Alternate Side

A detail of my car's dashboard. Very 90s.

We have a car in Manhattan and we park it on the streets.

And that's every bit as insane as it sounds, but we have our reasons. ($400 a month garage fees being chief among the street-park decision.)

I never set out to be an auto-bearing Manhattanite, but rather had this thrust upon me when my very elderly parents moved back to New York and under my care about seven years ago, and their car came up from Florida with them.

It was full of dings and scratches, patches of other car colors that had been acquired by... violent proximity. Apparently at the end of his driving years, nearly every time he took the car out, my father would return with dents of unknown origin.

If my parents had just moved to Manhattan, I would have sold their car and been done with it. But no, they chose a senior residence in the northern reaches of Riverdale. (Technically in Yonkers even, though literally it was just a toehold over the line, on the north side of the dotted-line dividing street, rather than the south.)

I was their chauffeur, ferrying them to doctor appointments, shopping trips, Dad's one-man show at the Yonkers Library (his last big professional hurrah).

Now, other than weekend road trips and family vacations, I mostly drive Ethan to school on alternate side parking days, when the car must be ritually moved and re-parked.* Twice a week. More if we've used it and been unlucky in our parking choices upon return.

And after dropping Ethan off, I have about an hour to kill before it's time to re-park. The perfect excuse for morning coffee with the mom-friends.

This morning our conversation spanned hysterectomies, Gay Day at the Mall of America, rating of local pediatricians, concern for a friend having a hospitalization-worthy manic episode, homework, Sacha Baron Cohen, Simon Baron Cohen, the horrors of the middle school application process, Freddy Mercury, a theatrical parent's reaction to numerous boyfriends over the years until her loudly sung declaration of the husband to be: "Keeeeeeper!"

Once again I was filled with that warm snugly feeling that I have the best friends in the world.

A particularly supportive non-judgmental group; when I hear of women complaining about the competitiveness, vindictiveness and shallowness of women's relationships I can't help but think: "Who the Hell are YOU befriending?" because that so does not describe anyone I know or choose to spend time with. Then again we're not the "perfect" moms in designer clothes (unless they came from Filene's or Loehmann's) with the "perfect" children. Far from it.

Giving a friend a ride home after coffee today, she hopped into the passenger seat and seemed delighted to find I had a cassette deck in my dashboard, with actual cassettes in the cubby. (I did mention it's a 1997 sedan that had been previously owned by old people - i.e. my parents -  right?)

She grabbed Special Beat Service and popped it in and we started loudly caterwauling together, singing along to "Sugar and Stress" as we barreled up Amsterdam Avenue.

By the time I dropped her at her door "End of the Party" was playing. A hauntingly beautiful song. We had spent much of the car ride talking about how important music has been to us at various times in our lives.

I mentioned how one of my blog friends had included a song in her post that sent me on a wild nostalgia ride: Kate Bush singing "This Woman's Work."

And then, a few moments later, just as I'd found a parking spot, the heavens opened up and a torrential downpour ensued, the kind that laughs at your puny little umbrellas as it soaks you with sideways rain and from the ground up in great splashing puddles.

There was thunder and lightning involved, and the blaring of alarms, as cars close to the strikes rocked in the violence of the electrically discharging blasts.

Me? I sat toasty in my bubble, listening to my old music on the cassette deck; enjoying the spectacle outside my windows.

Windows, from a rainy window

Trees above, through windshield raindrops

So I will leave you with a few words from and a video of this English Beat song I Confess: "I know I'm shouting, I like to shout!" Enjoy:

*Note: this is a post from my "Zombie Files" - written months ago, and just finished up and posted today (being reminded of it by the rain). Right NOW I am actually using the car a LOT driving back and forth to Long Island where my mother is in a nursing home.

Having My Trader Joe's Moment

Some spoils from a hunting/gathering expedition to Trader Joe's

We have recently acquired a Trader Joe's in our Upper West Side neighborhood, and it still the object of much amusement and wonder to me and my Mom friends.  It's located closer to my kid's school than to my home, so while I talk about it a fair amount, I only actually show up to shop there sporadically.

Yesterday morning I was having coffee after drop-off at Ethan's school with a bunch of mom friends. We've all been rather busy, so it's been awhile since we've gotten a good coffee-klatch going.  There was the usual hysteria.  In the midst of a conversation one mom said, "they should call him Ari" to which another mom at the far end of the table, mishearing, piped up, "What about calamari?"  This caused the first mom to turn bright red as she made the heroic decision to nearly die choking rather than spray coffee all over the mom sitting across from her, aborting her spit-take moment.

With our kids in third grade, most of us have been hanging out together for four years now, and I have to say I have the best collection of friends I have ever had in my life, hands down.  I knew having kids was going to turn my life around in so many ways, but I had no idea it would bring me this incredible circle of women friends. I am wondrously grateful for them, constantly.

This morning after our allotted hour of caffeination and mirth, as we were preparing to scatter to our various errands and jobs, one mom made the announcement that she was off to Trader Joe's for some food shopping, and did anyone want to come along?

I had 10,000 things on my plate, but hadn't been to see Joe in a while, so I thought "What the hell?" and joined in.  Also?  It seemed a very virtuous way to avoid all my necessary "to do" items that needed to be done. "Can't you see I'm shopping for my family, not just procrastinating & hanging out with my friends, prolonging the fun before knuckling down to being a responsible adult.  How DARE you suggest otherwise?"

