Fourteen years ago I could scoop him up with one hand. He was three weeks early and has never been a minute late to anything in his life. Tonight, watching my six foot one inch son lay on the living room floor checking his Facebook page, I can’t help but tear up. What happened to my baby? In less than a split second he’s all grown up.
I pour my sorrow into writing as my huband nests. Tiding up the Owen’s room, organizing his clothes into fits and doesn’t fit piles. I know watching our son enter high school pains my husband even more. The only time I’ve ever seen my husband cry is the day he placed Owen on the school bus to go off to Kindergarten. Seeing his little buddy grow up is truly unbearable for him. They spent the entire day alone together. Therapy for the two of them.
As I watch Owen, I’m so proud of the incredible young man he’s become. Although he inherited his laid back and shy nature from me, he has the passion and energy of his father. He’s an amazingly caring person and a protective big brother; a young man that often has to take back stage and second place in a not so simple household.
Owen, we won’t be putting you on the bus tomorrow, but I guarantee that Daddy and I will be with you in your heart. Live your high school years with dreams for the future, love for today and lots and lots of giggles.
I love you puddin’ boy!! Mama
Monday, September 6, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Minnesotan in NYC, part 2
It took me about twenty minutes in the budget hotel room to realize that this woman does not do well just sitting around. Especially in the city that never sleeps. I just had to get out. But I was warned by the cab driver that the particular streets in Flushing I was about to explore may not be safe to walk alone, particularly in the evening. My stubborn nature did not want to listen to him, even though his words kept popping into my head. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t make it back to Manhattan by cab. I was really aching for some authentic Italian food and great wine but Mulberry Street wasn’t in the cards this trip.
Ignoring the cab driver and the young woman in the lobby, I left the hotel in search of an adventure. About a block away were hundreds of Asian stores and markets. I was in a fascinating new world. Strolling down the street it was difficult not to stop every few blocks and take in the sounds and smells of a completely different culture. I stopped at several small Asian restaurants and couldn’t read the menu. It was a bustling Friday night and I was clearly out of place still in my pumps and skirt. I’d changed into a comfortable cool tank that was proper fashion for an evening in NYC. Problem was…as I walked a few more blocks the vibe of the streets became a bit more precarious. There were clusters of young Asian and Hispanic woman dressed similar in high heels, tank tops and skirts as well. It dawned on me quickly that these were professional woman…yet not a legal profession.
“Holy Crap,” I thought. I better get out of here quickly. Not wanting to make a scene, I gently turned around and headed back toward the hotel. By now, I had to be at least a mile away. I turned on my hotel snob confidence, looked straight ahead and walked briskly. I could see the building about a block away so my breath quickly came back. At the next corner I spotted what appeared to be a small Italian café. It was almost as if God had placed it mysteriously there just for me. Yes… and I was ready for a glass of wine. As I walked through the large glass doors there were six small tables draped in beautiful white linen. Each had a small vase with flowers and a lit candle. A large mahogany bar sat there so lonely, so I decided to give it some company as I pondered the dinner menu.
A sharply dressed elderly Italian man slowly strolled behind the bar and gave me a grin. He had to be nearly eighty years old. I imagined that he was either the father or grandfather of the owner. “Beverage for the lady?” he asked in broken English. I smiled at him kindly and asked for a glass of Pinot Grigio. He opened a new bottle and filled the very large glass nearly to the rim. The first sip of wine was fantastic. I could finally relax after my long day. There were only a few couples in the restaurant as I sat by myself at the bar and watched the people pass by on the busy street.
The glass of wine hit me like a ton of bricks, so I decided it was time to eat. I must have pursued the menu for a half an hour as there were so many Italian delicacies to choose from. I hadn’t realized that Grandpa poured me another glass of wine while I was studying my dinner choices. I peaked at the glass and then looked at the man. He winked at me and I giggled out loud. I settled on a Frise Salad and sweet sausage fettuccine Bolognese. Far too much food, but I decided even a few bites of each would be well worth the price. And it was…homemade pasta that nearly melts in your mouth. What more can I say?
Throughout my meal, four generations of Italian men sneaked out of the kitchen to catch a glimpse of how I was enjoying my food. The cook was an amazingly beautiful piece of Italian Eye Candy, yet he was so busy with his creations that he only stepped out a few times. After several slow bites of the amazing meal, I was completely stuffed. The second generation Italian popped out of the kitchen and looked at my plate. “Too much?” he asked. “Yes, too much,” I giggled. “But thank you…it was wonderful,” I told him with a big smile. As he cleared my plate, Grandpa came back to me and asked, “Can I buy lady another glass of wine?” “No thank you. Next time,” I replied.
