humor

Caterwauling in the Catskills

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‘Even perfect babies have their moments.’

“I haven’t ever really been around any babies,” admitted our BF Jim. We were up in the Catskills for our annual leafy weekend. But this time we were joined by The Child, the SIL — and Mr. Baby.

Mr. Baby holding court

Now, those of you who are at all acquainted with babies know that, scattered in with the awwwww-darned-he’s-so-cute moments, there can be periods that try one’s patience.

Hanging by the firepit with Grampa. A definite he’s-so-cute moment. The baby was adorable too.

Unfortunately for Jim, Mr. Baby had contracted a bit of a bug that only appeared once we had arrived Upstate. Nothing serious (The Child and The SIL contacted their pediatrician) but enough to cause His Babyness to go from cute to contrary in mere seconds — with absolutely no warning.

I know. He looks pretty cute here. But note that diabolical smirk

One minute he’d be delighting us with his attempts at language. (“DogDog” for any cute animal, real or stuffed.) And the next, he’d be screaming and thrashing about. (He now weighs about 25 pounds, so his thrashing is not to be taken lightly. Literally.)

Mr. Baby and his dad enjoying a spectacular view of the Hudson River

Fortunately, Jim’s has plenty of distractions. We hiked like crazy — on Jim’s property and up and down Catskills trails.

Hiking around Jim’s property

We went to Olana, the amazing home of Frederick Church, for a house and garden tour. (Mr. Baby made it through about a third of the indoor portion before demanding to be put down — a definite no-no in a place abounding with historically significant knick-knacks — which meant his mom had to escort him back outside.) But that’s okay. He loves being outside.

Mr. Baby after being banished from Olana. (Yes, that day was his first birthday! He celebrated with one meatball!)

We even went to Opus 40, which is a very cool outdoor artwork that took this one kooky guy 40 years to build from rocks. (Actually, he was in, like, Year 38 when he died, so it’s unfinished. Not that you can tell.

Exploring Opus 40

Aside from the occasional demonic possession episode, the weekend was a hit. Which is fortunate, since we’ve been going to Jim’s on or around Columbus Day for more than 30 years now. In return, all these years the Jims have come to our Amagansett Thanksgiving. Fingers crossed we get asked back next year. Or I’ll hold the Thanksgiving turkey hostage.

Meanwhile, here’s a video of Mr. Baby having fun playing Juggle the DogDog with Gramma:

Amagansett, New York. October 2025

“Burn this, please.”

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‘Remembering my one and only maternity outfit.’

Forgive me for the, um, pregnant pause in posting. So many projects, so little time! I swear that I’ve never been busier since I stopped working. I get up, settle in with a cup of coffee and Spelling Bee, and before you know it it’s time for a Manhattan and Wordle.

One of the Antarctic books I recommend if you’re not going to the Antarctic. Or even if you are (!)

In between, there are things that need fixing (this week it was the nuker and the coffee machine), books that need reading (some Shackleton stuff in preparation for Antarctica in a couple of weeks) and — lately — a book I’m Shutterflying to commemorate my mother’s memorial weekend in late August.

Some Mom memorabilia at her Celebration of Life. Including a book I made to commemorate her 90th birthday

Whew.

Oh, and there are sweaters to knit. These days, I can hardly crank one out for myself in between the ones for the babies of my nearest and dearest.

My latest sweater not for a baby: the Field Sweater by Camilla Vad

Yes, don’t let statistics of a declining birth rate throw you. The Child and her cohort are making up for everyone else. Seems like every single member of this particular batch of Thirtysomethings has at least one little Bundle of Joy. And some are working on siblings.

Handsome little hoodie for handsome little Julian

Right now I’m working on a rustic mini-hoodie (tweed with “leather” buttons) for Leon, and already planning something sweet for a soon-to-appear Baby Girl Grand-Niece.

Speaking of Mom’s Memorial, Baby Girl Grand-Niece was there, though not outwardly visible (yet).

Seeing this fashionable young Mom-to-Be got me to thinking about my own pregnancy and, to a lesser extent, my own maternity wardrobe. Which consisted of exactly one item: those awful stone-washed-denim overalls you see me wearing in the photo at the top of this post.

Here’s my sister and her two girls. All looking waaay more stylish than tee-shirt-and-shorts-clad me. Pregnant — or not

I swear to the pregnancy gods, these overalls were literally the only thing I wore during the last couple of months of carrying — and I do mean “carrying” — The Child. I wore them with tee shirts and sneakers. I wore them with turtlenecks and boots. And, bless me, I even wore them with silk blouses and low heels for dress up. They were the only thing that fit. Because they were the only piece of Actual Maternity Wear that I owned.

