Wet Wednesday

Today I arrived at work to find our office manager looking even more harried than usual. I quickly saw why as I headed down the hallway: We'd had a leak. A big leak.

There are two rooms in our office designated as "family rooms." Because parents are usually camped out here for two days while their children are assessed, we have private spaces for them to sit with couches and computers where the can watch the assessment via the cameras set up in the rooms, read, check email, etc., all behind closed doors if they choose. Sometime after we left last night, water, either because of the rain we've had recently (we're on the top floor) or a leaky pipe, had started dripping steadily from the ceiling. The computers in both rooms were soaked and ruined by the time we all arrived this morning, and one of the ceiling tiles was gone while growing water stains spread across others. I sat at my desk and minutes later heard a thud. Another tile had come crashing down, landing on a chair and spraying the room with soggy bits of the ceiling. 

My office, thank goodness, seems to be in good shape, though some of my coworkers have water stains developing on their ceilings. In the assessment room where I worked this morning, I had to move my chair nearly against the wall because one of the tiles there was looking increasingly droopy and had started to drip more and more. I fear it is not long for this world. 

Happily, our insurance should cover the damages. Unhappily, we still have to keep on with business as usual as much as we can. One of my coworkers has temporarily vacated her office so that one of the families with us today can use it, and another office that is temporarily unoccupied is being used by the other family. People are being very kind and flexible about this, which is much appreciated. But there really never is a dull moment around here. 

Custom Ski Boots From...Jersey

New York City is a remarkable place. It's so big and so diverse that it's hard to imagine that anything you might want wouldn't be here somewhere. Strange ingredients for cooking the kind of obscure Asian dishes I couldn't make in my hometown? Easy. Twenty-five different kinds of fake blood to ensure you get the color and consistency you want? No problem. Thousands of buttons all in one store? Yup. Himalayan cuisine? Duh. Ski equipment? Fat chance.

New York, it turns out, isn't a great place for outdoor sporting goods, period. I guess this makes sense, and it's not often that I'm on the market for a kayak or a crash pad, but when I went on the hunt for ski boots a few weeks ago I was dismayed by my results. Huge sporting goods stores like REI, Paragon, and EMS all seem to keep a few pairs in stock, of course, but it's important to get the perfect boots for hitting the slopes. They have to fit tightly enough to control your skis but not so tightly that they're uncomfortable after you've been wearing them for seven hours. I've had lots of trouble with boots in the past that cinched so tight they made my feet numb. One pair I rented last winter caused me to lose a toenail after a day's worth of constant rubbing in the wrong place! Ew. I'm happy to rent skis and poles, but I really wanted my own boots to ensure this sort of thing didn't happen again. Plus, Ed got me battery-powered boot warmers for Christmas, and I wanted to install them and say goodbye to cold feet on the mountain forever.

After fruitless searching online, I ended up on a discussion board about ski boot-shopping in NYC and came across a shop in New Jersey that got rave reviews. Everyone said the drive was a pain, but well worth it. So be it. I called, made a two-hour appointment (that's how long they said it would take) and reserved a car. On Saturday, Ed and I drove about 45 minutes northwest and ended up parked in front of a tiny store. Heino's was filled to bursting with ski apparel, helmets, skis, snowboards, poles, and handwarmers. But they're really famous for their boot-fitting services, and a whole room in the shop was dedicated to helping customers find the perfect boot.

It really did take two hours. First, my feet were measured and I had to tell Derek, my boot guru, about what kind of skier I am, what kind of foot issues I've had in the past, which boots I've liked and disliked, etc. Then I had to mimic bending into moguls and making turns in bare feet. All the while, Derek made sounds of concentration and wrote furiously on a clipboard. Finally, out came the boots. I tried on four pairs initially and had to report exactly what I felt and where. Then had to keep on pair on for about 15 minutes to see what would happen. They were a bit too tight (Derek said this is what I was looking for, as they'd loosen up after the custom fitting and then some more with use), but my arches were killing me. Of course they were, Derek said, because I pronate (I do?) and needed special inserts. Feeling decidedly uncool, I agreed to all this, and he set to work making my boots really mine.