The men were in no hurry to provide me the bill. All four came out of the kitchen and nodded at me. I smiled at the kind men. Grandpa escorted the Eye Candy out of the kitchen to greet me. The two men poured three shots of homemade Limon cello. They lifted their glasses to me and the three of us downed the sweet drink. “Grazie,” I said.
Another wonderful adventure in NYC. I can’t wait until next time.
Ignoring the cab driver and the young woman in the lobby, I left the hotel in search of an adventure. About a block away were hundreds of Asian stores and markets. I was in a fascinating new world. Strolling down the street it was difficult not to stop every few blocks and take in the sounds and smells of a completely different culture. I stopped at several small Asian restaurants and couldn’t read the menu. It was a bustling Friday night and I was clearly out of place still in my pumps and skirt. I’d changed into a comfortable cool tank that was proper fashion for an evening in NYC. Problem was…as I walked a few more blocks the vibe of the streets became a bit more precarious. There were clusters of young Asian and Hispanic woman dressed similar in high heels, tank tops and skirts as well. It dawned on me quickly that these were professional woman…yet not a legal profession.
“Holy Crap,” I thought. I better get out of here quickly. Not wanting to make a scene, I gently turned around and headed back toward the hotel. By now, I had to be at least a mile away. I turned on my hotel snob confidence, looked straight ahead and walked briskly. I could see the building about a block away so my breath quickly came back. At the next corner I spotted what appeared to be a small Italian café. It was almost as if God had placed it mysteriously there just for me. Yes… and I was ready for a glass of wine. As I walked through the large glass doors there were six small tables draped in beautiful white linen. Each had a small vase with flowers and a lit candle. A large mahogany bar sat there so lonely, so I decided to give it some company as I pondered the dinner menu.
A sharply dressed elderly Italian man slowly strolled behind the bar and gave me a grin. He had to be nearly eighty years old. I imagined that he was either the father or grandfather of the owner. “Beverage for the lady?” he asked in broken English. I smiled at him kindly and asked for a glass of Pinot Grigio. He opened a new bottle and filled the very large glass nearly to the rim. The first sip of wine was fantastic. I could finally relax after my long day. There were only a few couples in the restaurant as I sat by myself at the bar and watched the people pass by on the busy street.
The glass of wine hit me like a ton of bricks, so I decided it was time to eat. I must have pursued the menu for a half an hour as there were so many Italian delicacies to choose from. I hadn’t realized that Grandpa poured me another glass of wine while I was studying my dinner choices. I peaked at the glass and then looked at the man. He winked at me and I giggled out loud. I settled on a Frise Salad and sweet sausage fettuccine Bolognese. Far too much food, but I decided even a few bites of each would be well worth the price. And it was…homemade pasta that nearly melts in your mouth. What more can I say?
Throughout my meal, four generations of Italian men sneaked out of the kitchen to catch a glimpse of how I was enjoying my food. The cook was an amazingly beautiful piece of Italian Eye Candy, yet he was so busy with his creations that he only stepped out a few times. After several slow bites of the amazing meal, I was completely stuffed. The second generation Italian popped out of the kitchen and looked at my plate. “Too much?” he asked. “Yes, too much,” I giggled. “But thank you…it was wonderful,” I told him with a big smile. As he cleared my plate, Grandpa came back to me and asked, “Can I buy lady another glass of wine?” “No thank you. Next time,” I replied.
The men were in no hurry to provide me the bill. All four came out of the kitchen and nodded at me. I smiled at the kind men. Grandpa escorted the Eye Candy out of the kitchen to greet me. The two men poured three shots of homemade Limon cello. They lifted their glasses to me and the three of us downed the sweet drink. “Grazie,” I said.
Another wonderful adventure in NYC. I can’t wait until next time.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Minnesotan in NYC. Not the Best Hotel Snob Moment.
It takes a crafty business woman and noted Hotel Snob to make the most out of 24 hour trip to New York City. It’s the city that never sleeps and I rarely sleep on a business trip anyway, so I was determined to take in the sights, sounds and tastes of this glorious opportunity.
My ten year old had a grand illusion that I’d make my way to Canal Street to buy him a white pair of knock off Oakley sunglasses. He begged me the night before. He said, “Mom, with the glasses I’ll command the respect I deserve.” Ughhhh. I’d deal with this drama another time. I didn’t promise anything but the 14 year old got us to Chinatown a few weeks ago with only a smart phone app. How hard could it be?