Quel contrast: Here is Her Childness, also attired in maternity denim. But managing, somehow, not to look like a hillbilly. Maybe it’s the antlers

See, I was 39, and figured that maternity clothes were a bad investment. At the time — 1990/1991 — clothes made specially for expectant mothers were not only very expensive, they made you look either like a nun (severe, black, trying for invisibility) or like a baby yourself (ruffles, poufs, bows). I got away with wardrobe murder — mainly by stealing Dude Man’s duds — until my seventh month when I blew up like a balloon for a not-so-fun party. My mother, bless her, is the one who saved me from bathrobe-only dressing by buying me that overall.

Maternity dressing, the olden-days way. That’s me, leaning against my elegantly-dressed Mom’s pregnant tummy, which contained Oldest Younger Brother Scott

But, trust me, after I wrestled my way into my hospital gown before being escorted into the labor room, I handed that overall — worn that day with a white tee and blue high-tops — to a nurse and said, “Burn this.”

Amagansett, New York. September 2025

 

New Guinea was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

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‘Quite literally.’

My cranky post from last week, “Getting There was Definitely Not Half the Fun,” whined on about how it took such a godawful looooong time to get to New Guinea. This week I’ll continue my rant by regaling you with a few stories about what it was like once we got there.

Dude Man sticking out like a sore birder at the Wamena airport

First, let me say that I am not sorry that we went to New Guinea. (Notice use of past tense here.) It was truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. For one thing, we saw amazing Birds of Paradise (BOPs for short) and other species we can only find there. But I must say that I have never been anywhere quite like it — none of our trips to Colombia or Ecuador or Guyana or Uganda or any of our five trips to Brazil even comes close to how uniquely different this place felt.

Lovely — but empty — countryside

It was hot, but we’ve done hot (hello, Namibia). It was humid, but so was Borneo. Lots of places have been buggy. No hot water and intermittent electricity? Ditto. True, we were informed beforehand that it might be dangerous — there is a civil war going on — but “dangerous” doesn’t really hit home until you’re told to roll up your windows in the car so you don’t get kidnapped. I mean, in Botswana and Kenya we were warned that it wasn’t safe to walk around by yourself, but that was because of the animals.

“Our” village, Mingre. “Our” house is one of four or five in all

In some of the remoter areas where we were looking for BOPs, we were literally the only outsiders for miles around. There is no tourism, unless you count BOP-crazy birders, so there’s no lodging; villagers double up so you can stay in one of their houses.

Yes, we had our own room. And we were lucky to have a bathroom — to share

The countryside is divvied up by clans who control the villages and the land around them. Our local “handlers” would make arrangements with a clan to use the trails leading into “their” forest. Headlamps secured, we’d hike in the pitch dark so we could arrive by dawn to “blinds” located near the BOPs mating grounds, where we would wait — sometimes for hours — for the BOPs to appear and do their thing.

One of the blinds we used. The front is camouflaged with leaves and branches

Interesting note here: the BOPs clear an area on the forest floor to do their dancing rituals. To get them to appear, you place a few leaves on the cleared area. The birds hate their dancing ground messed up like that, so they show up to clear those pesky leaves away, and then (if you’re lucky) they stick around to dance.

Waiting inside a blind. At least this one had a bench. You peek out those holes when (if!) the BOPs appear. We were lucky; out of 16 BOPs, we only missed one

In the afternoons we would usually bird along the roads. But even here, on a public road, we needed clan permission — not to walk on their land, just to look at it. One day a very angry man rushed at us wielding not just a machete, but an axe. He had not been informed of our presence and was decidedly not pleased to see our group there. Some fast talking by our local handlers was required.

Markers like these denoted village territory. When you got to one, you turned around. Fast

As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t take bird photos on these trips. They don’t turn out so hot with an iPhone. Dude Man takes amazing shots, but it takes months of painstaking sorting before they leave his amazing Canon. But I did get a grainy shot of a remarkable bird who, lacking fancy BOP plumage, builds a bower to attract a mate, then decorates it with all kinds of fancy stuff. In former times, these were colorful seeds or flowers. But the clever Bower Bird has adapted, and uses manmade materials to great effect.

A bower (as glimpsed from a blind), decorated with blue bottlecaps, orange plastic found objects, and shiny insect shells and bits of broken glass

If you look closely, you can see Mr. Bower Bird lurking in the bower between the small tree and the orange piggy bank. To get the bird to show up, you disarrange his pattern slightly, which gets him to come neaten it up. This time, the guide put a yellow bottle cap on top of the blue ones. Mr. BB showed up immediately to toss it out. Oh, and that orange piggy bank? The locals said it took weeks for him to drag it from the village.