The first step was to heat up the inserts for about 15 minutes, then pop them into the boots and strap them onto my feet as tight as they would go. I was instructed to walk around the shop for ten minutes while they molded to my feet, ankles, and legs, which I did, meditating on what Chinese girls must have endured during foot binding. Then each of my feet was pressed into a very hot, cushy pad for a few minutes to take an imprint. Derek disappeared for a while and returned with custom footbeds, which he put into my boots. I was told to put them on again and leave them on for a bit. They felt incredible. The footbeds were not cheap, but I was instantly relieved I'd decided to spring for them. It was amazing how much the boots had loosened up already, and my foot felt supported and solid within the boot. I felt I'd be able to control my skis' tiniest movement and would have loved to take them out immediately. But alas, it was getting dark. Plus Heino's was getting ready to close, so there wouldn't be time to have my new boot warmers installed. But Ed is confident that he and I can figure it out. Not for nothing am I dating a mechanical engineer.

My first ski trip of the year is in less than a week, and I simply can't wait to shred the slopes in my new boots!

New Project

I came across and idea a few months ago that I really liked: A woman decided she wasn't taking enough pictures and resolved to take a photograph each day. She's of the kids/minivan/tuna casserole set, and I imagine this decision was inspired, at least in part, by a fear that life was getting away from her. I have no such qualms (well, not too much anyway), but I thought it was an interesting proposal and decided to try it for myself. I'm publishing my efforts on a second blog, which you can find at bguadagni365.blogspot.com. You can always find the link in the right margin of this blog as well. It's under Blogs I Follow, towards the bottom.

The rules: I must take one photograph a day, and the image should be something representative of my life on that day. This means no going out of my way to capture really spectacular images (which is a tall order with an iPhone camera anyway); I'm going for more typical images. While I must take one photo per day, I decided it's not practical to try to post each day after I've found myself having to make up for four days in a row more than once already (and it's only January 15th). So I've made peace with that. I'm also trying to restrict my words, allowing no more than a sentence or two as a caption. And I guess that pretty much sums up the rules.

I'm not sure that anyone will find the results interesting, but I've enjoyed the way this project has caused me to look around me with more discerning eyes. Some days I've had difficulty deciding which image to use after taking several photographs throughout the day, and other days I find myself struggling to think of a single thing to photograph. I imagine this will get harder as times goes on. (Luckily, I can almost always count on the cats to do something ridiculous for a bail-out photo.)  One problem I've discovered is that I'm shy about asking people if I can take their picture. I'd really like to include pictures of people I see every day, but I don't know that asking for permission to post shots of them on the Internet, even if they're not identified, is appropriate. This is an issue I'll have to wrestle with.

Feel free to visit my new page whenever you like, and please share your thoughts!

Secret Celebrity Clients!

FA

As an employee of a medical practice (technically, that's what my learning center is), I am prohibited by HIPPA from divulging identifying information about our patients. Which is really too bad, because if I could I'd tell you such a story about my recent brush with fame. I've seen plenty of celebrities in New York, but I've never shaken hands with any of them, had them introduce themselves using their first names, or spent two cumulative hours in intimate conversation with them.

I can relate this much: A Famous Actor (FA) who lives here in New York has a Kid (K) whose teacher has been complaining about K's behavior in class. FA and his ex-wife, Well-Known Actress (WA), were referred to us and came in last week for a consultation, which impressed them enough to book a full-blown assessment on Monday and Tuesday of this week.

WA

I never know what to expect from celebrities off the screen--someone who plays a charming, tender-hearted character may actually be a conceited jerk--and so interacting with FA and WA was a pleasant experience in that sense. FA, whose work I've seen more of, was soft-spoken. WA was friendly, charming, and funny. Both of them were head-over-heels devoted to K, and it was fantastic to see them so united in the task of raising their child. I've read about countless ugly Hollywood divorces, but if there was drama between these two dedicated parents, they did a brilliant job of hiding it. K was polite, articulate, and poised, and did a great job. Like everyone on the planet, a few parts of K's brain don't function as well as others, but they're subtle and there's no reason that K shouldn't be a very successful adult. We can teach kids to improve minor pitfalls, but it would be tough to teach the higher thinking skills, charisma, and humor K has in spades. In our practice, the parents typically watch the assessment through a closed-circuit camera. It was very strange to know that FA and WA were watching me on a screen instead of the other way around, though of course I know that they were really watching K and not me. I'm often terribly star-struck when I run into someone famous, but I was relieved to find that I could handle myself with some degree of grace today, even while on camera.

