Navigating Loonies, Roller Skating on the West Side Highway, and Fiorucci’s: My New York Childhood

Inspired by last week’s New York magazine’s wonderful cover story, “Childhood in New York” http://nymag.com/news/features/childhood/, I could not help but reflect on my own. Back in the 1970s, the Upper West Side was a much funkier neighborhood; it had a diverse vibe, there was more of a pulse. The now very tame La Caridad restaurant on 78th street, for example, started out as a hole-in-the-wall cabbie dive. My parents referred to it as the Ptomaine Café, but I secretly wanted to try it out; on Amsterdam Avenue there were head shops and a Botanica filled with colorful religious statues and candles. My mom used to buy her cigarettes there, but the place creeped me out so much that I’d wait for her outside. Back in the 70s, even the very buttoned-up Collegiate School had a trippy Technicolor mural on its façade; it was just a different time.

One of my fondest and oddest memories was roller skating along the West Side Highway. A portion of it was closed for repairs for a long period of time, and my parents and dog would trail behind me as I clattered along in those clunky metal skates that fit over my sneakers. Afterwards we’d sometimes stop at Gitlitz Deli on Broadway and 76th street,  grab hot bagels from H&H, or get something at Zabars, where we once encountered Lauren Bacall in all of her husky-throated glory. We’d walk down Broadway, past the local color, like the Chicken Man, a 6’5” giant in an ill-fitting coat who would surprise passersby with alarming clucking outbursts; and the character we dubbed El Greco, a tiny lunatic whose dark and stormy looks reminded us of the works of the painter. We got used to them all – they were our neighbors too. That’s the one thing about being a Manhattan kid; you learn to navigate your way around crazy, fast.

There were small independent bookstores, like Eeyores, where I waited for Judy Blume to sign my copy of Are You There God, it’s Me Margaret (which I still have). Back then there was a huge Woolworth’s on 79th and Broadway, where you could buy turtles and goldfish,  and there were favorite restaurants like Teachers, and the Ginger Man near Lincoln Center, where I’d feel so sophisticated at dinner with my parents, sipping on a Shirley Temple. Plus there were cool places to shop, like the psychedelic boutique called Pandemonium which reeked of patchouli, and Charivari, the “it” boutique of the day and one of my mother's favorites.

Growing up in New York City gave me such a sense of independence; once we got past a certain age, we didn’t need our parents to drop us off at school or take us around. I felt bad for my cousins in the suburbs who had to be driven everywhere. The bus, subway and our sneakered feet did the trick. And no, most of us didn’t have backyards, but when you are perfectly situated between Riverside Park and Central Park, who needed one? Plus, the Museum of Natural History, was an adventure in and of itself; we’d spend hours beneath the giant blue whale, wondering if it could ever fall. As a tween, I remember going to Bloomingdale's with friends on Saturdays for frozen yogurt (a novelty at the time), and afterwards heading over to Fiorucci to try on overpriced Italian jeans and glitter makeup, back when performer Joey Arias worked there.

Manhattan was a brilliant, colorful and crazy place; for all of its flaws, danger, dirt and occasional stench, I’m so glad I got to grow up here. In my very humble opinion, few places are quite as vibrant. My thirteen-year-old daughter said to me recently, “You know, people from New York City are really different. It’s a special place." I had to agree; special indeed.

30 Minutes in the Dark, with Needles

What does it take to get me to really sit still and shut up? Being immobilized by needles and electrodes in a dark room, apparently. No, this was not some wild and wretched sounding  50 Shades of Gray moment, just an attempt to alleviate a very un-sexy inflamed tendon in my hand with 30 minute acupuncture sessions.

Rendered basically useless and left alone with my thoughts made me realize that apart from going sleep at night, it’s rare that I take time to really simmer down. I think that almost everyone has this problem, but perhaps mothers are most guilty of not taking proper quiet time. Be still! We tell children to do it all the time, but most of us can’t get the hang of it. We often read to relax, or watch television to try and zone out, but we are actually filling our heads with more information; and exercise or yoga, as wonderful as they are, are all about bodies in motion.  I am talking about the full-on Zen of total stillness and silence.