My loving husband drove me to the airport at 5:00 am to catch my flight for a noon meeting in Manhattan. I’m all about cutting it close as a hotel snob. I’ve conquered far tighter business travel schedules. Arriving to the meeting was no problem as my travel companion arranged for a car at LaGuardia. This painless process gave us plenty of time to enjoy the sites as we made our way through the city. My heart stopped as we drove past Bryant Park. I quickly made friends with my colleague who also had a love for both fashion and anything aired on Bravo. Better yet, our business meeting included real showbiz types that were funny, energetic and made me laugh. All fans of the “Real Housewives of Anything.” The meeting was productive so I was on my way for a real adventure.
This time, I was all alone to find the way to the discount hotel located near the airport. (This was a business trip. No five star hotel this time.) According to my calculations, I could grab a cab to the hotel, change and find my way back to Manhattan for an evening of fun. I assertively walked to the busy street near the venue. Cab after cab passed me by regardless of my assertive wave. Finally after fifteen minutes of dozens of cabbies zooming past, one stopped. I jumped in immediately and told him Flushing, where my hotel was located. “No Way,” he said. “Too far. It will take us hours to get across the bridge. Get out or I take you to subway.”
"Subway?” I thought as the cab driver made his way through the heavy traffic. “You take F to Queens. I take $10,” he said. I slowly handed him the bill…no tip for him. The subway was packed as it was the height of commute time. F it would be. I forced my way onto the busy train and rode for several stops. It dawned on me about five stops into the ride that I didn’t know where the hell I was going or what stop I’d depart. I pushed my way toward the map and noticed an airplane with LGA. Phew..not so bad. I’ll go to the airport and grab a taxi to the hotel. Smart hotel snob!!! Smart.
The Subway took me directly to CitiPark, home of the Mets. My love for baseball lured me off the train to take a peek at the new ball park. I jumped off the subway and made my way to the stadium. Surely there would be a cab by the stadium that could take me to my hotel. There was a game that evening. If it weren’t for the business clothing and two inch pumps, I would have stayed for the game. Surely there would be a cab by the stadium that could take me to my hotel. This was NYC, correct? After my short walk around the stadium, I looked for a cab. None to be found. I did find a police officer. He told me that I closest place I could find a cab was five blocks away. “Ugh…what to do now?” I thought. Back to the subway. I asked the attendant how I could get to the airport. “Next window,” she crabbed. The tired man at the next window told me I needed to take a city bus.
Exhausted…I’d taken a plane, car, taxi, subway and now a bus??? Just to get to a budget hotel. I dragged myself onto the city bus name “LaGuardia Airport”. Guessing this would take me there eventually. In the heart of our country’s melting pot, I stuck out like a sore thumb in my business attire. I had “lost traveler” written all over my face. I sat up front as we traveled through some of the roughest streets I’d seen in a long time. Finally we arrived at LGA. I hopped on cab and the taxi driver took me to what he described as the “real” Chinatown. “Don’t leave the hotel…Miss” he said kindly. I left the cab never so happy to see a hotel lobby.
Check in later for the rest of the story.
My ten year old had a grand illusion that I’d make my way to Canal Street to buy him a white pair of knock off Oakley sunglasses. He begged me the night before. He said, “Mom, with the glasses I’ll command the respect I deserve.” Ughhhh. I’d deal with this drama another time. I didn’t promise anything but the 14 year old got us to Chinatown a few weeks ago with only a smart phone app. How hard could it be?
My loving husband drove me to the airport at 5:00 am to catch my flight for a noon meeting in Manhattan. I’m all about cutting it close as a hotel snob. I’ve conquered far tighter business travel schedules. Arriving to the meeting was no problem as my travel companion arranged for a car at LaGuardia. This painless process gave us plenty of time to enjoy the sites as we made our way through the city. My heart stopped as we drove past Bryant Park. I quickly made friends with my colleague who also had a love for both fashion and anything aired on Bravo. Better yet, our business meeting included real showbiz types that were funny, energetic and made me laugh. All fans of the “Real Housewives of Anything.” The meeting was productive so I was on my way for a real adventure.