If I'd lived in a cave before today, I'd almost have thought that FA and WA were normal work-a-day parents. Almost. Little things gave them away, however. Their clothes, for example, seemed to fit them just so, as if they'd had everything tailored. Maybe they had. FA wore his sunglasses all the way down the hall and into my boss's office on that first day, perhaps due to his habit of trying to remain incognito. (Consensus among my coworkers is that he's even better-looking in person than he is on camera, which is not often the conclusion one comes to when one sees a celebrity up close.) WA talked longingly of Pinkberry, a frozen yogurt chain, towards the end of the day so that K had to remind her, "Mom, you're vegan!" And when my boss showed them one of our favorite books about creativity by Sir Ken Robinson, FA said, "Oh yeah! We met this guy at Meg Ryan's house!"

So much for living like the other half lives.

The Piano Lesson

It all started on the platform of the uptown 18th Street 1 train. I saw a poster for The Piano Lesson that made me pause for a moment. That guy looked just like...and then the train came and I boarded.

Eddie, Chuck, and sister/daughter Lilly

Several days later, I had some friends over for dinner, and out of nowhere Eddie exclaimed, "Beth, my dad's in The Piano Lesson! You have to see it-you'll love it. I think it's one of the best things I've ever seen him do." The pieces came together. That had been Chuck Cooper on that poster. I've seen Eddie and his siblings perform countless times and heard all about their legendary, Tony-winning father. I'd spent an evening with Chuck when Eddie invited us over to the house for a barbecue (an event that I assumed would be a large gathering but turned out to be just the family, Ed, our friend Zac, and me). But I'd never seen him on the boards, and I eagerly bought tickets, opting for "best available." I'd been meaning to read The Piano Lesson for ages, but I figured seeing it was even better.

Ed and I had a quick dinner at on of our favorite neighborhood restaurants before the show. Our waiter, hearing that we were off to see The Piano Lesson, gushed, "Ooooh! I heard that's soooo good!" in the way that only a gay waiter in Chelsea can. My excitement built.

The venue, the brand new Signature Theater in Hell's Kitchen, was clean, shiny, and open, and the light wood made the place feel comfortable. Ed and I entered a cafe area to the sound of live jazz and patrons clinking glasses and chewing pre-show fare. As we walked toward the theater, I realized with surprise that we were to be seated in Row A! Right next to the stage! In fact, perhaps a little too close to the stage... Yikes. "You have to sit on your coat," an older man next to us joked. Sure enough, the edge of the stage was just about eye level, and since the kitchen area-right next to us-was a step higher than the rest of the stage, it was a bit tough to see everything. Well, I reasoned, it would be OK if I didn't get to see the actors' feet. From what I could see of it, the setting was incredible. It looked like a real house, with dishes and jars of pickled eggs and other preserves in the kitchen cabinets, a sink that turned out to actually work, and closets that contained clothes and blankets when the characters opened them up through the course of the play.

My view of the edge of, and part of the top of, the stage. (Sorry about the exposure-it was dark in there.)

The play was fantastic. The acting was absolutely superb, and being close enough to reach out and touch the actors' hems if I'd wanted to meant that I didn't miss a single facial expression or drop of sweat. The biased theater critic in my felt that Chuck's performance as Wining Boy outshone everyone else's, but objectively it's hard to say who fit their role best. (The New York Times review of the play said that "Chuck Cooper has landed perhaps the finest role in his already distinguished career," so it's not just me.) One of my favorite things about the play were the musical numbers. This is not a musical by any means, but there were several scenes in which the men would burst into song while sitting around drinking whiskey, and twice Chuck took to the piano bench, once to perform a lively boogie-woogie song and once to pound out a wrenching blues tribute he wrote for the deceased love of his life. (View it here.) We saw more vocal talent on that stage than in the whole of the $60-something million Les Miserables, that's for sure.

Chuck plays boogie-woogie while Lyman looks on approvingly

Ed said, and I agree, that the play sort of lost us at the end. This was not the fault of the players or the director but rather the script - things come to a sudden and extremely dramatic head and then, all too abruptly, the play is over. I felt a bit like a philistine for having this opinion-after all, August Wilson is supposed to be resoundingly appreciated, right?-but the NY Times reviewer echoed my opinion, making me feel better.

Despite this, and despite missing some of the action here and there when an actor would wander around a corner obstructed from our view, Ed and I both enjoyed the play immensely. And we were not alone - the audience gave a standing ovation and the place was buzzing with praise for the show as we filed slowly back into the lobby after it was all over. It's a very strange feeling to have sat at a dinner table with Wining Boy a few months back and to know him instead in the role that he listed in the program as his all-time favorite: "Eddie, Alex, and Lilly's father."

