Monthly Archives: April 2011

I don’t know why I care, but I do. I loved the book Water for Elephants and I loved the movie in spite of Pattinson’s sub-par performance.

I just watched Robert Pattinson on the Jimmy Kimmel show and Jimmy asked Pattinson why the movie was called Water for Elephants, and he replied with, “I don’t know.”

You know why he didn’t know? Because the movie never addresses what the movie does, that no one actually brings water to elephants, you have to bring the elephants to water. Elephants require too much water… blah, whatever, read the book and you’ll know.

What’s remarkable and offends my sensibilities is that Pattinson was paid millions of dollars to act in a BIG movie that is based on a bestselling book, and in his preparation he couldn’t even be bothered to read the book that tens of thousands (maybe more?) of people had read.

Maybe Pattinson can’t read? Maybe Pattinson mistakenly believes he is a talented enough actor to not research a role? I won’t ever know, nor will I particularly care, but his utter lack of preparation may help explain a lackluster performance.

Mr G and I had a fabulous day in Manhattan. We started our morning with a much needed trip to Bloomingdales (shut up I have my own definitions of need). We found him a beautiful pair of shoes, that I worry may end up never being worn again, but they delight me in that they are neither black nor brown and they are not loafers. We also replaced the Hugo Boss slim fit shirt that the dry cleaner lost. It’s an impossible shirt to find, and it’s the loveliest crisp white shirt to wear with jeans.

From Bloomies we went to meet friends for lunch, and from lunch we went to the Highline. Two worldly friends who told me that the Highline Park is one of the most beautiful places they’ve been. Mr G and I made our way downtown and climbed the stairs to an immature garden on an abandoned railway platform. We entered the Highline near 20th Street, which is clearly the newest part of the project, as we walked downtown the plants and trees grew lusher and more mature. It appears that the project began at the southernmost point and procceded north. The progression is spectacular and I love that the the tiniest saplings are at one end while only slightly larger ones are a few blocks away. New sections appear to be opening sometime soon.

The Highline is simply awe inspiring in that it offers spectacular city and river views, it’s the poster child for urban reuse, and the sounds. Do not miss the sounds. There are bells in the 14th street passage that will make you believe in the goodness of man. Stephen Vitiello traveled all over the city and recorded the sounds of bells ringing. Bells from the Stock Exchange, bells from bicycles, bells from Buddhist temples, and on the top of every hour there are 59 bells ringing together. You can sit in front of a list of the bells, and every minute another bell rings, it’s another tone, and another part of the city. The sound resonates and just as it disappears another bell chimes. The sounds are so crisp, so pure, and so fleeting that I could easily have sat for an hour.

After the Highline Mr G had some work to do so we separated and he headed back to midtown. I tromped around the meat packing district and then decided to listen to some friends and check out Century 21. I went down into the subway and didn’t exactly pay attention to where I was headed, when I came back above ground I was stunned to be standing at the World Trade Center.

I’ve been to New York a dozen times since the towers were bombed, but I’ve never made the pilgrimage to the WTC. It never pulled at me or my husband, and we didn’t feel like bringing our children there. I stood on Broadway slack jawed while staring at an enormous hole in the ground. There are mural sized advertisements everywhere showing a generic woman enjoying the view of a planned memorial. This was my first glance and as much as I’ve missed seeing the towers guiding me into the city, and as much as I thought I was prepared, I was utterly stunned by the size of the destruction.

I hated Century 21 because it made me go to the World Trade Center, and I hate that sort of shopping, but I managed to find a few things anyhow.

I went back to the hotel, dropped off my haul and freshened up. We had drinks with friends and then headed to the southernmost part of the city for the best meal I’ve had in many years.

If you are thinking of opening a restaurant go to Scalini Fedeli and watch them. Making a reservation was a pleasant event. I do not know of any other restaurant where the simple act of calling for a reservation is a warm and welcoming experience. The service is impeccable and the food was magnificent.

If you’ve ever tried making focaccia you know that there’s  magic in the onions. It’s easy to char the onions and difficult, but just as devastating, to undercook them. The olive oil and salt can make or break the bread. The focaccia at Scalini Fedeli was perfection and a sign of things to come.

Before appetizers we all had a single mushroom and black truffle ravioli in a light cream sauce. It was both hearty and light. Next was seared foie gras and roasted apples over braised spinach and toasted hazelnuts drizzled with port wine if I could eat this every day for the rest of my life I think I would. The main course was a light fish plate, that had crabmeat which was cooked to perfection. I seldom order crab or lobster outside of New England because it’s so often overcooked, but this was beyond amazing.