This time, I was all alone to find the way to the discount hotel located near the airport. (This was a business trip. No five star hotel this time.) According to my calculations, I could grab a cab to the hotel, change and find my way back to Manhattan for an evening of fun. I assertively walked to the busy street near the venue. Cab after cab passed me by regardless of my assertive wave. Finally after fifteen minutes of dozens of cabbies zooming past, one stopped. I jumped in immediately and told him Flushing, where my hotel was located. “No Way,” he said. “Too far. It will take us hours to get across the bridge. Get out or I take you to subway.”
"Subway?” I thought as the cab driver made his way through the heavy traffic. “You take F to Queens. I take $10,” he said. I slowly handed him the bill…no tip for him. The subway was packed as it was the height of commute time. F it would be. I forced my way onto the busy train and rode for several stops. It dawned on me about five stops into the ride that I didn’t know where the hell I was going or what stop I’d depart. I pushed my way toward the map and noticed an airplane with LGA. Phew..not so bad. I’ll go to the airport and grab a taxi to the hotel. Smart hotel snob!!! Smart.
The Subway took me directly to CitiPark, home of the Mets. My love for baseball lured me off the train to take a peek at the new ball park. I jumped off the subway and made my way to the stadium. Surely there would be a cab by the stadium that could take me to my hotel. There was a game that evening. If it weren’t for the business clothing and two inch pumps, I would have stayed for the game. Surely there would be a cab by the stadium that could take me to my hotel. This was NYC, correct? After my short walk around the stadium, I looked for a cab. None to be found. I did find a police officer. He told me that I closest place I could find a cab was five blocks away. “Ugh…what to do now?” I thought. Back to the subway. I asked the attendant how I could get to the airport. “Next window,” she crabbed. The tired man at the next window told me I needed to take a city bus.
Exhausted…I’d taken a plane, car, taxi, subway and now a bus??? Just to get to a budget hotel. I dragged myself onto the city bus name “LaGuardia Airport”. Guessing this would take me there eventually. In the heart of our country’s melting pot, I stuck out like a sore thumb in my business attire. I had “lost traveler” written all over my face. I sat up front as we traveled through some of the roughest streets I’d seen in a long time. Finally we arrived at LGA. I hopped on cab and the taxi driver took me to what he described as the “real” Chinatown. “Don’t leave the hotel…Miss” he said kindly. I left the cab never so happy to see a hotel lobby.
Check in later for the rest of the story.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Little Italy. Big Imagination.
I have a strange secret. Ever since I saw the movie The Godfather dozens of years ago, I’ve been intrigued with the underworld of Italian culture. Okay…the mafia. Yeah, I know it’s weird. I’m not sure why the attraction, but when my hubby got me hooked on The Sopranos, my imagination began to run wild. What would it be like to live in this lifestyle? At times, I’d watch the series for hours just to escape into a world so different from my own.
I have to admit that I’ve been attracted to Italian men ever since I was a teenager. Tall, dark, handsome and charming of course; nothing resembling the ‘real’ Italian men I encountered in Italy who were far shorter than me and often grumpy. Imagination is great, yet I’d never trade-in my Scandinavian husband.
When Owen and I decided to take a trip to Canal street on our third day in NYC, I knew we’d have an opportunity to slip into the life of an Italian for a few hours as Little Italy was only a few blocks from the “hot knock-offs” that Owen was determined to purchase in Chinatown. After my entrepreneurial son negotiated a sunglass purchase with some shady men selling goods from a garbage bag we were ready to slip into our alter egos. (As if this experience weren’t crazy enough for a mom with her 14 year old son.)
Little Italy is nothing like Rome, Venice or Milan. But it is quaint and a wonderful tourist spot. The four blocks are lined with lovely restaurants. However, as a lover of Italian leather bags, shoes and fashion, I was extremely disappointed when I didn’t stumble upon a row of extraordinary shops. My pocket book and my husband were not let down when arriving home empty handed. I’d have to travel back to 5th Avenue for the good stuff.
Owen declared starvation as I delicately perused each menu and ambiance of various restaurants to pick the perfect place to escape for lunch. It had to be the ultimate Italian experience. I’d been spoiled by authentic Italian food while in Italy. After five minutes of listening to my son’s grumbling I was lured into a small café by a handsome young man that had a beautiful smile. He looked right at my son and said with a thick accent, “You need to bring this lovely lady inside for a wonderful lunch.” Sold. I’m such a sucker. He likely got paid for every naive 40-something he lured into the small café.
