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Growing up my mother and her mother were sticklers for good manners.  I made a point of saying please and thank you.  I was afraid they would view me as rude, and I didn’t want that moniker.  My grandmother would point out other children who might have been louder than us, or publicly whiny, and she’d use those children as cautionary tails of behavior we were to stringently avoid.  

Although this cannot be said of much of the country or world, we in New York City have enjoyed a reprieve from the intense heat of July.  It has been delightful.  Today I relished a breezy morning riding my low-to-the-ground bicycle up and down Park Avenue for the annual Summer Streets event.  The Department of Transportation closes streets on Saturdays in all five boroughs throughout late July and August for pedestrians, joggers, and cyclists as a way of promoting greener transportation.    

What am I doing this weekend?  Nothing special and everything essential.  In an Instagram world of glamourous posts, my weekend is the antithesis of awesome.  I started early to ensure I could easily access the washing machines needed for the weekly laundry.  Luckily for me, it was a ghost town before 7 am, and I peacefully and quietly secured my machines and loaded them from the full hampers.  

I set out to go to The Brooklyn Museum to see the Africa Fashion exhibit.  I had intended to see it twice before but got waylaid, so my determination to get there yesterday was fierce.  My plan was to slowly jog in Prospect Park getting out at the arch and walking the few blocks to the museum.  Once I made it to Prospect Park at an unfamiliar entrance, I opened up Maps on my iPhone and set off.  

I was tired, it was hot, and I was happy to be at MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art, on West 53^rd Street.  The galleries were crowded, but I took my time enjoying new exhibitions and old favorites. After the slow perusal of four floors, I was spent.  But I still had almost an hour before our dinner reservation down the block.  

Happy Father’s Day.  When I say that it conjures up so much for me and for so many others, I expect you included.  Many of us have had varied relationships with our fathers nothing like Father Knows Best, The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, Blackish, or even Home Improvement.  If only we could tune in for 30 minutes a week and enjoy the comical moments that focus on the highlights of the best parts of them, with a little silly thrown in.  

I noticed that by the end of my work week I was short on compassion.  My go to was frustration, impatience, or barely disguised anger.  It was simple things. I was missing paperwork that had been promised me.  A pair of reading glasses broke.  And then there were a string of simple annoyances.  

The Q train came to a halting stop.  An announcement immediately came on asking “Who pulled the emergency cord?”  At the end of our car, a good citizen thinking there was a request to pull the cord, got up from her seat, pulled the cord, even as the train stood idle.  She sat back down returning to her book.  A hardcover, old school, though she looked barely 25.  

I, like many, have mixed feelings about Mother’s Day.  

As a daughter I knew that I loved my mom, and I also yearned for her acceptance, spending far too much of my babysitting money to bask in the momentary approval of an expensive Mother’s Day gift.  I’d set up Arlene’s Kitchen, honoring our mom.  It was a made-up restaurant in our home with hand-written menus for the family.  Nervous about what I might cook, I’d prep all the possibilities from eggs, any type of French toast or bagels & lox.  As down home as those brunches were, they were followed by the certainty that my clean-up techniques would be met with inevitable disapproval.  No one could make a countertop shine like my mom.  

It was a full moon this week.  I love looking up on a clear night and viewing the magical, mystical moon between the high rises.  Ever since I was a child I’ve found the moon an enchantress.  Myths have their place, and for many years I counted on myths to justify my outsized love of a full moon.  In times of feeling invisible I felt seen by the moon.  

Growing up we wore rubbers or rubber boots, gently stretching them until they covered our shoes.  It was a hassle taking them on and off.  But to keep our leather saddle shoes somewhat dry, we sported rubbers over our two-toned oxfords.  These days my low rubber boots are the only shoes I need when it’s wet outside. They keep the water from soaking my socks and allow me to walk about in the rain.  

I came home late last night after seeing a beautifully moving theater piece by Suzan-Lori Parks.  Retrieving our mail, I saw a broken glass and a brick on the lobby carpet.  Apparently, a group of teens were told to leave the area while smoking. So one of them in anger threw a brick through the window to show ‘them.”  It created more work for the porter and super who had to clean up and repair on their weekend off, when they were nowhere near the incident.  

I am a planner. Though I am open to spontaneous experiences, I usually rely on my calendar to settle into the day. In recent months I have had to change plans a good number of times.  Often, I’ve enjoyed folding the new into what I had expected.  But this last week too many plans changed, and my equilibrium is off.  My sense of self along with my comfort levels are being tested.  

I left my passport at the hotel two and half miles from Reykjavik.  I was leaving for JFK the next day.  We had had a magnificent trip, and my passport was in the safe where I left it along with U.S. dollars I wasn’t going to spend in Iceland.  Our driver, an adventure tour guide in his own right, was going to drop off some guests and pick up passengers to bring back to the capitol city the next morning.  He would be happy to bring back my passport and drive us to the airport.  The magnificent experience continued.  

The small, Nordic, island country of Iceland is around 5 hours away from New York City. It’s a magical place with other worldly terrains and natural wonders. We left the city for a long weekend with the hopes of at least getting a glimpse of the Aurora Borealis. We were not disappointed. And we got so much more.  

Unlike many recommendations for sleep hygiene, I do not go to sleep the same time each night.  Some nights I work late, some nights I enjoy the theater or other live entertainment.  Some nights I’m reading, while others I’m catching up on a television show.  I do my best to listen to signs of being tired if I’m at home, and I put myself to sleep accordingly.  Inevitably, this leaves me in a perpetual state of never quite catching up with the shows I enjoy.  

Years ago I had a phone book.  It looked like a fabric-covered hardback, divided by letters of the alphabet neatly cut into tabs descending on the paper’s edge.  Often the pages were outlined in gold ink.  I’d get an updated one every few years and I’d transfer the names, addresses, and phone numbers into my new, usually colorful, phone book.  These were also the days in which long distance phone calls were a big deal and we were reminded to speak quickly since we were being charged by the minute.  Phones had cords and were strategically placed in one or more locations in our homes.  A bygone era.  Yes, I have become a senior stereotype.  

I was walking downtown listening to a light novel, a quasi-romcom.  It had started off well and then it took a nose-dive from there.  About halfway to my destination I turned it off.  I simply wasn’t enjoying it anymore.  I had wanted a break from heavier subjects or professional readings.  This was not the break I needed.