On my first appointment, the doctor set me up, turned on the timer, and turned off the lights. What would my crazy mind do for a half an hour? I have often tried to meditate, but never felt as though I’d been very successful at it. But there, trapped in the darkness, I figured this was as good time to give it another shot. I listened to my breathing and tried to picture my most peaceful places. Then an assignment I had to write popped into my mind and I got distracted. I tried again. When my started to wander, I took some time for gratitude and some prayers, for good measure. When I was done being thankful, I remembered an appointment that I had to make for my daughter and I bill I had forgotten to pay. Eventually, I went back to concentrating on my breathing, and I think I might have even drifted off for a few minutes, which is a lot for someone who hates naps. But still, pathetically, I was organizing my quite time, like a to-do list! Despite it all, I was totally relaxed when I walked out.

Then slowly, ever so slowly, it happened. After a few more sessions, I felt less and less like I had to guide my mind through those 30 minutes; I realized that I did not have to “make use” of that time,  just unplug. I’m getting better at it and actually look forward to my appointments – they are like a mini-vacation.  Maybe one day  I will be able to  pull off the whole zone out trick without the needles and in the privacy of my own home. Maybe. 

Pom Poms in a Twist: The Super Bowl Dilemma

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. (And I mean my father, not the other one). It’s been two years since I watched my last Super Bowl. I did not follow the World Series, and March Madness? Meh.

Full disclosure: my dad, Art Rust Jr., was a well-known New York sportscaster, but the sports fan gene did not rub off on me and I have always felt a tremendous sense of guilt. Now mind you, when I was growing up, I loved sitting on his knee and watching a game, any game, either at the stadium or at home. His play-by-play was always peppered with interesting anecdotes about icons like Joe DiMaggio, Walt Frazier, or Muhammad Ali , and I got a kick out of his opinions, like exactly why so and so was a “real pr%*#!” Yes, tender father/daughter time.

Apart from a really good boxing or tennis match, the Olympics, or the World Cup (thanks in part to my Italian husband) I am not a too crazy about watching sports. I can appreciate the showmanship and the skills, and can thrill at a great touch down or an amazing slam dunk, but all in all, I can't fake it; I’m just not that enthusiastic. But I so wish that I was! Everyone is excited about Super Bowl XLVII, I want to be part of the club too. My poor family is not much help; not a rabid sports fan in the mix. But we will probably tune in for a little while; like we usually do. Perhaps I’ll use the games as an excuse to make some hot wings, or some other culinary naughtiness. We’ll  laugh at the commercials, watch Bey’s halftime extravaganza (live or pre-recorded?), and maybe, just maybe, I’ll catch one of those glory moments that will help me understand what all the fuss is about.   

Superstorm Sandy Survivor’s Guilt

I'm still reeling with survivor's guilt from Superstorm Sandy, and as I write this, a nor'easter is making conditions miserable outside and adding insult to injury. I grew up and live in Manhattan, a place where we worry about being able to afford sky-high rents, getting our kids into a good public school (or figuring out a way to finagle them into a good private one), and we concern ourselves with staying alert to lunatics on the subways and sidewalks. Worrying about storms and hurricanes? Not so much.

Last August, we panicked and prepared for Hurricane Irene.  We stocked up on food and water, flashlight batteries, candles, and debated whether or not to tape up the windows. (We didn’t.) Manhattan was basically spared. This time around, the warnings for Sandy were even more ominous, but we did the same.  What else could we do? We took the kids, a 13 and a 19-year-old, out to the store where they helped us load up on water, food, flashlight batteries, and then at home we debated, once again, whether or not to tape up the windows. (We didn’t.) On pre-storm Facebook, New Yorkers joked about having enough wine. Calls and emails from friends abroad and around the county came in, concerned for our well-being. We explained to them that lower Manhattan was the main at-risk zone, and that our Harlem neighborhood, perched high on Sugar Hill, was probably not going to feel much of the pain. Yet, when they shut down the subway system in New York City, you know it’s serious. The kids got a little more worried, then we got a little more worried.