The eight table restaurant was lovely and bright with crisp white linen table cloths and a large mahogany bar in the back. I imagined myself sipping wine at the bar all afternoon admiring the handsome Italian men, but the eye candy had to wait for another trip as I was with the 14 year old. Three friendly Italians waited on us explaining the delicacies with their beautiful accents. One young gentleman did nothing but fill my glass with water each time I took a sip. Ah, the good life. For a brief hour, hotel snob slipped into character taking in every moment of this tremendous experience.
On vacation, I promptly ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. Got to love the NYC life..no need to drive anywhere, which made it completely appropriate for me to drink wine in the early afternoon. Just as we finished our insalata, Owen said, “Hey mom, look at that guy over there.” He was standing in the corner next to the ornate bar. The man was tall, muscular and dressed head to toe in black. He looked straight ahead with arms crossed. We tried not to stare at the man as he stood as still as a statue. “Who do you think he is?” Owen whispered.
“I don’t know sweetie,” I said looking at him out of the corner of my eye. “Maybe the owner."
“Do you think he’ll break our knuckles if we don’t pay the bill?” he asked squeamishly. My bad for watching The Sopranos in front of the kids.
“Don’t worry. I got it covered,” I shot Owen a smile.
Owen forgot all about the dark dressed man when his plate of Penne arrived. It was the most tasty lunch I’d ever eaten…even better than Rome. Impressively, we took our time enjoying the lunch and the ambiance. Both stuffed full of pasta and bread, we had no room for dessert. Not even a second glass vino. It wouldn’t be wise to ride the subway in a drunken state, so I stopped at one glass. After our plates were cleared and beverages finished, the man dressed in all black slowly approached the table. He had something behind his back but I couldn’t make out what it was. He bent over slightly and turned Owen. The eyes of the14 year old bulged with anxiety.
“Young man. You taking care Mama? Paying for lunch, right?” he asked in broken English pulling his left hand out from behind his back. He placed the bill on the table and smiled at Owen. The young man looked straight at the tall man and nodded. “Well son…someday you will pay for Mama’s lunch.” Off went the man in black. I quickly stuck two twenties into the folder as we walked out of the place giggling again.
Our experiences in Little Italy: Were they real or just imagination? We may never know. Walking down the streets of NYC with my teenage son, I longed for that moment to last forever. Someday he will pay for my lunch. And someday I can only hope that he will have a similar experience with a child of his own.
I have to admit that I’ve been attracted to Italian men ever since I was a teenager. Tall, dark, handsome and charming of course; nothing resembling the ‘real’ Italian men I encountered in Italy who were far shorter than me and often grumpy. Imagination is great, yet I’d never trade-in my Scandinavian husband.
When Owen and I decided to take a trip to Canal street on our third day in NYC, I knew we’d have an opportunity to slip into the life of an Italian for a few hours as Little Italy was only a few blocks from the “hot knock-offs” that Owen was determined to purchase in Chinatown. After my entrepreneurial son negotiated a sunglass purchase with some shady men selling goods from a garbage bag we were ready to slip into our alter egos. (As if this experience weren’t crazy enough for a mom with her 14 year old son.)
Little Italy is nothing like Rome, Venice or Milan. But it is quaint and a wonderful tourist spot. The four blocks are lined with lovely restaurants. However, as a lover of Italian leather bags, shoes and fashion, I was extremely disappointed when I didn’t stumble upon a row of extraordinary shops. My pocket book and my husband were not let down when arriving home empty handed. I’d have to travel back to 5th Avenue for the good stuff.
Owen declared starvation as I delicately perused each menu and ambiance of various restaurants to pick the perfect place to escape for lunch. It had to be the ultimate Italian experience. I’d been spoiled by authentic Italian food while in Italy. After five minutes of listening to my son’s grumbling I was lured into a small café by a handsome young man that had a beautiful smile. He looked right at my son and said with a thick accent, “You need to bring this lovely lady inside for a wonderful lunch.” Sold. I’m such a sucker. He likely got paid for every naive 40-something he lured into the small café.
The eight table restaurant was lovely and bright with crisp white linen table cloths and a large mahogany bar in the back. I imagined myself sipping wine at the bar all afternoon admiring the handsome Italian men, but the eye candy had to wait for another trip as I was with the 14 year old. Three friendly Italians waited on us explaining the delicacies with their beautiful accents. One young gentleman did nothing but fill my glass with water each time I took a sip. Ah, the good life. For a brief hour, hotel snob slipped into character taking in every moment of this tremendous experience.
