7th Day Surprise - 3,000

In 1905 Rudyard Kipling 

wrote a science fiction short story entitled 

"In the Night Mail"

This futuristic tale takes place in the year 2000.

All about air travel in zeppelin like crafts, 

it was far ahead of it's time.

But even in that future, 

people still shared a cup of tea with friends.

Wonder what we'll be sipping together in the year 3,000?

"Just duds..."

Pest Control
I can't tell you how many of my girlfriends
have dumped their husbands. The majority
had been married at least twenty years.
After putting up with infidelity, boredom,
and in some cases virtual serfdom, they
simply said "enough". In theory ending the
mess seemed smart. However in reality,
they're suddenly alone and post a period
of adjustment, thrown into the milieu of
dating. And that friends, ain't easy.

Line 'em up...
Listen, I've been there. After my marriage fell apart I learned that two is better than one. In my search for Mr. Right I had to kiss (and more) a thousand frogs before I met my prince. Securing a mate is a full time job and very hard work. It's miserable!

Pest Control.
My friend "G" is sexy, smart, successful, and looks half her age. Finding her man has been challenging. NOT because there aren't many interested parties. But rather because there are few she's interested in. "G" decided to join
"It's Just Lunch". A pricey membership that involves being fixed up. The premise is that you briefly meet for lunch or cocktails and see what happens. Well, after eleven rendezvous, several thousand dollars, and almost a year, NOTHING HAPPENED.

Perception is reality.
We all want to make a good first impression. However chemistry plays a key role in relationships that when it's off, GO HOME! Last Sunday my daughter and I sat next to a first date gone wrong. The gentleman was obviously a nerd. The lady was obviously disgruntled. Throughout their repast she sat texting a friend under the table. My daughter could read the texts and they were horrific. At some point one has to ask themselves this question, is love worth the hassle?

Formula for success?
In the end I've decided that while finding love is hard work, it only happens when you stop trying so hard. My friend "D" met her husband when she was sick and celebrating an advanced birthday. While neither of those seemed positive at the time, his diagnosis was simply "Let's have dinner". Suddenly her world changed and in less than a year they were married. You see, on that morning she wasn't worrying about anything except taking care of herself. And that's when "D" finally found love.

ONLY IN NEW YORK

Ringside seat.
Last night, I dined al fresco
at San Pietro. My meal was
delicious, but the varied cast
of characters surrounding me
were beyond entertaining.
All proof that one doesn't need
to sit at home watching TV.

Maestro if you please...
The pageantry of a meal at
San Pietro is well worth the
price. Beyond the voluminous
menu, simply listening to the
Maitre D' perform the specials
in his heavy Italian accent is
well worth a standing ovation.
Prestazioni favolose!

Cheer up.
Shorty after my arrival, a lady of advanced vintage was seated at the next table. Obviously a regular, her bottle of Crystal instantaneously appeared. For the balance of the evening she finished it off. Later on I looked over to see her sipping from a broken flute. It's sharp base and stem sitting upon the table. Quickly I brought this to the attention of my waiter. He valiantly attempted to take it from her. She angrily fought him off as she sipped her last drop. Then regally allowed him to trade her broken chalice for a new one.

Light my fire.
Why is it that only the fattest and ugliest men seem to smoke cigars? Sitting at the farthest end of the terrace was a group of cretins (better known as business men). All night long they talked loudly and smoked like chimneys. Occasionally their stench would waft across to my table. However what was most offensive was not their fragrance
but rather their pompous demeanor. I guess being ugly compels one to act in an even uglier manner?

Man's best friend?
On my other side sat a couple and their dog. It quickly became quite obvious whose company the lady preferred. Throughout the evening she pampered her pooch while totally ignoring her spouse. While sadly comical, the effect was quite "biting".

Just desserts.
By the time my double espresso and cookie plate arrived, I was more than satisfied. Not only had I been well fed, I'd been thoroughly entertained by my fellow diners. Who needs to trek across to Broadway when I can get dinner and a show a block away from home? BRAVO!

