another night in nyc

After a really lazy afternoon, I needed to go out and breathe fresh air. It took much cajoling to convince everyone to "just walk we don't have to stay long" to Washington Square Park. There was a performance going on near the fountain, we stopped to see what it was about. Three black guys were talking up their future performance, stoking the crowd, cracking racial jokes at just about everyone. And then they broke into dance. Not bad, worth staying to watch. They started pulling volunteers from the crowd. Four women were standing in a line when one of the guys looked at Jack and said, "kid, can you raise your hand?" Jack did. "You just volunteered," and the guy pulled him into the circle. Several more were picked and then there was a good solid 20 minutes of eeking out as much money as possible from the onlookers. These guys had their routine down—even this part was funny. And it was cool that our evening walk to a local park was also the destination for people from Cuba, Iran, Columbia, Jamaica, Lithuania, South Dakota, Texas, to name a few.

The grand finale—one of the performers ran at full speed and flipped over all seven people standing side to side. Amazing. And just as they promised, no one got hurt.

Joe Jr's

Joe Jr's, my local coffee shop/diner, was forced to shut down last weekend. After 35 years the landlord wouldn't sign a lease and a long-standing family business had 4 days to clear out. My neighborhood will never be the same—the comfort, the closeness, the small town-ness of Greenwich Village has had a whole ripped out of its center.

Of all the places I've known in my life, Joe's is the one that I will miss most. Every time I walked by (and that's often, as I live across the street), someone inside waved to me. I'll me the pea soup with croutons on the side on Mondays/Saturdays. Greg's nod. Sosa's smile. Pedro's squeaks. Effy's understanding and sympathy—she could tell when things got too much for me. Neighbors and friends sitting at the tables by the window. The regulars at the counter always saying hi. It was where we ate after every vacation. The place my kids chose to celebrate special occasions. It was going to be my daughter's first job. The owner's son promised she could seat people when she was 12, the same age as his cousins were when they started working there.

We came back to the city last Wednesday night, walked by and saw a shocking sign in the window—that Joe's had until Sunday to clear out. All I could think was that we, anyone, everyone, the owners, the neighbors, had to fight to keep this from happening. I ran upstairs, whipped up a petition and flew back down so people would have something to sign, to register their protests. I got in touch with a friend at ABC, who had a news crew down to do a story the next morning. I called TV stations, newspapers, local politicians, the mayor's office. I called people who worked there, emailed everyone I know who'd been there at some point. I don't know that I've ever fought so hard so fast for something not to happen. At times I felt like time slowed down, that the pain was as if someone close to me had died. And then there were moments of elation, of energy and hope when people rallied together on the sidewalk outside, exploring ways to keep the doors from shutting for the last time.

Every time I walked in, it got harder and harder to leave, as I knew, eventually, that the last time was near. I met countless people who shared moving stories. The woman who snuck her dying mom out of the hospital for one last real meal. Her mom only wanted to go to Joe's. The people who remember meeting Teddy, the owner, for the first time, 35 years ago. The people who moved away years ago, but came back, in tears, for one last meal. The grownups who started eating at Joe's when they were still in booster seats. The man, now with a walker, who had breakfast there every morning and didn't know where he'd go instead.

We had breakfast there Saturday morning. We went back later for lunch, after I spent hours making us all Joe Jr's t-shirts. They were already out of french fries, of feta cheese, of white bread. We spent hours huddled in a booth with people who had been strangers 2 days before, whose shoulders we were now sobbing on. We stopped by later that night and stood as long as we could, on the sidewalk with all the other people who just couldn't let go. We all wanted to believe that this was a bad dream, that there would be some 11th hour miracle, that this couldn't really be happening.

Teddy, the owner, called me in and handed me an apple pie. Greg hugged me and I fell apart. I don't cry in public, but there I was, shaking, tears streaming down my face. My husband helped take the Joe Jr's sign off the building. And the next morning, no one opened. Instead of heading inside for breakfast, people stood, staring at the locked door. Izzy and I made a poster for people to sign—again, I needed to do something, to keep the reality from setting in.

We were interviewed on NY1 that afternoon: http://tinyurl.com/q4qrkn.

Later that day Greg called—they were coming to clear the place out, please come down and say hi. Again, a crowd formed that was almost glued to the corner. People signed plates, scored menus, took the brown or gold water glasses. I had heartfelt conversations with neighbors I'd barely nodded to before.

Today we missed Iz's toasted corn muffin for breakfast, my decaf light that Greg would hand me in the afternoon, without my even asking, Jack's fries that he craved after school/camp. I've never felt so devastated walking by an empty space.

