Snow

There are a few disadvantages (though not many) to living in New York City. One occurs during the imminent arrival of a snow storm. Certain things happen here that you can't really explain. Airports start shutting down hours, if not days, before the first snowflake has fallen. Workers in high rise offices start debating whether or not the forecasters are better or worse at predicting the weather than economists are in their field.

And most astonishingly, those who live in New Jersey already announce that they are not coming to work if the snow exceeds 3 inches. Even those who live just across the Hudson have developed: "I can’t possibly go to work if it snows” disease.

So as I am the lone Manhattan representative on my trading desk , my management immediately concludes that I will be the only person able to get to work in the aftermath of an accumulating snowstorm.

It needn't matter that snow could be piled up two feet in front of my apartment building's door. It is expected that I should at the very least be able to ski to work if the need arises; don't kid yourself -- I have seen that many a time before.

All those from the supposed hardest soon-to-be-hit suburbs compare how many inches they will see by the following morning.

My standing joke is to Mario who sits opposite me. He leaps out of his seat announcing that he has just spoken to his wife and she expects at least 6 inches this evening. My response is always: "Your wife always expects 6 inches Mario, but she only ever sees 3 or 4."

Oh you can have so much fun with Suburbanites!!!!

Freedom: Actually, Not at All

My whole family have departed on a ski trip out West leaving me behind to tend to the cat and generally keep the apartment in good shape until their return next Sunday. The kids are obviously off school for the week and many other families have left Manhattan for warmer shores or colder peaks. The traffic on the streets has been reduced considerably as children don't need to be shepherded around to and from school and the numerous after school activities they all seem to attend.

Alone in the greatest city in the world; a deathly quiet apartment; no one to wake me up in the middle of the night; sleeping in at the weekends; no chauffeuring of tired over indulged children; no clearing up and no spouse for a whole ten days. The real question is: Who has the better vacation - my family or me? And then my Mother shows up on my doorstep announcing her stay for five days. My plea for solitude accompanied with peace and quiet was rejected. My Mom thought it would be a great idea for the two of us to catch up. Just the two of us. Bring back the family; all is forgiven.

I have a very sprightly Mother. She is very English in her ways. Impeccably well mannered and obsessed with doing the right thing. She also has a PH.D. in saying the wrong thing. This combination makes for tremendous entertainment for all those who are fortunate enough to spend valuable time with her. This weekend proved to be a breath of fresh air. We walked, we talked, we dined, we laughed, we cried and we toured the city. We went to the Guggenheim Museum. We walked in Central Park. I gave her a comprehensive guided tour of the Upper East side. The conclusions I came to were that I am blessed to have such a wonderful Mother; I live in the greatest city in the world; and freedom is relative and more fulfilling when with one.

Never Go Here On Your Own

The President's Weekend was coming to a close. I jumped in the car and took my Mother to J.F.K airport and bid her adieu, slightly teary. She was headed back to London to make sure my elder sister hadn't joined a cult nor had sold my Mother's house in her absence. I then drove back to the Upper East Side determined to do something on my own so as to regain my independence and feel a sense of freedom that had been bestowed on me by my family's departure to the ski slopes of Utah.

On numerous occasions I had walked past the Comedy Club just two blocks north of my building. It was conveniently located on Second Avenue and its loud and bright sign beckoned me to enter into its comical corridors and explore a night of humor and laughter whilst cradling a couple of beer bottles. I perused its website and saw that there were six comedians on parade that night, all with glowing accolades in the world of comedy. They had all appeared on various television shows that I had never seen but it looked like a worthy line up and one that I was enticed to pay a visit to.

I arrived at its doors, ticket-less. Scrolling to the bottom of the web page where the purchase ticket button lay, never crossed my mind. My driving skills are excellent but I have yet to master the art of staying in one lane on the Grand Central Parkway and completing the sixteen steps to buying a ticket on line. The person who was keenly in charge of “greet and meet" looked at me rather strangely when I entered the establishment. "What name is the reservation under please?" she muttered while scrolling down her list. "I don't have a reservation," I retorted, hoping that one lost stray could be accommodated in the room behind.