Let's get this out in the open

Innovative?
I may be out of sync with what's
hip. Specifically in relationship
to the idea of open workspaces.
I realize they're considered to be
the latest in office environments.
While they might be hotbeds of
collaboration, I have to confess
that they are not for me.

New?
Open workspaces have been around forever. The fact is I've worked in many "open" places over the years. I got the call announcing the impending arrival of my first child at my drawing board in a shared design studio space. Looking back it seems that all of my major life changes occurred in a forum where all could see and hear.

Collaborative?
I started an agency in my partner's second bedroom. When we moved into real digs, we opted to share a large office. Perfect until we disagreed about our future. Five years later, the last thing I wanted to look up from my desk and see was her!

Confidential?
I went through my divorce in a totally open environment. Throughout I received many an aggressive and accusatory phone call. The end result was that everybody went through my divorce with me - everybody!

Interactive?
I discovered boys while working in room filled with low walled cubicles. My peers followed my struggles as I kissed my share of frogs before I finally met my prince. They sat and watched the stream of flowers and other attempts to win my affections.

Private?
Fortunately my career and status moved on shortly thereafter. From then on I was able to handle the travails and challenges of life in the quiet solitude of my own office. There I could close the door, deal with my issues, and move on.

Closed.
After years of battling the reality of an open environment, I've come to this conclusion. The only way to keep anything secret is to have an office with a door outside of the echoing arena. Old fashioned or not, having my own space works for me!

HELLO SUNSHINE!

Brighten up?
It's dark and dreary here in Manhattan. On days like these we all need a little sunshine. Years ago I felt I needed a change.
So, while on vacation I secretly poured a bottle of "Sun In" onto my head. Hours later, my beach companion looked at me and SCREAMED! Rather being transformed into Troy Donahue, my hair was now the color of yellow straw. That day I learned that yellow was NOT my color.

Citron punch!
The other day I decided to don
a bright yellow polo. Given the
trend experts have been layering
canary into seasonal palettes,
I thought it was time to drink the
fashionista lemonade. About
fifteen minutes into bruch, a dear
friend turned to me and said
"Honey, NOT your color." 
While I most certainly appreciated
her candid color evaluation, she
could have waited until after I'd
had at least one shot of Lemoncello!

Pucker Up!
My candid comrade's acerbic
comment may have been correct.
The fact is she confirmed that
only a brave few can carry off
this hot hue and I am not one
of them. While yellow is a happy
tone, it's tough. Whether a pale
buttery pastel or a bright neon
chrome, one must be smart
about where, when, and how
one wears it. Otherwise, your
piquant ensemble could hurt
your reputation and passersby.

Sweet and sour. 
After years in the business, it's apparent that yellow rarely sells. Yet why do our trend Gods dictate a tone that doesn't look good on anyone? If you're one of the few who can wear this hue, go for it! Not only will you stand out, you're certain to find your frock on the sale rack. At this point I've decided that yellow is only good for taxis. Therefore I've sent my piquant polo off into the sunset of my local Good Will bin. Ciao giallo!

The eighties... need I say more?!

When more was not enough.
Yesterday I may have been rather
unkind when writing about my dear
Mother's affection for traditional
decorating. The fact is we've all made
mistakes. While now a devotee to
mid century Miesian simplicity, I once
worshipped Buatta, Lancaster, Parrish,
and Fowler. During the eighties I made
more than my share of grievous errors.
After papering and poofing my guts out,
in hindsight I must admit it was awful!

A Bad case of the blues.
One of my first purchases was
a pale blue damask camel back
from W.J.Sloane. Soon added
were a wing chair and sofa
covered in blue and pink chintz.
In it's time I though it was quite
posh. Today I find my homage
to English Country offensive.

Through rose colored glasses.
Looking back I'm fairly certain that during the flush Reagan years everything was in the pink. Our dining room was rosily sponged and edged with this pink egg and dart border. While our guests looked great in it's radiant glow, the idea of that much pink now makes me nauseous.