On vacation, I promptly ordered a glass of Pinot Grigio. Got to love the NYC life..no need to drive anywhere, which made it completely appropriate for me to drink wine in the early afternoon. Just as we finished our insalata, Owen said, “Hey mom, look at that guy over there.” He was standing in the corner next to the ornate bar. The man was tall, muscular and dressed head to toe in black. He looked straight ahead with arms crossed. We tried not to stare at the man as he stood as still as a statue. “Who do you think he is?” Owen whispered.
“I don’t know sweetie,” I said looking at him out of the corner of my eye. “Maybe the owner."
“Do you think he’ll break our knuckles if we don’t pay the bill?” he asked squeamishly. My bad for watching The Sopranos in front of the kids.
“Don’t worry. I got it covered,” I shot Owen a smile.
Owen forgot all about the dark dressed man when his plate of Penne arrived. It was the most tasty lunch I’d ever eaten…even better than Rome. Impressively, we took our time enjoying the lunch and the ambiance. Both stuffed full of pasta and bread, we had no room for dessert. Not even a second glass vino. It wouldn’t be wise to ride the subway in a drunken state, so I stopped at one glass. After our plates were cleared and beverages finished, the man dressed in all black slowly approached the table. He had something behind his back but I couldn’t make out what it was. He bent over slightly and turned Owen. The eyes of the14 year old bulged with anxiety.
“Young man. You taking care Mama? Paying for lunch, right?” he asked in broken English pulling his left hand out from behind his back. He placed the bill on the table and smiled at Owen. The young man looked straight at the tall man and nodded. “Well son…someday you will pay for Mama’s lunch.” Off went the man in black. I quickly stuck two twenties into the folder as we walked out of the place giggling again.
Our experiences in Little Italy: Were they real or just imagination? We may never know. Walking down the streets of NYC with my teenage son, I longed for that moment to last forever. Someday he will pay for my lunch. And someday I can only hope that he will have a similar experience with a child of his own.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Empire State of Mine: Day Two
As true baseball fans, we knew a summer trip to NYC wouldn’t be complete without catching a Yankee game at the new stadium. We are NOT Yankee fans, but were interested in checking another major league stadium off our list. It’s just un-American not to attend a major league game while visiting another city. It’s a great way to get a pulse on the people and various cultures coming together. Refusing to wear the obligatory Yankees garb, Owen proudly sported his O’Dawg Twin’s shirt. We stuck out like typical tourists, but we didn’t care…it only made the game even more interesting. The New Yankee Stadium isn’t nearly as impressive as many of the small market stadiums we’ve visited. It was a gorgeous sunny Sunday afternoon and seats were empty and fans were quiet; expecting a win.
Although the game was boring, the adventure to the stadium was exciting. Its amazing what one can accomplish in a large city with a 14 year with a smart phone. Owen explained quickly how we catch the train at Grand Central Station and take the North Metro directly to the stadium. Who’da thunk? I’d traveled years for work and never had the luxury of a hand held ‘walking’ GPS. The most difficult part of the trip was finding which train to take once at Grand Central. With my cutest Midwestern charm, I pranced up to the information booth and politely asked the forty-something gentleman in the booth where I could find the train to the Subway. My bright smile didn’t warm this man. “Take a right. Buy yourh ticket in the subway. That’s it!” he snapped at me. I shyly moved away from the booth and looked right at Owen. My son giggled at me, waved his finger and said, “That’s it.” We laughed and laughed on the train ride to the stadium.
Now that we were in full command of the subway system we decided to travel around the city by train. And we traveled!! One word to the wise…it’s not smart to wear an authentic Lebron James Miami heat jersey in NYC. We couldn’t figure out why so many people were staring at us. In my typical hotel snob persona, I thought my cute little outfit must’ve made me look hot. (Yeah right….what was I thinking?) It was the six-footer with the new NBA jersey that caught the attention. A bit too much attention. In fact, it was clear we needed to make a quick stop at the hotel to remove the piece of clothing that was a bit attractive in the NYC hood. No need for a mugging on this special day.
14 year old diet for the day: Breakfast: Misc. Carbo load from the continental breakfast bar; Midmorning Snack: Hot Dog & 18 inch cheese pizza; Lunch: Fried Oreos; Dinner: Family sized plate full of cheese ravioli, salad, chocolate fudge Sunday for two.
Mom enjoyed another evening of free champagne, cheese and crackers.
Later that evening, we found ourselves cruising the streets of Broadway. Miles of walking, laughing and paying far too much money for goofy trinkets.
