load it and take it home. (and why they couldn't mention this car service option on the snowy day a week ago, who knows...)
This time we don't wait a week, we open it immediately. A rich, dark, chocolaty brown, perfect size and colour... but there is a huge hole in the drawer. We look at it in bemusement. We look at the box. There is a huge hole in the box too. It looks like someone took a hammer to it.
We call customer service, 'oh no!' they say when they hear our tale. We can exchange it ourselves, they'll refund us the $50 car service, or we can wait till Wednesday and they will do a delivery and pick up. We opt for Wednesday.
DH swears to never buy from them again, they are morons working at that store, they can't get a thing right! But they have excellent customer service I say...
Edited to add, weeks later now that the new table is nestled in it's new spot - it really is very pretty and everyone is glad we got it, it makes a big difference. So West Elm works after all.
It's 3 1/2 years later and finally I convinced DH and DS that I had found a suitable replacement - the parson's desk from West Elm.
So I dragged them out on an snowy weekend, and we find it, we agree on it (though they didn't even consider the glossy pistachio green one that I secretly wanted) but pushing if for the pistachio made it easier for them to chose the chocolate, so be it.
So we buy the table and are informed that delivery will cost $125 (for a $299 table!) we should find a cab. So we find a cab (in the snow) and he looks at us and our flat packed table and says, it won't fit and drives off. So the smart man in the SUV approaches us and agrees to take us and our table home (it's snowing quite heavily now) for $35. DH hates being ripped off, but agrees. Frankly, I think he could have have asked for $50 and gotten (what other options did we have?) and am happy to have a solution.
The four of us - DH, DS, the table and I all get home. And in true style, we then put the large box against a wall and ignore it.
Now it's a week later. We open the box. It looks, not like how we remember it. I say to DH, what colour does it say on the side? We look at the box. It says bronze. (It's a color so suspect, that they don't even have a sample for me to link it to for you to see) We look at the table again. The shape is terrific but the colour, this sort of dull nothing mustardy brown.
We snap into action. We blame each other. Why didn't you check the colour? Who knew... We search for the receipt, you have it, no you have it. I clearly remember DH signing for it on his amex. It turns out I'm right. He then goes through his wallet. An enormous amount of receipts pour out. I'm impressed. Of course half of them are for sandwiches for lunch. But then he finds a receipt that says West Elm. The entire body of the receipt is totally faded, you can't see a thing, only the very top and the very bottom. However, the very top has a phone number.
I call that number, it's 11.55. The machine tells me that the new winter hours, West Elm opens at noon on Sundays. We all wait 5 minutes. I call again. I speak to a very pleasant customer service manager. She quickly agrees that we can use their recommended hire car company to return the bronze table and then take the chocolate table home, and they will pay for the service both ways.
So we call the car company, which arrives almost immediately. We get in, get there, go to the front desk. The girl asks us if we know if they have any chocolate tables in stock, DH tenses. Yes, I reply slowly, the customer service girl assured us. Ah... so they do... The girl frowns, puzzled and confused by the idea of reimbursing us for the car service, well, Ty, the customer service girl, who I mention by name (I've been in the US long enough, always get their names) and so she asks her manager who gives us her the petty cash box key, which she can't use, so we wait 5 minutes more. DH is hyperventilating beside me, so I send him off to stand with the table at the loading dock. Finally, she gives me the $50 cash and we, having double checked the box, load it and take it home. (and why they couldn't mention this car service option on the snowy day a week ago, who knows...)
This time we don't wait a week, we open it immediately. A rich, dark, chocolaty brown, perfect size and colour... but there is a huge hole in the drawer. We look at it in bemusement. We look at the box. There is a huge hole in the box too. It looks like someone took a hammer to it.
We call customer service, 'oh no!' they say when they hear our tale. We can exchange it ourselves, they'll refund us the $50 car service, or we can wait till Wednesday and they will do a delivery and pick up. We opt for Wednesday.
DH swears to never buy from them again, they are morons working at that store, they can't get a thing right! But they have excellent customer service I say...
Edited to add, weeks later now that the new table is nestled in it's new spot - it really is very pretty and everyone is glad we got it, it makes a big difference. So West Elm works after all.
Friday, January 16, 2009
All about food...