"Well I am sorry." she continued. And before she could get any more words out, I had already started walking dejectedly to the exit door." We only seat those parties that are complete. We need everybody here to seat them." She had already turned her attention to the group of four young males behind me in the line and was processing their reservation. After a couple of minutes I was standing there again at the podium and turned to the hostess and said "It's just me. Table for one please."

"I am not sure you want to do that sir," giving me a warning of things to come. "You will be like a lost rabbit in a well inhabited fox hole." I ignored her comment not really understanding what she was talking about and ventured into the large comedy room equipped with stage, free standing microphone and rows of seats neatly placed around tables. I had left the "meeter and greeter" and moved on to the "Seater."

He shook his head in dismay as he sat me against a wall, next to a table , just to the left of the stage as the comedians looked out. "Are you sure you want to sit by yourself? I can try and put you with another group if they agree." I declined his kind offer. Solitude is what I was looking for. I didn't want to make idle conversation with total strangers and I certainly didn't pay the club a visit to make friends or pick anyone up.

I sat back in my chair, eagerly anticipating the show that was about to start. I clenched a bottle of imported beer in one hand , savoring its amber contents as the alcohol entered my blood stream and raced towards my brain. I was in a satisfied state of mind; relaxed, slightly tipsy, and still very much alone. In a split second the evening took a turn for the worse. The Host started his introductory comedy routine and immediately asked the question, "would the Hermit in the building please stand up?" "I know you are in here. He was just let out of a Queens’ Mental Institution today and he is here alone. Ladies please stay clear. He has a history."

I was laughing along with the rest of the audience with this rather humorous opening gambit, until he turned to his left and pointed directly at me screaming, "There's the weirdo. There he is." I abruptly stopped laughing and in slow motion, moved my head from one side to the other looking at the entire audience in stitches, pointing at me doubled over in an extreme laughter pose.

The next act started his performance and carried on where the M.C had left off. The new comedian asked anyone within five feet of me to stand up and move tables for their own safety; of which everyone obliged. I remained the butt of all jokes until the end of the third act when it started growing a little tired and the "on his own jokes," didn't quite get met with the desired laughter required. I had withstood the onslaught and had come out a stronger person, with elephant skin. I was bruised but not severely injured. The one thing I had learned: Never ever go to a comedy club on your own. Its like having a steak tied around your neck when you walk into a lions’ den.

Long Live the Cat

The day I start believing in reincarnation I am putting in a request to come back as our cat Josie. The word "our" is a slight fabrication since Josie is really my wife's cat. I am the adopted father. Josie was there before I arrived on the scene and I am reminded of this fact every time I put up opposition to doing some chore for Josie.

Josie is old. She is 17 which in cats’ lives is 4,325. Josie has kidney failure which is very sad. She needs to be injected with fluids every other day . She takes two different types of pills daily and a powdered pill that is added to her food. She has been unwell for some time and her Mommy is the best cat care provider one can find.

I am the only one at home this week. I am "Mr Cat." I have been entrusted in being "Dr. Cat" every morning and evening, deceiving the cat by hiding her medication inside a soft chewy treat. It seems to be working. I also feed Josie at 3 am after she wakes me from my slumbers by meowing at about 120 decibels. In my dreamlike state , I can hear people screaming and calling out for help and jump out of bed looking for the tortured souls and instead I stumble across Josie crying out for food. I feed her with one eye open and collapse back into bed. Josie is fed again at 5.30am when I arise for the second time. The babysitter aka the cat sitter, in the kids’ absence, comes in during the day and feeds Josie twice. She is fed again at 6 pm on my return from work and then finally before I retire for the night.