A final trip out was made for more water and snacks, requisite photos of the 13-year-old blowing in the wind were taken. When we finally hunkered down for dinner and a screening of Moonrise Kingdom, we heard the wind and rain whipping fiercely outside of our windows, and waited anxiously. Obviously that’s the thing about hurricanes; you never know what will happen. Even when they downgrade the hurricane's status to "Superstorm Sandy," which unfortunately sounds like Barbie's best friend, you still don't rest easy. You have to let go, but you don’t sleep peacefully.

In the morning, we looked out of the window to a silent wet, gray morning. Other than a few trees down in Riverside Park, we could not access any damage in our vicinity. But when we turned on the news and found devastation, we all felt very, very grateful. We were safe and dry, with electricity, food, and running water. I felt a little guilty. In the days to follow, housebound, we were all glued to the television. Our downtown neighbors with no electricity or heat; flooded subway tunnels; evacuations from downtown hospitals whose generator’s failed; Hoboken under water; fallen trees killing people in their homes; multiple carbon monoxide deaths; drowning deaths; Staten Island looking as though it had been hit by a wrecking ball; no gas at the pumps, and the worst news of one particular day, the discovery of the lifeless bodies of the two little Moore children, ages two and four, found in a field after they had been swept out of their mother’s arms.

Lives have been shattered, and for the survivors, there remains the anxiety of knowing that no one is safe from natural disasters. Your luck can change in an instant, from borough to borough, or in a few city blocks. These are the moments when, hopefully, at least for awhile, we cease to complain about foolishness.

The Resolution Will Not Be Televised: September is the New January

January 1 has all the fun. Champagne corks pop, a Swarovski crystal ball drops, and there is showy countdown coverage on every major TV network. Yes, technically it's a new year, but I'm done with New Year's resolutions.  January simply does not feel like a fresh beginning; there is no big shift of any sort in the middle of winter, and I have always felt a little disingenuous suddenly revamping my game plan from one day to the next.

Perhaps it’s a vestige of childhood, but September, with its back-to-school theme, cooler days, and swirl of changing leaves, feels bright, new, and hopeful – even if no bells and whistles go off. It's a less forced, less intimidating time to make resolutions; the perfect "soft launch."

As I buy my kids freshly sharpened pencils and blank notebooks, ripe with creative potential, I feel like it’s a clean start for me as well, and because I’m helping them get their lives organized for a successful year, I take the opportunity to think about and organize mine. With the lazy days of summer behind me, fall is a harvest time of creativity, and I’m inspired to hit the re-start button on my projects and sort myself out.

And if and when my September resolutions fall flat, and of course many of them do, I can always join the crowd at the end of the year and take another stab at the new-and-improved me. 

Brush your teeth and put on some real clothes: The joys and perils of working from home

During a recent conversation with a friend, who also works from home, she boasted that she stays in her pajamas until two o’clock. No, I couldn’t swing it. I need sartorial structure. In comfy pj's, how would I be able to distinguish night from day? I get up, wash my face, brush my teeth, and put on something decent enough so that if I actually have to go out, I won’t scare anyone.

Apparently, some six million Americans work from home, and I joined those ranks a few years ago as a freelance writer. I get up with the family, and the moment I finally kick everyone out of the house heralds the start of my work day. I sit at my computer, which offers a pleasant, if slightly abbreviated, view of the Hudson River, and I set out to write whatever needs writing that day. I am guided by My List, which I make diligently the night before, and nothing brings more satisfaction than checking things off.