Dessert was a napoleon for me, and a souffle for him. I love that you don’t have to preorder a souffle here. Before dessert arrived we were each presented a small taste of sorbet, pineapple for me and cheesecake for him.

Again, I must reiterate, the service was best I’ve seen in at least a dozen years with every plate prepared to perfection, and just the right amount of attention from every member of the wait staff.

Sidenote: Mr G didn’t like it. Too snooty. Oy.

Today was luxury day. I slept late, until almost 10am, and slowly showered and got dressed. Since most of my mornings are about efficiency and a race to see how quickly I can blow my hair out, brighten my undereyes and brush on mascara having a morning without a time limit is a real treat.

I left the hotel and headed downtown to lunch with Emily. Naturally I walked up to 5th Avenue and got sidetracked with a visit to Saks. I entered on 51st street and left on 5th Avenue where I proceeded to walk uptown. After a few blocks I realized that I was headed the wrong way, so I turned around to go downtown. I needed to be on the Westside and walked two more blocks to the Eastside. After twirling myself around a few more times I decided to flag a cab and got yelled at by the taxi driver who said that I made him pull over in the bus zone and he was going to get a ticket. I’m a Mom and that doesn’t quite work with me. I gave him a little talk about free will and the fact that he decided to pull over where it was illegal. We agreed to disagree, and I gave him a 25% tip when he got me safely to lunch with Emily.

Lunch was grand. The food was good (after a false start with an undercooked meatball) and the company was amazing. Girlfriends are key and spending an hour with a smart lady who is chasing her dreams is a treat that I hope everyone can have.

When we finished our meal Emily and I headed outside and it was pouring. I was pleased with myself for having packed both an umbrella and a nylon shoulder bag. Sadly when I stepped outside I had absolutely no idea how to open said umbrella. I need to never leave Los Angeles.

Next I went to pop in on a friend at her office. I thought I was stopping by for a hug, and then ended up in a conference room with the President talking about international clubs, watches, shoes and luxury travel. Watch for the 24th Letter. I can’t really give y’all much more than that but if you have impeccable taste and think smart is sexy you’ll want to watch this one.

My next stop was the Frick. The Frick is a fabulous art collection. They don’t call themselves a museum and I’m not certain why. The collection is housed in a beautiful mansion on 70th and Central Park. When you walk in they have signs explaining that they allow you very close to the artwork and for that reason there are no children under 10 allowed and all umbrellas must be checked in. I was starting to miss my kids so I was happy to not be surrounded by someone else’s children.

I paid my $18 and started a slow tour of the Frick. I found myself as interested in the architecture of the building as I was with the history of the paintings done by Renoir’s students. I spun myself around the room comparing the brushstrokes of the master and his students. I marveled at Frick’s purchases and how they showed no affinity to subjects, but rather a broad based love of the arts.

Renoir’s self portrait is the most majestic work of art I’ve ever laid eyes on.  It made me want to sit and stare at him, it made me want to study his other works and it curiously involved me in his student’s work all at once. I wondered about his bankruptcy and questioned if he had finished other paintings or was just out of time.

After a few hours I was ready to head back to the hotel so I wandered through a familiar part of Madison Avenue, then Central Park and finally onto Fifth Avenue. Bergdorf’s was calling my name and I ducked in to pick up an eye brightener. I’m not certain that I made a good purchase as their beauty floor is in the basement. Tomorrow’s application in natural light will be the true test. I also picked up a Rebecca Taylor sweater than I neither need nor love. The geniuses at Rebecca Taylor have lovingly vanity sized their tops so that women like me who are a little zaftig on top can still buy a size small. It might not sound like a good reason to buy a sweater, but when you’re not a petite woman it is. Trust me.

I tried to find a pair of shoes but I sort of struck out. I don’t think I was much in the mood. I’m totally over Tory Burch and having T’s all over my feet, I don’t like Manolo’s they just don’t fit my feet well, Jimmy Choo is so pointy in the toe that they feel angry to me, like they’re mean to be weapons and I can’t possibly buy myself a third pair of Louboutin D’orsay’s. I’ve convinced myself that they’re a beautiful classic, but I’ve got them, and I don’t need (or want) more.