But of course that was exactly what I was doing.  Sure we needed food in the house, but I wasn't planning on shopping this morning yet, hadn't taken inventory of the cupboard, hadn't surveyed the fridge, and menu planning?  Please.  No such beast in our house right now.   So really, I had no list and no clear idea of what was needed at home food-wise.

Might I mention?  Not the wisest of plans.  It was however, boatloads of fun.  There were four of us altogether who set off on the expedition to feed our families, and a merry band we were.  Maybe we shouldn't have had the free coffee samples at Trader Joe's as we were already caffeinated to the hilt.  In any event, when you're at a store called "Trader Joe's" and the staff all wear Hawaiian shirts and have leis around their necks, shouldn't it be an adventure?

Well, I learned something new. With no plan and no shopping list, food not really on my mind, but WITH a bunch of fun giggly good friends in good spirits?  Was way too much like being in college and going food shopping with housemates, thoroughly stoned.  As I distantly recall (it's probably been 30 years).  (Yes, I'm that old, and yes it's been that long since I've done THAT, if you must know.)

So I'm being all: Oh, over there, that looks yummy... into the cart the chazzerai goes.  Also?  I was highly suggestible: whatever my friends bought that looked good, I bought, too.  Whether I or my family members will actually eat those items?  Remains to be seen.  All in the spirit of "let's try new things."

We were giddy.  We were having fun food shopping.  Awesomeness abounded.

Now, the Trader Joe's on the UWS is a strange subterranean sort, real estate in NYC being at a premium and all, existing on two below-ground levels.  So there are these strange cart & people dual escalator things (I'm sure you've seen them) to travel between the levels.  Fun!

We had just finished shopping the upper level and descended to the bottom when a friend lost her cart.  She had put it on the conveyor, but when she arrived at the bottom?  Not to be seen.  It just... disappeared.  There was a cart, but it was not hers; was someone else pushing her cart?  Quel mystery...

While scratching our heads, I noticed another woman walking by with an employee in tow, looking for her missing cart.  On a hunch I pointed to the one that had come down the escalator just after my friend.  Yes, that was it!  But, she did not, reciprocally, have my friend's cart.  Stolen?  Unthinkable. After much searching, it was finally located -- still upstairs.

As best we figured it out: distracted by the levity and conversation, my friend had grabbed the wrong cart (this other woman's) and sent that down the cart escalator, leaving hers waiting forlorn, abandoned at the top.  Mystery solved, cart firmly in hand, onward we rolled.

We had each been to Trader Joe's numerous times but never together, so the advice was free flowing, always useful, often entertaining.  A big improvement over asking opinions and advice from strangers or employees.  Who knows what they eat?

"Ever tried their  hummus?"
"Yes, delicious!"
Into the cart it goes.

The cinnamon almonds?
"Do NOT buy, more addictive than crack!"

"irresistible snack" indeed

Should have listened, polished off the bag in under 24 hours.  (I was considering suing them but it has that warning right there on the bag, damn, guess there's no one to blame for my gluttony but myself.)

And no, it wasn't all useless junk in my cart, look at the picture up top, there's fruits & veggies: strawberries, heirloom tomatoes, oranges... oh, wait, those are chocolate oranges, my bad.

Also?  Trader Joe's is all with the program of having a lot of well labeled gluten-free, dairy-free items which I am always on the lookout for.   My son Jacob is on the GF/CF diet for autism, and has been for 5 years.  New yummy stuff is important to keep him from getting bored, keep expanding his food options.  Scored a lot of that stuff, too (mommy non-fail).

Eventually our carts filled and we had to hurry home to keep the frozen stuff frozen, so we finally settled into the checkout lines.  While there, we, of course, fell prey to the shiny objects lined up alongside the line, designed to catch our eyes and leap into our carts (hence the chocolate oranges).

The lines moved fast and the conversation was still sparking, and the mom next to the chocolate oranges was kept busy tossing them to the rest of us, so in no time we were all checking out.

Once again, I remembered why I love coming there, as I had an awesome cashier who was upbeat and chatty without being annoying and over the top.  Her lovely British accent may have been a part of the magic, that and the fact that she actually packed my groceries with a system and managed to put the heavy crushy things on the bottom the delicate ones on top and all my freezer foods in one bag together - genius!

Thank you, Lola, you are the best checkout-person ever.

The guy running the elevator looked at the four of us in terror as we piled in with our carts for the ride back up to the surface, but we all fit, and were comparing this experience with the evil elevator of the other, competing neighborhood market, Fairway.

"I have a friend who says she has to have a Xanax before she walks into Fairway."

"Everyone needs Xanax to survive Fairway"

"Hey, that's a great idea, they should have a free Xanax station at the door there, alongside the shopping carts."

We all decided Trader Joe's was infinitely more fun.

And when I got home? A million things to snack on, but nothing really to make for dinner.  Oh, well.  The local pizza place is on speed dial for a reason, folks.


P.S. You know?  Trader Joe's must have major blogging mojo going on, because Kris just wrote a hysterical post on her blog Pretty All True about shopping there with her family recently: Hence the sarcasm.  Go, read, laugh.