The General Situation

This Week's Floral Obsession

Same Train, Different Stations

Last week I was on the 4 train, playing Yahtzee on my phone—I promise I will stop once I score higher than 500—and trying to ignore the people around me, when I sensed that the conversation to my left was worth eavesdropping on. A woman had sat down next to me, and then a guy sat down next to her. I was surprised when he started speaking to her, because I didn't think they were together (in that way you notice without even trying), and then I presumed he was hitting on her. He told her which part of the Bronx he was going to, and when she said she was originally from that area, he asked her advice on which bus to take. She reached for her book, and he asked if she was enjoying it. She liked it well enough. I was only half-listening when he said something like, "I just got out...."

Sure enough, he was coming directly from prison. It was clear that he needed to talk, he couldn't not. The woman asked where he was going (to his mother's, though she's a drunk), and she poked fun at his blindingly white sneakers (he wiggled his feet and said that was all they gave him—the shoes and a MetroCard—and that he'd have to call 311 to get the rest of his property). When he said that his "baby mama" is in Virginia and would like to try to patch things up between them, but he's not sure, my neighbor expressed indignation that he wouldn't want to be with his daughter. She cooed over the photo he brought out, and he said that his daughter was very important to him.

The woman was unfailingly polite. Most of us put up walls whenever strangers—let alone newly released ex-cons—try to speak to us on the subway. And then I realized that what would be an unheard-of interaction for me was, for the woman, not such a big deal.

I Love-Hate New York (No. 7)

I was just at a café, about to pour milk in my iced coffee—actually, I was scooping ice out of my cup and throwing it away because this café does not understand that 99 percent of iced-coffee drinkers want room for milk and don't expect to have to ask for it—when a woman joined me at the milk counter. "You have nice feet," she said.

"What?" I was too surprised to be polite. She was African-American, in her forties or fifties, in a dark pinstriped suit, and I didn't get the impression she was coming on to me. (I looked like I had come from the beach, in shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops.)

"You have nice feet," she said again, chuckling. "Very little damage." For a second, it occurred to me that this is what she says to strangers before she stomps on their feet.

"Thank you!" I said, genuinely tickled by the compliment and ready to move on before the situation got weirder. She was lucky I hadn't had that coffee yet, or I might have come back with, "You know what that means, don't you?"

My Julia Child Story

In 1995, I wrote some small items for the New York Times Magazine's front of book, many of which were Q&As—literally, one question and one answer. I asked Joan Rivers if she had any regrets (she said she regretted making Liz Taylor fat jokes, but then listed three of them with relish and then pointed out that Liz didn't mind), Maira Kalman what children want (she treated it as an assignment, asking some kids and turning in copy), Bill Maher if anything was sacred (what a prick!), and opera singer Thomas Hampson where he could sing if he could sing anywhere (the great pyramids).

I also asked Julia Child what she would like as her last meal—I was too young to realize what a cliché that was. I had left a message on her Santa Barbara office's answering machine, and one evening, I arrived home to find a message from her on my machine: "Hello, this is Julia Child!" I've kicked myself for not saving it. I called her back immediately, standing in my sad little kitchen as she listed what she would like if she were on death row. I suggest you read this aloud in your best Julia voice.

A very nice meal. Foie gras, oysters and a little caviar to begin with. Let's see, what wine? Some Champagne, I think. Next, some kind of duck dish. I'm working right now on a pan-roasted duck—very nice—accompanied with little onions, chanterelle mushrooms and little potatoes, with a sauce made out of the carcass, a delicious sauce, a reduction with Madeira wine. After that, some asparagus or a very small salad. Not much of a dessert—maybe a chocolate Malakoff. It's mostly cream, butter and chocolate, very light. Very good coffee—not espresso—real coffee. With the duck, I'd have a 1962 Romanée-Conti, but it would have to be very well kept. It's $700 a bottle. Even though I know the wine maker, I've only had it once. And with dessert, I'd have Château d'Yquem, 1975 or 1976. That's $450 a bottle. But it wouldn't go with the chocolate. I know, we could have Le Cirque's crème brûlée. That would go well. What would you have?

She was utterly lovely. I had to ask her how to spell many of the words—something you never want to do, because it kills the momentum—but I'm glad I did because I never would have figured out "d'Yquem." I have no idea what I said when she asked what I'd have, I probably tried to dodge it, and then she asked what I was having for dinner that night. "Pasta?" I said, not having the nerve to tell her I had bought pre-made sauce. "Oh," she trilled, "I don't find that's very satisfying, do you?"

Neither Would Kristin Scott Thomas!

Conceivably Speaking

Two weeks ago, while on a treadmill at a hotel in Newport Beach, Calif., I watched a pregnancy-test commercial on the miniature TV. I don't remember the details, but you can imagine what the commercial was like. We've all seen scenes like that countless time on TV or in movies, or read them in books.

The only thing novel about watching the commercial was that, while I knew I would never need to take a pregnancy test, I was nonetheless surprised to realize that I would never actually sequester myself in a bathroom and pee on a stick, anxiously awaiting the result. "Surprised" is too big a word; what I mean is that somewhere, deep down, I guess I filed taking a pregnancy test as a scenario I could one day face, if only because I've watched other people do it. This isn't about wanting to have kids: I feel somehow prepared for so many experiences—being in a plane crash, appearing on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire," spacewalking, meeting Queen Elizabeth II, hanging out with Jennifer Aniston, accepting an Academy Award, getting attacked by a shark, whatever—as if some iota of my brain thinks they could happen, might yet happen, will happen someday. And I can only deduce that the reason is that I've either watched similar experiences and empathized (or just sat around and imagined).