It's curtains for you...
Swags, jabots, and puddles that is.
In those days anyone with a staple gun
could create over the top windows.
Or you could simply purchase some
"decorator" sheets and flip them over
a rod and voila - WINDOW MAGIC!
My best friend "T" redecorated her posh
Mag Mile penthouse and gave us her
twelve foot cast offs. Rather than hem,
we mounded them at the base of the
window. The opposite of over the top!

Laura who?
At one point it seemed that all that
I really needed was anything Ashley.
Then all at once that all came to an end.
You see, Laura Ashley suddenly expired.
I'm not sure whether it was her death
or the fact that every girl already had
at least one Ashley dress in their closet.
But in a moment, Laura's influence was
over. We slowly rose above the rose hips
and moved into the minimalist nineties
where black was the new pink!

Some things should stay in the past.

History repeated?
Lately I've noticed that all things
old suddenly seem new again.
Tory Burch and Trina Turk
have made millions by knocking
off Palm Beach and Greenwich
matron's closets. It's amazing
how many of the things that I
grew up with are back including
stereos, LPs, and even 8-Tracks!
Well... almost everything.

Beyond chintzy...
It seems that my mother's favorite
decorative style, i.e. "Colonial" or
"Early American" has yet to make a
comeback. In my youth Ethel was
consumed with maple, chintz, and
knotty pine. During the sixties, she
shifted from aqua (turquoise) and
rust to the more modern palette of
Avocado Green, Harvest Gold, and
Federal Blue. Mother was addicted
to anything that in those tones!

Totally revolutionary.
I'm not sure what started this national compulsion of historic proportions. Bringing Up Baby, Holiday Inn, Christmas In Connecticut, or I Love Lucy's move to Westport? It seems that post war our American affection was for all things revolutionary.

Colony Club.
Mother embraced all of the iconographic elements of this decorative phenomena. Drums, spinning wheels, iron stoves, and militia men held places of honor in our home. Often as lamps topped with gigantic
ruffled crinoline lampshades.

History reproduced, literally.
Later on, Mother evolved to a higher plane. By the mid seventies, Ethel embraced all things Williamsburg.
Our annual spring vacation there was a pilgimage to mecca. As she visited, Ethel would pick up a plethora of decorating ideas. On our new cherry "Queen Anne" coffee table sat the Craft House, Ethan Allen, and Pennsylvania House catalogs. Ready as needed for quick reference, inspiration, or stylistic affirmation!

Tidewater Tsunami.
The final crescendo of Mother's colonial compulsion came when my beloved parents purchased their dream home near the James River and retired there in 1979. For over twenty years Mom and Dad strolled up and down Duke of Gloucester Street every afternoon. At all other times Ethel was never happier than when she was sitting
on her screened porch in 90% humidity surrounded by perfectly trimmed boxwood, flowering dogwood, and blooming azaleas.

Southern hospitality.
Mother embraced Virginia and it's colonial heritage. She enjoyed nothing more than entertaining in her new abode. For many years a steady stream of their northern friends made the pilgrimage south annually.

Totally NUTS!
Mother loved to immerse her guests in "colonial" splendor. She set her table with octagonal ironstone, purposefully dulled pewter, hurricane shades, and polished brass candlesticks. Along with Smithfield ham from across the James River, Mom's favorite menu item was Cream of Peanut Soup. Not only a conversation starter, it's actually quite delicious. Below is her cherished recipe.
Go ahead, try it and take a walk down
Duke of Gloucester Street with me!

Kings Arms 
Cream Of Peanut Soup

1 medium onion, chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
1/4 cup butter
3 tablespoons flour
2 quarts good chicken stock
2 cups creamy peanut butter
1 3/4 cups light cream

Saute onion and celery
in butter until soft, not brown.
Stir in flour until well-blended.
Add chicken stock
stirring constantly.
Bring to a boil.
Remove from heat.
Rub through a sieve.
Add peanut butter and cream,
stirring to blend thoroughly.
Return to low heat, do not boil.
Garnish with chopped peanuts.