45

I remember my mom at 45. Frosted hair. Aviator glasses. Matching polyester 1970s pant suits. Carpools, Bowling on Wednesdays. Mah Johnng on Monday nights and Thursday afternoons. Tennis thrown in there somewhere at Tennis Time in Amityville. 45 was solidly middle aged. Boring, conservative, stuck, I imagined her life had always been like that and would always stay the same. Repetitive, endlessly doing everything for everyone else and having nothing of her own (except for the aforementioned hobbies). I was often so incredibly angry at her for not having a life of her own, not ever using her intellect or her education to create a life of her own. To be honest, I was a hormonal teenager—most have profound issues with their moms. And I'm not sure who I was comparing her unfavorably to. In most of the families we knew, the dads went off to work and the moms stayed home. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But I knew, on some level, without understanding it, that my mom battled deep depression and disappointment, but was never willing to do anything about it.

She gave up her dream of going to medical school so that my dad could attend. She worked as an assistant to a professor to pay my father's tuition. She had been one of a handful of women accepted, but no one questioned the decision that he go instead of her. After he graduated, she had kids and was content to be a doctor's wife. She lost herself in games, food, and mystery novels. Sometimes, often, I thought she had no idea we were around, she was so immersed in her cocoon of denial.

I only knew what I saw as a way for a woman to exist in the world, but I knew that I'd go crazy if that was my life. And so, I'm still figuring it all out. At 45, I'm on the verge of the biggest project I've ever done being launched into the world. I feel anything but stuck or conventional. I see unlimited possibilities ahead—the polar opposite of what I imagined middle age to be.

the never-ending juggle

There are some days when I know I can't pull off all that I have to. Today is one of them. Actually, I think I've felt this way for weeks but haven't been able to admit it. A bone-crushing fatigue is keeping me from thinking too much about everything and realizing how impossible it all is. I just made a master to-do list and only made it through 2 categories before I gave up. The apartment has been completely trashed and I don't care anymore. Usually I feel out of sorts when it looks like this but even so, I don't care. Somehow, the ability to relax and have fun has temporarily disappeared. Will it ever come back? I thought I was going to faint in the street today. I'm having that woozy feeling right now and am not sure if it's just exhaustion or something worse. In this frame of mind, I'm focussing on worse. I've been sleeping through the night, which is insanely rare for me. That's how completely wiped out I am.

no, not that flow

For the past three days I've felt negative, insecure, inadequate, grumpy, put-upon, rage-filled, fed-up, incapable, frustrated, lost bordering on hopeless. At breakfast this morning I told a friend I'd forgotten what it was like to be cheerful, wondering if I'd be trapped in that greyness forever. And now I'm fine. Could be the bursts of sunshine beaming through the clouds after what seems like endless days of dreary rain. Far more likely is that I got my period. After whining for hours, suddenly the need to disappeared. It was instantaneous. My energy came rushing back. I feel powerful, enthusiastic, motivated. I feel good.

Amazing what a little hormone shift can do.

a baseball odyssey

Jack had an 8AM game today. The forecast was rain, and looking at sleek streets, I started calling the Little League hotline at 7, to make sure they were still playing. 7:15: yes. 7:45: yes. Jack and I headed down to the car—parking downtown is easy on Sunday and I was sure I'd find a spot that's good for tomorrow (alternate side) after his game was over. It was hard not to notice the hundreds (HUNDREDS) of bike riders cycling up 6th Avenue for the multi-burrough 50 mile bike ride, but I had gone to sleep at 2 and my brain wasn't processing everything yet.

As we headed down 5th Ave, 9th Street was closed. I started to panic, realizing there was NO way in hell we'd be able to get across 6th Avenue. And there was no way to get back to our parking spot. We had to circumvent Washington Square Park, trying Houston next to make it to the West Side Highway. No go. The police officer killed all hope, there was no way to get to the west side. We looped around, ditched the car at 8th and University, grabbed our gear, and started hiking west, through the drizzle.

On 8th Street we saw a man wearing a Greenwich Village Little League coach shirt. While the games were still happening, he was giving up and heading home. He couldn't get to Pier 40. As we were talking options, a cab slowed down—the dad of Jack's friend stuck his head out. They were trying to get to the game too. Jack and I piled in the cab and made it as far as the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, west of 6th. Then, ignoring the blaring whistle of a police officer, the four of us darted across the avenue, avoiding hordes of oncoming bikers. It was remarkably like a game of Frogger.

We picked up another cab a few blocks north and made it to the game. Somehow, we were only 15 minutes late. As Jack ran across the field, the inning switched and he was next up at bat. He was on first base by the time I got there. He had 2 more base hits—his best game ever.

dumbfounded

Someone in my elevator just said, "Hey, you're Elissa, aren't you?" I said yes and she mentioned she recognized me from my author photo, that she was X's partner and that all my pictures were great.

Lovely compliment! But I have no idea who X is.