When I first moved to Manhattan, lots of things surprised me. One of them was that people would live with no consideration to where to buy food. In a city where most people don't have cars, I would think people would want to live in walking distance for a supermarket, but plenty of people don't even live in walking distance to bodegas (those small, expensive corner stores, with a huge array of products that never seem to have the one item you want.)
Fresh direct seemed to fill that void. It opened in 2002 or 2003, and you would order on line and it would bring everything to your door and carry all those heavy items upstairs for you. I was very grateful. But like all things you come to rely on, then they go and change. They've been hit hard by Wholefoods opening in Tribeca, and are consequently shrinking their range.
We now have a wealth of food stores in the area - the forlorn Food Emporium (2 separate people have now complained to me that their chicken was off, and had to be returned. I myself bought bad milk from them. I don't know what's going on there, it's winter, outside is refrigerator temperature, how could food go off and still be in it's use by date?) The glamorous and yes, more expensive Wholefoods (though I totally buy their argument that their product is better)
Fresh direct has now taken two of the products that I know and love (and now that I look down my list, quite a few are in that ghostly grey implying that they are no longer available) and if they don't keep their range wide and varied, they'll start to be used like the bodegas - for emergencies only, rather than for staples.
That's my whinge for the day, I'm sorry that the fabulous Kansas burgers are no more. If only they had warned me, I could have cribbed the ingredient list and had a better chance of recreating them... well, it's back to the cookbooks...
Fresh direct seemed to fill that void. It opened in 2002 or 2003, and you would order on line and it would bring everything to your door and carry all those heavy items upstairs for you. I was very grateful. But like all things you come to rely on, then they go and change. They've been hit hard by Wholefoods opening in Tribeca, and are consequently shrinking their range.
We now have a wealth of food stores in the area - the forlorn Food Emporium (2 separate people have now complained to me that their chicken was off, and had to be returned. I myself bought bad milk from them. I don't know what's going on there, it's winter, outside is refrigerator temperature, how could food go off and still be in it's use by date?) The glamorous and yes, more expensive Wholefoods (though I totally buy their argument that their product is better)
Fresh direct has now taken two of the products that I know and love (and now that I look down my list, quite a few are in that ghostly grey implying that they are no longer available) and if they don't keep their range wide and varied, they'll start to be used like the bodegas - for emergencies only, rather than for staples.
That's my whinge for the day, I'm sorry that the fabulous Kansas burgers are no more. If only they had warned me, I could have cribbed the ingredient list and had a better chance of recreating them... well, it's back to the cookbooks...
Thursday, January 15, 2009
I kissed a girl...
and I liked it, the song of the summer by Katy Perry. Lately Katy Perry has been everywhere I turn, magazines, grammy ads, interviews (she interviews badly, doesn't come across well at all.) At a birthday party one of the forward thinking 10 yo in DS's class threw, they had a dj who played it and the kids all bopped and sang along.
And last night I was thinking of the words, having just heard it on the radio - I kissed a girl and I liked it, I hope my boyfriend don't mind it, and thought, if a boy sang that, I kissed a boy and I liked it, hope my girlfriend don't mind it, it wouldn't work in the same way at all. Two girls kissing, well that's just to turn the boys on, two boys kissing is another world entirely...
Well, maybe in 20 years a version of the 2 boy thing will be in the charts and we'll know that gay marriage is in and we've really come a long way... But not in 2008, we're not there yet.
And last night I was thinking of the words, having just heard it on the radio - I kissed a girl and I liked it, I hope my boyfriend don't mind it, and thought, if a boy sang that, I kissed a boy and I liked it, hope my girlfriend don't mind it, it wouldn't work in the same way at all. Two girls kissing, well that's just to turn the boys on, two boys kissing is another world entirely...
Well, maybe in 20 years a version of the 2 boy thing will be in the charts and we'll know that gay marriage is in and we've really come a long way... But not in 2008, we're not there yet.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Welcome 2009!
We've been back in NY for 5 days now, had my worst night's sleep 3 days in, which seems to be a pattern with me, but feel more or less normal now time wise, though I got a cold on the plane (I don't trust that airplane air!) and can barely breath...
I was reminded of the Taylor Mali skit I saw and I thought I had posted it on this blog but I couldn't find it, so I'm starting the new year with it - so what do teachers make... and he's off! I do like his righteous rage!
I was reminded of the Taylor Mali skit I saw and I thought I had posted it on this blog but I couldn't find it, so I'm starting the new year with it - so what do teachers make... and he's off! I do like his righteous rage!
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