I headed back to the hotel stopping only to pick up some dark chocolate butter concoction, dropped my haul off and headed down to the National for a glass of Rioja and a plate of meats including duck confit, chopped liver, pancetta and salami. It was divine and I’d recommend it wholeheartedly but I’d ask them to skip the decorative salt, it’s just too much. I sat and read an exquisitely painful book while I nibbled on rich tastes and washed it down with a smooth red that hadn’t a hint of tannin.

I headed up to the room to do a little work, which turned into a little nap while Mr G did a little work instead.

We headed out for dinner at Chin Chin on 49th between 2nd and 3rd which should not be confused with the Chin Chin of Los Angeles. This Chin Chin is a hearty New York Chinese food with doughy dumplings and divinely spicy eggplant. There’s a charge if you want brown rice, and they seem to just know that you’re an Angelino if you’re ordering this way.

Dinner was fabulous (as usual) and the owner’s daughter is currently studying at UCLA, which made me miss my favorite ethnic restaurant in LA, Anajak Thai, where the owner’s daughter is currently enrolled at NYU.

I love family owned restaurants because in addition to sharing delicious food with me, kind owners will also share the milestones of their lives and I’ll get to feel like I’m celebrating everyone’s joys.

Mr G and I walked around the city picking up some fresh fruit for the morning, and ice cream for the evening. We talked about the draft and looked forward to getting back to the room so that we could watch young men’s lives change.

It’s all left me grinning.

Yesterday was a travel day and today was an adult day. I’m in New York City and my children are not. I got up early, had breakfast with a dear girlfriend and then took a stroll near the East River with Mr G. From there Mr G and I parted ways and I met another friend for lunch.

I meandered from midtown to downtown and treated myself to three hours of shopping where I ultimately bought nothing, because being anonymous in New York City in the springtime fed the parts of me that would otherwise require a silk blouse.

I’m relaxing a little now, and then I’ll be at Melanie’s book party before heading to Brooklyn for steak at Peter Luger’s.

There have been pangs of missing my children, and then there were pangs of missing my 20′s, but mostly I’m refreshed. If I don’t come home the 800 pound woman it will be a miracle. My idea of visiting New York is a march from one restaurant to another.

And I feel terrible about it, but not because he didn’t deserve it.

I went for a morning run at Fryman Canyon. Rather than running a loop I ran up the hill, down a small bit, took a drink of water near the Tree People, danced away from some Wasps (the insects, not the preppy kind) and ran back the way I began.

There are many dogs at Fryman Canyon and almost all of them are on leashes. Ocassionally you’ll spot a much older dog off leash, but the grey around the muzzle is typically a tip off to the fact that the dog is too damn old and tired to chase anything, including housewives who run.

As I was coming down the last hill I took a turn and was stunned to see a Rhodesian Ridgeback off leash, running with some kids and a guy my aged who was holding the leash folded in his hands.

I stopped running because I didn’t need a 75 pound dog that’s been bred to fight lions thinking that we were playing a tackle the housewife game. I ran off the side of the path and said to the guy, “You’ve got to put a dog that size on a leash.”

And he said, “I’m sorry.” And he did nothing.

“That dog is too big to be off leash.” I reiterated.

And he mocked me with an, “I’m sor-ry” and then he rolled his eyes around his bald head.

So told him to “get fucked”, and his kids heard. And I’m pretty sure I did the wrong thing, and I’m really sorry that three kids who aren’t yet teens had to see their dad get talked to that way, but I’m guessing I’m not the only person who thinks their Dad and his entitlement are just disgusting.
Yes, I am aware that snippy little poodles and chihuahuas probably hurt more people than Rhodesian Ridgebacks, but those little fuckers can’t catch me in the hills.

Not so long ago women would display their crafts in order to beautify their homes, tell stories and for a select few, to make a supplemental income. Women would gather and make a community quilt, or they’d sit side by side and do needlework. They’d share tips and tricks and all the while discuss their lives. Walking through museums I find rugs and needlework from centuries ago, surely made by groups. I’m unsure if they were men or women.

As women have taken over personal blogging are we honing our crafting skills? Are our headers our new way to display our talents? Are conferences the knitting circle?

Is our need to create and beautify so strong that we’ve taken it out of just our homes and attempted to spread it worldwide?

Are these skills something we teach our daughters as we would teach them to knit a scarf or to stitch from Mexico to Maine? Or do we just need to connect? Because I’m thinking that this is more than just connecting.

Photo via Margriet PR flickr creative commons