Although the game was boring, the adventure to the stadium was exciting. Its amazing what one can accomplish in a large city with a 14 year with a smart phone. Owen explained quickly how we catch the train at Grand Central Station and take the North Metro directly to the stadium. Who’da thunk? I’d traveled years for work and never had the luxury of a hand held ‘walking’ GPS. The most difficult part of the trip was finding which train to take once at Grand Central. With my cutest Midwestern charm, I pranced up to the information booth and politely asked the forty-something gentleman in the booth where I could find the train to the Subway. My bright smile didn’t warm this man. “Take a right. Buy yourh ticket in the subway. That’s it!” he snapped at me. I shyly moved away from the booth and looked right at Owen. My son giggled at me, waved his finger and said, “That’s it.” We laughed and laughed on the train ride to the stadium.
Now that we were in full command of the subway system we decided to travel around the city by train. And we traveled!! One word to the wise…it’s not smart to wear an authentic Lebron James Miami heat jersey in NYC. We couldn’t figure out why so many people were staring at us. In my typical hotel snob persona, I thought my cute little outfit must’ve made me look hot. (Yeah right….what was I thinking?) It was the six-footer with the new NBA jersey that caught the attention. A bit too much attention. In fact, it was clear we needed to make a quick stop at the hotel to remove the piece of clothing that was a bit attractive in the NYC hood. No need for a mugging on this special day.
14 year old diet for the day: Breakfast: Misc. Carbo load from the continental breakfast bar; Midmorning Snack: Hot Dog & 18 inch cheese pizza; Lunch: Fried Oreos; Dinner: Family sized plate full of cheese ravioli, salad, chocolate fudge Sunday for two.
Mom enjoyed another evening of free champagne, cheese and crackers.
Later that evening, we found ourselves cruising the streets of Broadway. Miles of walking, laughing and paying far too much money for goofy trinkets.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Empire State of Mind: Day One
This week, I encountered one of the most fulfilling few days of my life. Four one-on-one days with my 14 year old son, Owen. The last summer before he enters high school. One of the last mom and son experiences I’m sure we’ll have for some time. A dear friend of mine told me that there is a bond between a mother and her first son that can’t be explained. My friend is a first son…so I have all faith that he is correct. I love both of my sons equally, yet in very different ways, because they are such different people. Its strange, with Owen, we can sit together for hours and not say a word. Yet for some reason we know each other so well that words don’t need to be spoken. A simple smile or laugh will do.
My son is a tremendous person…and I’m not just saying that because he’s my son. I know people. I have amazing intuition and insight into souls. My son Eli has a soul of a ninety year old. And he’s experienced more in his ten years of life than most ninety year olds. Owen has the soul of a wise teenager. Oxymoron….I know. Much like his mom he loves to laugh, smile and experience the intricacies of life and the people around him. Life is short; what more do you need?
Our journey to NYC started with the crazy taxi. Of course we held on tight and giggled the entire way to our destination. Hotel Casablanca, just steps from Times Square, and they were not fibbing. Of course hotel snob did her homework. Two thumbs up for the boutique hotel. Free champagne…a dream for a girl who hasn’t had a day off of work in over seven months. Look out vaca...here come the Graysons.
To my surprise, the 14 year old had the stamina to walk at least ten miles a day. I knew my running routine would come in handy at some point in my life. I had no problem keeping up with the teen. The first evening included a hilarious show. We enjoyed the talent and antics of Blue Man Group. We were showered in toilet paper and freaked out as the blue people walked toward us. Thankfully we were not pulled on stage as we politely sat in the poncho section, surely not a good look for camera.
The Astor theatre resided in cute little neighborhood near NYU. Although I couldn’t convince the teen that NYU would be a wise choice for college, he immediately informed me that NYC doesn’t have quality sports teams, so I could just scratch that one off my ‘wannabe’ list. He did enjoy the people watching.
After a wonderful evening with my son, we decided to take advantage of the NYC nightlife and enjoy an eleven p.m. dinner. Still watching the waist line, I settled on my typical bird food; a light salad. My six footer chose a New York style pepperoni pizza nearly the size of a hula hoop. To no surprise he ate the entire pie. With full tummies, we walked back to the residence of hotel snob and retired in our 800 thread count Egyptian sheets. Lights out. More to come on Day two.
My son is a tremendous person…and I’m not just saying that because he’s my son. I know people. I have amazing intuition and insight into souls. My son Eli has a soul of a ninety year old. And he’s experienced more in his ten years of life than most ninety year olds. Owen has the soul of a wise teenager. Oxymoron….I know. Much like his mom he loves to laugh, smile and experience the intricacies of life and the people around him. Life is short; what more do you need?