Weekend in Boston

Last weekend, I spent a wonderful, all-too-short 48-ish hours in Boston, where I hung out with my friend Courtney and her wonderful boyfriend, Aaron and watched my friend Mike exchange rings with his new bride, Erin!

We kicked off Saturday with a great breakfast and a visit to a bookstore, and then, as if things weren't already awesome enough, visited the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.

Gardner inherited a fortune from her father and used the money to begin collecting art and antiques. When her husband died, she built a four-story structure, made the first three floors into a museum to house her art collection, and moved onto the fourth floor. The building itself is heavily influenced by Venetian architecture, evident almost immediately because of the lush, lovely central garden that forms an atrium in the center of the building. I loved that greenery was never more than a glance away, and the rooms themselves were filled with thriving amaryllis blooms in red and white. I most enjoyed the paintings on the first floor, though I found the furniture on the second and third was more appealing than I'd originally have guessed I would, so much so that I almost forgot to take notice of the larger paintings hung on every wall!

The Gothic Room

One thing that was particularly great about the museum was the friendliness of the staff. They courteously monitored traffic in the smaller rooms, letting in new visitors as others exited, and were generally helpful and polite. In one of the rooms, Courtney told me that the strange wall covering was actually painted leather. I peered closer, wondering aloud whether the paint was susceptible to cracking as the leather dried out. I was only a foot or so away from the wall when a short docent poked her head around the corner. I thought she was going to scold me for leaning to close to the wall. To my surprise, she said, "Look from the side," tilting her own head at an angle and waving me forward encouragingly. A bit reluctantly, I moved close to the ancient leather and gazed along its surface. To my delight, the scales and cracks in the leather suddenly showed up in perfect relief, visible through the paint. I exclaimed, and the docent grinned at me, happy to have shared this small secret.

Caning demonstration room

The museum is famous for its art. It is also famous for hosting a series of artists who lived and worked in the building. We saw no painters there, but we did get to see an expert in caning (the process of weaving thin strips of wood to make things like chair seats) demonstrating his craft. It was pretty cool. The museum is also famous for its rather shocking past: It was the victim of one of the only successful art heists in American history! In 1990, two men dressed as Boston police officers entered the museum, claiming to be responding to a call. They got past the door guard, then claimed to have a warrant to arrest the guard at the front desk. They asked him to summon the door guard, and when both guards were inside the thieves handcuffed them, duct-taped their mouths, and locked them in the basement. The morning security guards arrived to find the two night guards tied up downstairs and a number of valuable works including several Rembrandts, a Vermeer, some Chinese art, and other pieces gone. The works have never been recovered, and, interestingly, the museum has left their frames on the walls as a reminder of the missing pieces. 

One of my favorite things about the museum was the dedication of space to reading and discussion. There were shelves of books available to anyone who wanted to grab one and leaf through it, and a comfortable room filled with couches, chairs, and more bookshelves, and decorated with two ornate wooden birdcages housing real canaries (who chirped softly, as if in deference to the readers around them) provided the place. The books were quite varied: I saw volumes on various art, of course, and history, but eventually picked up a copy of Roald Dahl's Boy to skim as I waited for Courtney and Arron to finish up in the gift shop. This is, without a doubt, my favorite museum in Boston, and I recommend it most highly.

After relaxing at Courtney and Arron's apartment for a bit, Ed and I took a cab to the Boston Children's Museum for one of the most fun and definitely the most unconventional weddings I've ever attended. 

I'm not sure that "wedding" is even the right word for it, as Mike and Erin got married in a civil service several months ago. But they still had a very brief ceremony for friends and family in which they said their vows and exchanged rings. Erin wore her great grandmother's wedding dress, but she also had an apron to put on as soon as the ceremony was over. Why? To prevent sawdust from soiling the dress, of course.

Those who don't know Mike may be confused by that, but those who do will not find it the least bit surprising that he did some Internet research and learned that it is an Italian tradition (allegedly, at least) that the bride and groom cap off the ceremony by grabbing opposite handles of a cross-cut saw and working it through a log to demonstrate their solidarity and teamwork. Mike decided this had to be a part of his nuptials, so he found a saw on Craigslist, sanded off the rust, polished and sharpened it, and tied a blue bow around one handle and a pink around the other. Both families leaped into action to hold the log in place while the bride and groom sawed, and in just a few minutes they'd bested the log.