I am a fidgety writer who needs to get up every 45 minutes or so to stroll about the apartment and contemplate the next wave of ideas, so I find that distractions are plentiful, if you look for them.  And I often find that I don’t have to look far: The remainder of the Sunday paper to go through; breakfast dishes that could really wait until later (somehow tidying up becomes so very urgent); Michelle Obama on The View; phone calls from my lovely friends; discovering that 10 strangers have repined one of my images on Pinterest (!); CNN breaking news alerts, and of course, the Five-Star Time Suck: Facebook. It’s the virtual water cooler for the stay-at-home set which can drag me down a rabbit hole, but it serves as the perfect excuse for me to check in with the outside world. I also seem to need more snacks and coffee, which, of course, is just another ploy to get up and wander the apartment...for inspiration.

But when I’m able to keep my blinders on, I like working chez moi, and I enjoy at least feeling like my own boss, as I order myself around. I love being able to squeeze in lunch with a friend or dash out to the gym when a deadline is met earlier than expected. I'm happy to be here when my kids get home, and I also relish the occasional down day between assignments when I am actually not in the midst of pitching an idea, writing it, or chasing down a contact or an editor; it’s like an impromptu vacation day.

I have worked in offices, so sometimes I do miss the bouncing around of ideas and the face-to-face connection with others working towards a common goal. On occasion, I also miss the structure of being in an office. There are clearer definitions of the beginning and the end of the business day. At home, sometimes I'm not sure when it’s quittin’ time. I do not miss dealing with the moodiness of a large office staff, or the over-sharing co-workers who use their cubicles as an arena for fights with their mothers, nor do I miss the hellish daily commutes on crowded New York subways.

If it weren’t for the dang distractions, I’d be fine. When things get really bad, I exile myself to the hallowed halls of the “Lion’s Den,” the main branch of the public library, with its delicious book smell, grand wooden tables, and shroud of silence, and I’m really able to stay focused. 

But when I’m home, I start with my mantra: clean teeth and real clothes. It usually works pretty well. What works for you? I'd love to know.

Birthdays, Loss, and Memories

I’m about to celebrate my second birthday as an orphan; a forty-something one, but an orphan nevertheless. I don’t feel quite old enough to be parent-less, so birthdays now tend to be a little bittersweet. My parents were pretty damn special. Not only did I love them, I actually really liked them. They were smart, funny, great company, and stylish, to boot. They brought a lot to the party.


I was just 21 when my mom passed away and the pain of it was truly surreal. She was a beautiful force of nature and we were very, very close--quite honestly, I don’t think it’s something you ever really recover from. To this day, I will see a mother and daughter who look as happy and close as my mom and I were, and my heart aches . The loss is enormous. Clearly the universe decided that our time together was more about quality than quantity. I take great solace in the strong relationship we had, but it makes the missing part that much harder. We never had our “grown up lady time,” and I so regret that now that I’m a woman with womanish questions.

Two years ago, I was in the room when my champ of a father died. He suffered a long, drawn out battle with Parkinson’s and now it was over.  I was glad to have been with him until the end, as I hadn’t been there with my mom. I remember walking out of that hospital room and feeling stunned and completely untethered.  The chord had been cut. The people who brought me into this world were now both officially gone and I felt cosmically f****d. Dad was my anchor, my connection to everything and the answerer of questions about my childhood, Duke Ellington songs, boxing rules, Harlem back-in-the-day stories, and life in general.

As an only child, I have no siblings to rehash tales of mom and dad. The adventures are stored like treasures in my memory bank, and I take them out quite often to share with my kids.  I am glad that they have each other so that they can reflect together on their life with me, the good and the bad. I hope that my husband and I will be remembered as fondly. I am also grateful that my daughter and son and I have a strong bond, full of love and silliness. I know my parents are smiling on us, especially in our goofiest moments.

I’m a lucky girl. I thank my parents for filling my life with so much love that I can still feel it, almost touch it. That’s a pretty great birthday present.