Our journey to NYC started with the crazy taxi. Of course we held on tight and giggled the entire way to our destination. Hotel Casablanca, just steps from Times Square, and they were not fibbing. Of course hotel snob did her homework. Two thumbs up for the boutique hotel. Free champagne…a dream for a girl who hasn’t had a day off of work in over seven months. Look out vaca...here come the Graysons.
To my surprise, the 14 year old had the stamina to walk at least ten miles a day. I knew my running routine would come in handy at some point in my life. I had no problem keeping up with the teen. The first evening included a hilarious show. We enjoyed the talent and antics of Blue Man Group. We were showered in toilet paper and freaked out as the blue people walked toward us. Thankfully we were not pulled on stage as we politely sat in the poncho section, surely not a good look for camera.
The Astor theatre resided in cute little neighborhood near NYU. Although I couldn’t convince the teen that NYU would be a wise choice for college, he immediately informed me that NYC doesn’t have quality sports teams, so I could just scratch that one off my ‘wannabe’ list. He did enjoy the people watching.
After a wonderful evening with my son, we decided to take advantage of the NYC nightlife and enjoy an eleven p.m. dinner. Still watching the waist line, I settled on my typical bird food; a light salad. My six footer chose a New York style pepperoni pizza nearly the size of a hula hoop. To no surprise he ate the entire pie. With full tummies, we walked back to the residence of hotel snob and retired in our 800 thread count Egyptian sheets. Lights out. More to come on Day two.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
The Case of the Missing Lawn Mower
It’s a beautiful summer night in Minnesota. One of the rare occasions where one can sit on the deck with a glass of wine and no mosquito repellent. As I ponder the great day I had with my 14 year old son Owen, it occurred to me looking at the weed ridden lawn that I’d struck a deal with the young teenage boy.
“Hey Owen,” I said to him in my motherly voice. “It’s time to mow the lawn.” There was a mild grunt..but just a quick one this time as he remembered our pact. Just two weeks ago he picked out the absolutely had to have LTC HD2 smart phone with a required monthly internet fee. Ah yes…the catch. He had to mow the lawn twice per week to keep the phone and the internet service. Yes…I get it. I’m a big push-over…but that’s another story for another evening.
So off went the 14 year old with an ever so slow intention of moving the lawn. Still sitting on the deck with my glass of wine and my novel (still editing for those of you that care), I see Owen pacing from garage to back yard up to the front yard back to the back yard. Then he sits on the comfy deck chair. Lawn mower’s gone,” he says without worry. “What do you mean the lawn mower is gone?” I respond. “Yup…no lawn mower the garage. No lawn mower in the back yard. Guess I get the night off,” he smirks.
Of course my first instinct is to contact my husband who is in California with my youngest son. No answer on his ‘smart phone’. So as I sit here on the deck with a weed filled lawn and an unresponsive 14 year old. Where in the Hell is the lawn mower?
Tune in for more….
P.S. Jason…don’t freak out…I’m sure there is a perfectly good explanation of the missing lawn mower. Call my hubby’s cell phone. He just may pick up for you. Ugh…
“Hey Owen,” I said to him in my motherly voice. “It’s time to mow the lawn.” There was a mild grunt..but just a quick one this time as he remembered our pact. Just two weeks ago he picked out the absolutely had to have LTC HD2 smart phone with a required monthly internet fee. Ah yes…the catch. He had to mow the lawn twice per week to keep the phone and the internet service. Yes…I get it. I’m a big push-over…but that’s another story for another evening.
So off went the 14 year old with an ever so slow intention of moving the lawn. Still sitting on the deck with my glass of wine and my novel (still editing for those of you that care), I see Owen pacing from garage to back yard up to the front yard back to the back yard. Then he sits on the comfy deck chair. Lawn mower’s gone,” he says without worry. “What do you mean the lawn mower is gone?” I respond. “Yup…no lawn mower the garage. No lawn mower in the back yard. Guess I get the night off,” he smirks.
Of course my first instinct is to contact my husband who is in California with my youngest son. No answer on his ‘smart phone’. So as I sit here on the deck with a weed filled lawn and an unresponsive 14 year old. Where in the Hell is the lawn mower?
Tune in for more….
P.S. Jason…don’t freak out…I’m sure there is a perfectly good explanation of the missing lawn mower. Call my hubby’s cell phone. He just may pick up for you. Ugh…
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