The guests cheered, then joined the newlyweds for a delicious meal, cocktails, and fun in the museum. Ed, other friends from Vanderbilt, and I climbed around in a three-story structure, looked at fish and turtles in tanks, launched golf balls and cars from ramps, turned pedals to illuminate strings of lights, and dropped large circular covers to cause a jet of air that launched a tennis ball to startling heights. We took off our shoes to walk across the tatami mats inside a real house from Kyoto, build towers of blocks, and blew bubbles. Coming back from the restroom, I saw that Matt was putting his shirt back on after challenging Erin's brother to a race to the top of the structure. Yes, this was indeed one hell of a party.

The bottom part of the structure

"Musical Chairs" that represented different instruments all playing the same arrangement when there was pressure on the seats.

Arm cycles that made windmills turn and lights shine

After we were kicked out of the museum, we helped Mike carry gifts, leftover food, and the log pieces and saw through the streets of Boston. I imagine we were quite a spectacle. Then we found a bar to carry on in for the next few hours, and parted feeling a little wobbly and very happy. Needless to say, it was an enjoyable evening.

They're lumberjacks, and they're OK.

Most of my weekends in Boston are great, but this was was a stand-out!

Ice Skating (at Last)

December 30th dawned sunny and cold, and after breakfast Ed and I decided to tackle something that's been on my to-do list ever since I moved to New York more than three years ago. We headed to Central Park and joined hundreds of people on the Trump Rink for some ice skating. The last time I remember skating was twelve years ago in Providence, Rhode Island with my friend Virginia. Ed said it had been similarly long for him. We had plenty of time to reminisce about this while we waited in a long line to buy tickets. I was relieved when we finally reached the front, forked over $17 each, and got to go into the rental area. I was wearing my new Christmas wool socks and mittens and was still chilly.

Crowds compete for spaces on the benches

It was warmer inside, but pretty chaotic. Ed and I jostled through crowds to the rental counter, where another $7 got us each a pair of plastic skates, then jostled back through to find a spot ton the benches. There were no half sizes, so I we both had to settle for pairs that were quite large, and they dug uncomfortably into my ankles as I stood up. We put our shoes and my purse into a locker (another $7, though part of that was refundable) and elbowed our way toward the exit. I was feeling a bit crabby about the crowds, but that lasted only until I stepped onto the ice.

Not my photo. It was far more crowded when we were there.

The rink was thick with people skating in a clockwise rotation. Most wore clunky skates like ours, though some skaters cut through the crowd in graceful arcs on their own skates. When we arrived, the ice was being cleaned and resurfaced, and though we were on it only about 15 minutes later, it was already scarred everywhere by deep grooves. I was amazed by how quickly I remembered how to skate. It had always come rather naturally to me, and though I am no prodigy, I can control my turns and work up pretty good speed with little effort. Ed and I speculated later that skiing helps. Whatever it is, I'm glad it worked out for me, because many of the people on the ice were having a tough time. Couples gingerly scooted forward with mincing, jerky steps, clinging to each other for dear life. Those who'd lost their balance were marked on legs, seats, and backs with a coating of ice powder. People held desperately to the barrier that went around the edge of the rink, and several times I had to turn abruptly to avoid a flailing skater rocketing precariously toward the railing, cutting off everyone in his/her path. It felt good to glide around the rink, though, and despite a few small wobbles I felt confident and had a wonderful time. I wanted to go faster than the throng of people would allow me, and every now and then I'd come upon a gap and accelerate into it, relishing the speed. People were mostly dressed in street clothes and bulky coats, though I did see a pair of ladies in one-piece snow suits, and one little girl wore tights and had a pink leotard skirt peeking out from under her winter coat. Her thin little ankles poked out of white figure skater's skates, though she was no expert skater (yet).

I'd left my mittens in my purse by mistake and forgotten to bring a hat, so I was pretty cold as we circled. Every now and then I'd pull my furry hood up over my head, but I always had to pull it down again because I couldn't see Ed around the ring of fluff. My legs grew tired, and the sore spots on my feet and ankles began to throb. I'm not sure how long we stayed on the ice, but I think it was almost an hour before, despite the discomfort, I was ready to call it a day. Even though I couldn't wait to take off the skates, I was reluctant to stop skating. Our timing was good, however: the Zamboni machine was back out on the ice as we walked towards the edge of the park, so we'd have had to stop anyway.

I'd love to try this again, perhaps on a larger rink when it is less crowded. After all, it's hardly surprising that we had to battle crowds on one of the most popular rinks in the city on Sunday of a holiday weekend. Next time, I'll go on a random Tuesday. And I'll definitely layer my socks.