On the flight home, I read Colm Toibin's new novel, Brooklyn. It's the story of a woman who emigrates from Ireland in the 1950s, and almost every page felt like stuff I already knew, not firsthand but just by having absorbed similar stories over the years. In fact, when Toibin didn't include the scene where his heroine passes through Immigration, or whatever it was called back then, I was relieved—because I don't need to read about the brusque agent, the lice check, the person who gets sent back because he coughed, etc., etc., etc. The rough transatlantic journey—tiny cabin, stormy seas, vomit—had already pushed me to the brink.

I don't like feeling as if I already know what so many life experiences might be like—even if I understand full well, at the same time, that you can never really know until you go through them. But what was I to do about it? Two weeks after watching the pregnancy-test commercial, still aware of the disconnect between my strange expectation and the obvious reality, I realized that there was no reason I couldn't have this particular experience (minus the anxious awaiting of the result).

I walked into the drugstore feeling like an actor playing a role, because anyone who saw me would have presumed that I was picking up a pregnancy test for my wife/girlfriend. Naturally, there was a woman in the feminine-products aisle, perusing the tests. I killed time by finding a box of Kleenex—you can never have enough—and by the time I got back, she was gone. I recognized some of the brands, and although this was only an exercise there was no way I was going to choose the Duane Reade brand, but I didn't have a clue which one was best. I settled on an E•P•T "value pack" for $10.99, according to the label below it. If I were really in the market for a pregnancy test, however, I so would have gone for one of the expensive models, because this seems like one of those occasions—hiring a wedding photographer, buying trash bags—when you don't skimp. (I got three tests for the price of two, so if anyone needs the others....) Duane Reades being the way they are, I had to wait in line for a while with my Kleenex and my E•P•T, but I didn't feel shame the way you do with some products you buy at a drugstore. I felt dishonest, which seemed close enough. The cashier rang it up: $19.99. I was annoyed—I miss price tags!—but not enough to do anything about it. People buying pregnancy tests, I believe, don't draw attention to themselves.

The instructions were clear: Remove the cap, place the absorbent tip in the urine stream for five seconds. Then lay the test flat while developing, and after two minutes you get the result: A plus sign in the round window means you're pregnant. I learned two things: Five seconds isn't as long as it sounds, and I should have sat down, because when you pee on something it splatters.

(What, you wanted to know the result?)

The Reviews Are Coming In...

I have yet to see the commercial that I was in, and it's driving me a little crazy, if only because other people have.

Friday morning, I received an email from Russ with "HSBC" in the subject line. "Exciting stuff! I was just watching NY1 and thought I recognized the voice and then looked up and recognized the face. Thanks to DVR I was able to rewind and confirm I was right. I had no idea you are so prolific! You were great. Congratulations on your new career." Career? No, no, no, that wasn't my goal at all, I thought. Followed by: Then again, I could certainly use a new career.... I asked him what I spoke about—the commercial wasn't scripted—and got no reply. Bad sign?

The next night, Peter emailed me on Facebook. The subject line: "Acting?" He wrote, "Is that you in the HSBC bank TV ad on a soapbox at 23rd and 5th?" Um, yes, I replied, explaining how it came to be. I trust Peter to be honest with me, even though he's in PR, and so I asked if I came off like a moron—and more important, how did I look? "You look good and it's so completely you and not a character. It comes across very real... a little manic, but you. ;)" The mania sounded plausible—I speak quickly when I'm on camera—but I didn't like that wink. I'm glad people don't wink as much in real life as they do in emails.

Today, Laura emailed. "Darrell mentioned that he thought that he saw you in an HSBC commercial the day before. He said you were featured quite prominently, and while Darrell couldn't remember exactly what you said, you sounded really articulate—to the point where he asked me whether you were given talking points. (No! I exclaimed.) Darrell then said that he thought you came across as being quite tall and attractive. Ha! Thought you'd appreciate!" Indeed! I appreciated everything except the "Ha!" following the word "attractive." I forwarded the email to Adam, who remarked how interesting it was that people seemed to think that I was articulate but they couldn't remember what I actually said.

Thanks, babe. I'll wave to you from the Hollywood Hills.

Sounds Like a Reasonable Assumption

Just saw this on the New York Times's iPhone app: "Young Entrepreneur Myth: Most people assume that the percentage of entrepreneurs who want to be college students is always on the rise."

This Week's Floral Obsession

"Daniels" Is Only Two Syllables

Amy Helin, who is eight months pregnant: P.S. Work me up a name that goes with Jack. I'm thinking three syllables would be nice, but I'm not tied to it. Am stumped here and Chad has given up because I vetoed Jessup and Thurgood.

Me: Jack is nice. How about Helluva, Benimble, Diddley, Parasite, or Dumbledore. [Amy likes Harry Potter.]

Amy: I'll go with Youreanass.

Me: I wouldn't recommend it. Sounds like "urine-ass" and he might get made fun of.