The house we've been renting went on the market this week (for $10.9 million, so, no, we will not be buying it). The brokers took photos a couple of weeks ago, and I was tickled to see that my tumbleweed made the cut. I found it on the driveway as we were moving in, and I thought it was important to have some bit of decor that was ours—otherwise, the house is too generic. Also, I happen to love tumbleweeds. When Adam and I were at JFK airport recently, we were sitting by the gate when a small tumbleweed blew in from the jetway and across the terminal floor. Then another came, and another, and so on. It was very mysterious—this was New York City!—until we boarded the plane and saw more tumbleweeds jammed into the luggage rack that they use to gate-check bags. The plane must have been coming from somewhere much more arid, and when the gate door was opened, they got sucked inside the airport.
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When I left Travel + Leisure magazine a million years ago, the lovely copy editor in the cubicle next to mine gave me a terrific gift: a mock synopsis of a sitcom based on my life, or at least the work part (and/or whatever he heard me yapping about on the phone). He meant it fondly, I'm positive. I'll need to look for it next time I'm in New York City.... Anyway, every now and then I meet someone so quirky that I think I really am in a sitcom. (Not "Frasier," thank you very much.) Take the guy who cuts my hair, Pete. I think he's always stoned—actually, that's probably true of most people around here. I think he's superstoned, or possibly just very, very mellow. Adam went to him first and recommended him, and when I went, I had to hear over and over how hysterical Adam is. "Adam is so funny!" Pete would say. "He cracks me up!"
When I told Pete about my parking ticket, he shared strategies of his that had worked in the past, including putting a bag over the "no parking" sign then taking a photo of it as proof that he shouldn't have been ticketed, and showing up in person at the police department and asking them to just let it go.
At my last visit, probably apropos of lunchtime, Pete told me how he had been watching online videos of ways prisoners hack their food into more ambitious dishes. Inspired, he went to the liquor store and bought the ingredients for a prison "burrito": instant ramen, Doritos ("but some people prefer Cheetos"), and a Slim Jim. Through some alchemy, hot water makes the ramen congeal into a sort of tortilla, which you essentially steam in the Doritos bag—or at least that's what I understood of the process. He mentioned that his girlfriend's birthday is coming up, and I suggested that he make her a prison cake.
"With Twinkies!" he said. "I could write, 'Happy birthday to my prisoner' on it."
"Or 'to my ball and chain,'" I said.
"Yes!" he said. "My ball and chain!" (I recommended a backup cake, just in case.)
He lost favor when I told him I'd be turning 50 in a few weeks and he didn't object; I expect everyone to think that such a thing is impossible. But then just when I'm sure he's not paying attention, which is not great in a hairdresser, I remember that I only had to tell him once how much I hate being shown the back of my head, and he never bothers to hand me the mirror anymore.
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I'm cracking myself up on Instagram. Not sure the Four Seasons thinks it's funny, though.