Maybe he didn't recognise me with my clothes on

Diary of a New Yorker: Weekend in the city

Saturday

The Big Light

One thing you won’t notice in the movies, is that there is no overhead lighting in New York apartments. They do not have the concept of the Big Light; you have to get your own lamps. Every evening at dusk, I walk round the apartment like a medieval lamplighter, flicking on all of our lamps - and I still can't see a f**king thing. 

You’ve Got….to get some overhead lighting

I ordered two more floor lamps to add to our ever growing collection. They arrived Saturday morning and David assembled them while the kids made forts from the boxes, taking a break only to remark “How many lamps are in this apartment?” 15. No exaggeration, we have 15 lamps.

Tag Team Parents

We tag-teamed the parenting this weekend, dividing and conquering the two kid birthday parties on the calendar.  Because I was the one doing the planning, I gave him the outdoor party on Saturday and I took the indoor one on Sunday. There was the promise of hot cider at the outdoor party but I’ve been burned by that often enough to finally remember that when they say cider, they mean alcohol-free cider.

The playground party ended up being postponed due to poor air quality but David and the kids didn't realise that until they were already in the playground and more importantly, not before I was safely out the door for my facial, I mean workout. 

FaceGym

With my free time, I went to FaceGym in Nordstrom where I had the Signature Sculpt. 

The marketing for FaceGym is that it is a “facial workout” to maintain your “facial fitness”. There is a ballet bar in front of the mirror that serves no purpose other than adding to the workout studio aesthetic. The whole idea is fabulous PR, designed to make you think it is somehow different when, in reality, you are lying there doing nothing, the same as every other facial. Like every other facial, you get asked what your skincare routine is and like every other facial, you’re made feel bad about it, no matter what you answer. 

It’s particularly difficult to stomach being berated for exfoliating twice a week, when I’d just made it up because I thought it was the right answer. But of course, there is no right answer. You are never not being upsold something; they’re just figuring out what it is they are going to sell you.

While not a workout for me, it was a workout for the esthetician - I'll give her that. It’s hard to keep up that vigorous and rhythmic hand movement so consistently over a prolonged period of time but she did it. She must have good practice.

The props were many and varied. There was a ball, rolled over the face. There was the mini steamroller thing, straight from the fridge (another trick to make you think value has been added). There was a vibrator. 

I started off thinking it was pure gimmick but it quickly turned into one of the most relaxing facials I've ever had in my life, even sat right in the middle of a department store. It must have been the vibrator. 

Pomodoroing across town

The party had been cancelled but my 3 to 4 hours by myself, had not. There is a bar on every floor in Nordstrom and I went straight to the top, taking a seat at the bar in Bistro Verde where I ordered a coffee and a bowl of berries.

I’m in the middle of NaNoWriMo  (with my own twist on the rules: writing for an hour every day in November) and this was a great place to do it. I took the Pomodoro approach to my hour’s writing and wrote for twenty minutes before relocating to Nordstrom men’s department across the street and to Milk Bar on the ground floor. Except that Milk Bar is now gone! Replaced by Ebar! A ginger cake caught my eye which I had with a cup of tea and set up for another 20 minutes. 

The cafe isn’t separate in any way to the shopping part of the store and I could see the couple that lives two doors up from us, straight ahead, perusing jackets. I contemplated giving them a quick head-nod of recognition but remembered that this day last week, I was in the elevator with them and when I said which floor I was going to, they did a double take, with a shocked look that I perceived as “Oh you’re on OUR floor? We’ve never clapped eyes on you before in our lives”. And this was even though I had my most distinguishing feature -  two curly-haired young children - with me at the time. They’d never recognise me, here in the middle of Nordstrom, without them. It got even more awkward when we exited the lift in the same direction and all kept walking, right on down to the end of the corridor. Yip, this is how close we’ve lived for the past two years.  Thanks for noticing. I did think the guy was looking at me funny over the clothes rails but maybe it was because I was staring at him.

My Pomodoro timer (my watch) went off and I relocated again. This time to the Wholefoods cafe because I had to pick up groceries on the way home and I'm nothing if not efficient with my time. I saw another man I recognised in Wholefoods. A dad from a toddler and parent swimming class. I eyeballed him in the hope of receiving a flicker of connection but nada. Maybe he didn't recognise me with my clothes on.

The Irish Shelf

I have previously tweeted about the Irish shelf in a nearby supermarket. I went in during the week looking for a shepherd’s pie mix but because they were out and because homesickness is a curious and unpredictable thing, I instead picked up a….jar of Ben’s Original medium curry sauce. I’ll let you know if things ever get bad enough that I'm reaching for the Ambrosia rice pudding or pickled beetroot that shopkeepers seem to think that emigrants crave but that is the sequence of events that led to us enjoying a curry from a jar, at home Saturday night with a Heineken Zero. 

Sunday

It was my turn to take one for the team and head off to a 5 year old’s birthday party. I can remember my 5th birthday party. My parents were there but no one else’s were. We need to bring that back.

I got chatting to one of the dads who said he works in CNN. I managed 20 seconds of restraint and 20 seconds of saying to myself “Don’t say it, don't say it, don't say it” before my pea brain could no longer stop my mouth from blurting out “DO YA KNOW DONIE O’SULLIVAN?” Of course he did. 

It was a great party. One where the kids went so buck wild that their faces turned tomato-red and their hair was mashed to their heads with sweat. At one point, I heard a boy shout “Hey! She touched my butt!” I looked up and the butt-toucher was not just a 3 year old girl but my 3 year old girl. 

I called her over and asked “Did you touch that boy’s butt?” 

3 year old: “Yeah”

Me: “We don’t touch other people’s butts”

The 3 year old wasn’t taking any of it in and wandered off. I decided to delegate my parental responsibility to my 5 year old, saying to her: “Will you tell your sister she can’t touch people’s butts”. The 5 year old did what every child since the dawn of time would do in that situation: stood stock-still and roared at her sister across the room: “YOU CAN'T TOUCH PEOPLE’S BUTTS!!!!”

We left the party and reconvened as a family in the Dawson on 45th and 5th, because I fancied a roast but I didn't fancy cooking one. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, roast potatoes, stuffing, boiled veg and gravy - like God intended. I’m on the lookout for a New York stand-in mother figure for myself, and the Dawson might well have just landed itself the part.