The Almost 14 Year Old

On Sunday, I taught the girl how to make a pot of coffee. And then she delivered a fresh hot cup to my bed.

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A couple of weeks ago, she and I were in the supermarket, wandering down the bread aisle. A song from Footloose came on the PA. “Let’s watch Footloose tonight, Mama!” I - thinking about broadening her cultural education and knowing that she's seen Footloose rather more than once - asked her “have you seen Dirty Dancing?” She said “no”, and with that, a woman about 8 feet ahead of us whipped around and said “whaat‽” It was an exaggerated what, a go home this instant and watch it what, a spectacular moment of a stranger unable to stop herself from joining a conversation uninvited.

So the other night, we settled in to Dirty Dancing. Not far in, Baby’s mom makes an appearance. “It’s Emily Gilmore!”

Maybe you had to be there, but somehow, that was the icing on the cake.

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Tomorrow she turns 14. And the cake will be cheesecake, because the tagline on her finsta reads "I probably love cream cheese more than I love you".

I love her more than cream cheese.

The Day After

Every year, the politicians campaign, standing around the train station, and in front of Starbucks, and at the farmers market, and anywhere else they can see and be seen. Last night, election night, all six of the people running for town office - plus a bunch of their surrogates - were on the train platform or in the overpass or at the bottom of the stairs. It was like running a gauntlet to get out of the station.

Once upon a time, we lived in Manhattan, on the Upper East Side. Our state senator was, for most of the time that we lived there, a liberal Republican named Roy Goodman. He was the kind of liberal Republican that won cross endorsements from the Independence Party and the Liberal Party - so I'd happily vote for him on the Liberal line. After a nail-biter of a last race, in which I voted for his opponent, he served one last term in the Senate - thirty three years altogether.

The thoroughly endearing thing that Goodman did after every election? He'd assume his campaigning position at the top of the stairs to the 86th subway station, wearing his utilitarian and slightly wilted trench coat, and hold up a sign that said "Thank You".

This morning, there was no one at the train station to say thank you. I don't need to be thanked for my vote, but I have to say that it made an impression.