Sam's Club

G and I are on a reverse Cobble Hill tour. Everyone comes to Cobble Hill, known as the Gobble Hill, to check out the latest restaurants. Asian Fusian with Mexican on the side, but American underneath. And that's next to the French bistro and the Spanish tapas place on Smith Street. Instead of buzzing in and out of these little shops, we opt in for the homegrown talent. The real deal. Those guys that had seen Smith and Court Street before the Louis Vuittons and the Mini BMWs flooded the 'naybohood.' In fact, they were born somewhere between Smith and Court.

After taking a peek at the checkered table cloths, old curtains on the windows and the red, diner style booths in the basement floor restaurant, we decide to go in. With one of the boyz jumping in front of me on the stoop, only to hold the door for us, we step in to 1950s America.

We are asked to wait No, we just wait because noone gives a hoot that we are there. There are plenty of customers sitting down, but they look like they know what to do when they come to this joint. I finally motion to the bar tender, who also seems to be the waiter and the maitre' d. He says one minute and he goes on to wipe some glasses, then some tables. My eyes are on the booth at the back, by the window. Nice and cozy. Perfect for a romantic, casual dinner. I ask if he can give us that booth. He says no and points to some flimsy metal pile in the middle of a row of picnic tables. I ask again, trying to reason with him. It's 9:30pm. He doesn't have many customers trickling in and I see many couples sitting at the booths. Before he answers us, the boyz get up to give us their space. They 'know' Sammy, through I-forget-who-now and tell the bartender they can go to the back room.

That doesn't work either. Sammy comes out to settle the matter. Back room is closed. The booth will go to a party of four. And yes, they can hang my bag with bamboo sticks somewhere so missy can sit comfortable at the small table. G is about the faint from hunger. I wish them plenty of customers for the booth and take the assigned seat.

We order pizza with meatballs. Suddenly, we make it to the friendlies list, reserved for those who opt out of salad. G adds a couple glasses of wine to the order and wins the bartender's heart. I ask for brown sugar for my espresso. G and the bartender laugh - for two minutes. G turns and asks him if he has 'soy milk.' They laugh some more. I eat G's slice. He doesn't notice.

Then I spot him. Him! Hiiimmm! Solitaire dude, sitting with a book in his hand at the booth. He ain't no party of four. 'How come?' I think, trying to figure out just how naive and preppy I look not to deserve a booth at Sammy's.

"We need to earn points," I say to G.
"What points?"
"To get to the booth," I explain. "We need to become regulars!"
G looks back at the booth and then at me. He raises his glass, 'Here's looking at you kid!' he says.

Curls, Ah Curls!

I am talking three different things while walking down the street. G patiently hums along. And this and that and this and that. Do this and I'll do that. G might as well be under water. He worked 40 hours in the the last three days. He's out of it - essentially. Then I catch my shadow on the ground. "Eeek!" I scream. "What? What happened?" he wakes up from his daydream. "My hair looks weird?" "Huh?" he asks, not understanding how I can have a notion about the state of my hair in the middle of a narrow street with no store windows. "I can see it in my shadow. It's weird!" "???!!!" "It's wiggly, I'm telling you..." I insist. He looks at my blop of curls, trying to see what I am describing. "It's beautiful. It's really nice..." he says with love in his eyes. I look back at my shadow on cement. I love what I see.


Girlscout passed through town last week. She breezed through lunches and dinners and coffees with tens of her friends. And she traveled to Chicago for a dear friend's grandson's bar-mitzvah. In between the turbo-charged love fest, we met up three times. She was the same as ever. She didn't have homework anymore, she had clients who called her up for advice -- anxious parents who sought her counsel for their children. She selflessly gave to her clients, her patients, her friends. Her face was pure, without makeup or any other interruptions. Her thick black curly hair was coming down in straight strands - going against their nature, but presumably under her control. She had started straightening her hair, since her ex didn't like her hair wild and floating around her shoulders. He liked things a certain style. He tried to fit her into a mold. He left her life three years ago, but girlscout still straightens her hair. Perhaps to show him that it is her who has control, not him. Perhaps she likes it better this way. Perhaps she was told she was not pretty any other way. One day, someone will tell girlscout she is pretty ever which way...we'll have coffee in Soho again, between a flight and a client. And her dreamy curls will breathe the air.


Rebeccah picks up my call with significant enthusiasm. "I got an apartment!" she says. "What?" "I signed a lease. I am going to just pack up some clothes and have some time to think to myself at least," she explains in one breath, with the victorious auro of someone who has won a challenge after a long fight. "OK, great, " I say relieved that she is pulling herself out of a stifled situation, and is able to regain control over her life. She doesn't have to wonder where he'll move, which job he'll take, whether he'll propose, or anything of the sort. He may reach out to her, waking up to her absence. She'll be at the new apartment, not conveniently in the living room. "What are you going to do next?" I ask, expecting to hear a back-to-school prep story from the lifelong teacher. "I am going to get my hair straightened. It's a lot of money, but I am ready for a change!" she says with the same determinism. "It looks great either way," I say, thinking whether he is worth spending several more hundreds of dollars. "I am doing it for myself," Rebeccah says as if reading my mind. "I felt great the last time I did it" I do remember that time. She did feel like a new person. Heck, she looked like a new person. Enough with unpredictable waves that just won't calm down. In this case, it may be time to press down some unruly curls.