Josie eats a lot. Her renal failure means that unless she eats often and plenty, her weight loss would be catastrophic (avoid the pun). Looking after Josie is a full time job and I exhausted from doing it. I do however realize that the responsibility of looking after the pet cat is of huge significance. If anything untoward would happen to Josie then the consequences for me would be horrendous. Lifelong guilt and retribution. I am convinced that my wife has had cameras installed all over the apartment spying on me and checking to see how good a job I am doing. I seem to spend a large potion of my time walking around my apartment saying good girl Josie with a big smile on my face waving to where I think the hidden cameras are located. The families in the apartment building opposite must think I am completely nuts, but they clearly have never been left with a sick cat belonging to my wife for an extended period of time.

If the feeding and pill schedule weren't enough, Josie needs an injection on alternate days. My wife trusts me with many duties but not with this task.She honestly thinks I would botch it up and murder the cat. So I have to take her to the vet every other day without fail and wait for an available technician to administer the needle and discharge 100 milliliters of some clear saline type liquid that keeps her alive for forty eight hours.

Fortunately the vet's office is on my block, so apart from having to rearrange my whole work and social life around these visits, they really do not pose too much of an inconvenience.

My only thought is when I am old and decrepit will someone look after me the same way as Josie is cared for? With intervention and constant attention Josie has survived for many years past her sell by date and may she have many more. My Mother commented on her stay with me about how well I was cat sitting. When I awoke this morning I recalled my Mother's statement regarding Josie. “I hope that the cat appreciates everything you are doing for her." Josie must of heard my Mother because in the middle of the night last night Josie decided to urinate all over my ski jacket that I had naively left on the floor. On telling my wife this piece of news she remarked,"Josie must be so mad at you. Were you nasty to her?"

When my wife eventually comes come I will be wearing whiskers, have four legs, a tail and will be purring up a storm curled up in my basket. She can look after me for a while!

How Do You Not Fall in Love with New York City?

I had family matters to attend to outside of the city. Actually it was technically outside of the country. I dashed up to Canada on Friday and returned on Sunday night. I wanted to be home in time for the handing out of bronze statues to famous people. Watching The Oscars in Canada doesn't quite have the same appeal as doing the same in New York City. At work this morning it was one of only two subjects discussed at the office. The other being the New York Knicks.

I was very eager to return home to New York City. I find it very hard to be away. I am not one who adapts easily to changes in my environment. I don't sleep well away from my bed, I get paranoid about not being able to return home, i don't trust other people's food and non New Yorkers tend to think and talk differently than we do. "But you are English," I hear you say. That may have been true some fifteen years ago but I now consider myself 100 per cent New York. I arrived at the airport a little early and changed my flight to one that left an hour earlier. I am very prepared for getting back to New York with as little hassle as possible.

I had already filled out the immigration card because i keep spares. I have a special pass that gets me through immigration without talking to an officer. They have an imprint of my eyes on file so all I have to do is look into a machine.
I have a credit card that gets me through the priority lane for the scanning of luggage. I only carry hand luggage. That same card gets me into the luxurious airport lounge for free and allows me to board the plane first. I fell asleep as soon as I sat in my seat and opened my eyes and looked out the window ten minutes before landing. This is what I saw when i looked out of the window and i took a photo. Why would I want to live anywhere else?

Why I Don't Live in Suburbia

The arrangement was to meet at 7.30pm at a Vietnamese bar downtown. I was very much looking forward to seeing my "used to live in the city but moved out" friend. We have many friends who have moved out of the city when they had kids because they wanted space, more affordable housing, better schools, and a back yard. I can't argue with any of their points. In an ideal world I would love all of the above but in the city.

Some of our friends moved so far out it takes hours to reach them. Some commute two hours each way. They miss almost a whole day every week just in getting to and from work. When they get home they are so exhausted they have to go straight to bed because they have to be up 6 hours later to go back to work. I just don't get it. I really don't. The back yard they pined for isn't used for eight months of the year and the schools they yearned for are great but the parents, if they both work in the city never set foot in it to see how good they are.

I am convinced commuting shortens life expectancy. Trains are late or cancelled causing blood pressure to boil. On some trains it is impossible to get a seat and so standing for four hours every day puts strain on the joints and the sheer fatigue causes a draining of energy levels. Live in the city and live longer.

At 6pm last night my friend who lives in a middle of a forest somewhere deep in Connecticut, just off the I-95 near the Hutchinson Parkway, close to route 684 and a stones throw away from The Connecticut Turnpike called me to inform me he was about to leave. He asked if we could meet at 8.30pm instead. He said that he had just listened to the radio and there was flooding somewhere, an accident somewhere else and a congestion at a toll a little bit further on. The crossings into the city were backed up because the automatic tolls were slow and then he had to look for off street parking. I was exhausted just listening to him.

I asked him what time he wanted to be back home? He said no later than 10.30pm as he had an 8 am meeting in the city the next day. That constituted maybe half a drink, a quick hello a semi hug and a fast ciao with no time for real chow.

I have a hard fast rule. I do not drink any alcohol if I am driving and I enforce that rule on my friends too. So because it would take my buddy four hours round trip to see me and then not drink anything I abruptly cancelled the rendezvous and stayed in instead. You just can't make arrangements with suburbanites midweek unless they are already in the city and take the train home. And I never want to be on the other side of this equation.

soul elevation

A few weeks ago I commemorated the 10th anniversary of my father passing away. As is custom in my faith on the evening before the date and the morning and afternoon of the actual date special prayers are said that supposedly elevate the soul of the deceased. In order to say these prayers ten men over the age of thirteen have to be present to hear and answer these prayers.
Last time I checked ten men don't live under our roof and I am the only permanent male resident there who has witnessed his teens, albeit many eons ago. So the logical place to find ten men who will answer your prayers is at the local synagogue. So on a Monday after work, Tuesday morning early, before work and then later in the afternoon that same day I trudged off to my place of worship and duly found others looking for prayers , a few answers and some comfort. I did what I had to do because I had the utmost respect and admiration for my late father and if I can play a small part in elevating his soul then that contributes greatly as pay back for all he did for me when I was growing up.

When I came home from praying for my father the first night I also lit a remembrance candle at home that burns for 25 hours covering the entire anniversary of his death. As is customary I said my father's name as the candle burst into flame and chanted a memorial prayer out loud that focuses on the deceased's resting place in the next world. My kids weren't at home at the time as they were engrossed in their after school activities ranging from ice hockey to tennis. My apartment was void of other humans and peaceful and this moment of tranquility gave me the perfect opportunity to reflect on both my father's life and the legacy he left to his children and grand children. This brought a rare glimpse of a smile to my face as during the organized prayers I was quite solemn and melancholic.
The peace and quiet was suddenly interrupted by a stampede of children and accompanying adults , and the noise levels reached such a crescendo that I was worried that the flame on the candle would be overwhelmed by the explosion of sound, thus extinguishing my father's memory forever. I managed to persuade everyone to lower the tempo a touch without going into detail and was successful in reducing the decibel level to something reasonable. For the rest of the evening no one paid any attention to the candle or where I had been as the normal routine of dinner, homework, showers and reading took prominence over any flickering ambers.

The next evening I returned home from the last of the services where my late father was remembered, emotionally and physically exhausted from the whole experience. This time my apartment was overflowing with people, most of whom I knew well. Everyone seemed to have a play date, including the babysitter. My wife had friends over as did my two daughters. I walked into the kitchen to find my youngest son, aged seven, standing over the dimly flickering remembrance candle, playing with the melted wax. I told him not to do that as it was disrespectful to my father's memory. He gave me a vacant stare and replied that he had no clue what I was talking about. I sat him down at the dining room table and explained to him that once a year I have to go to synagogue three times in a 24 hour period and attend services and say special prayers as well as lighting this candle at home.
After a brief pause in the conversation he lifted up his head and looked straight into my eyes and said, "Daddy, when you die I am not going to do any of this. It sounds really boring." He got up and walked away before I could answer him. I guess my soul will be hovering somewhere near ground level during my eternal rest.