I’ll leave you with pleasant thoughts of a plain little bird arranging his treasures…and with something truly scary: a growling baby. Something we did not see in New Guinea.

Amagansett, New York. August 2025

Getting there was definitely not half the fun.

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’35 hours to reach West Papua. Even more to get back.’

I watched this movie last night called Red Eye. It’s a pretty good thriller about a hotel worker thwarting a terrorist on a night flight. It’s not a new movie; you can tell because a plot twist involves one of those seatback phones you could activate with a credit card. Remember those? I was always too intimidated to use one, and now I’ll never get a chance.

I did get plenty of chances to mess around with my iPhone. (Plus watch many movies and plow through scads of e-books.) Since it took us forever and a day to get to New Guinea. We left (very early) on a Thursday morning, and didn’t get there till Sunday. Granted, we did cross the international dateline and “lose” a day. But still. Let’s just say I laid waste to the Connections archive.

Me, after landing at one of many airports on this interminable trip

But hey. I just re-read that opening, and I sound kind of elderly and crabby. Let’s lighten the mood, shall we, by mentioning that today is The Child and the SIL’s wedding anniversary. Yup, it’s been three years since that landmark Canadian fete. (Which you can relive through “Two Weddings are Better than One.”)

A lot has happened since August 13, 2022

What on earth prompted Dude Man and me to put up with two back-to-back eleven hour flights (to Istanbul then to Jakarta) plus another eight hours to Biak (with a three-hour layover in Makassar)? The birds of paradise, that’s what. Basically, if you want to see the birds of paradise (or BOPs as they are affectionately called in birder shorthand), you have to go to New Guinea. Because New Guinea is where they live. Oh, there are a couple of BOPs you can find in Northeastern Australia. But for the creme de la creme (or plume de la plume) of BOPs, Papua is where you’ve got to go.

Here’s New Guinea, with some of our BOP spots circled

Incidentally, if, like me, you are “of a certain age,” you may remember “antimacassars,” I entertained our fellow layover victims by telling about how Makassar was where a popular hair oil was produced back in the Victorian era. This hair oil became so popular that these little fabric doilies — antimacassars — were invented to protect furniture from getting all yucky with it. My Gramma Peterson was an antimacassar fan. She also liked magazine racks. And pipe stands.

Outside our hotel in Biak after breakfast on Sunday — three days after leaving NY

Oh well. The Makassar layover was endured, our last flight was flown — and we made it to West Papua. Biak, to be exact. Where we spent the next few days tracking birds and collecting bug bites. One of these days I will get The Dude to extract his very wonderful bird photos from his very good camera. (In the meantime, you can learn about BOPs here: birds of paradise and feast your eyes here: photos of birds of paradise.) I will leave you with a promise to get back to you with more on our New Guinean adventure soon. Oh. One last thing. I drove over to see Anthony, my haircutter, for a much-needed pruning today and he told me that his father, who served on New Guinea during WWII, would have been amazed at our going there. “You went to New Guinea?!? On purpose?!?” he no doubt would have remarked.

At last! Our first birding morning. Note Dude Man’s camo-camera (pics to come!)

Amagansett, New York. August 2025

 

 

 

 

Who needs hazardous duty pay?

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‘Not me. I got a very cool reward.’

You may have heard that it’s been very hot this summer. Heck, you may have experienced this heat wave yourself.

As luck would have it, I got to sample record temperatures in the Midwest last weekend, and then I got to sweat it out all over again a few days later when the heat dome moved on to the East Coast.

When last I posted — with a story called “In Case You Didn’t Know It Already, I Love Weddings” — I had been asked to meet The Kids in St. Louis to babysit Mr. Baby while they went to a wedding. (I was telling someone about this, and she asked, “Who’s wedding is it?” “Heck if I know,” I replied. “I don’t get to go to the wedding. I’m going to St. Louis so they can go to the wedding.”)

The heat wave didn’t stop us from visiting the Gateway Arch. (Note, however, that we are hiding in a patch of shade)

Me? I didn’t pack anything I could have worn to a wedding even if I had been asked. You know, like, if they were lacking an older woman to fill a table. Nope, my duffel held just a bunch of spit-proof duds that I could crawl around a floor in. I did take a tuxedo shirt, since the SIL doesn’t own one. Plus cufflinks. Oh, and some Laduree macarons. The Kids love them (Laduree macarons, not cufflinks), so I always make sure to score a box before I travel to see them. They don’t take up much room, and I figure I’ll get asked back for my treats even if my child-minding skills prove a tad rusty.

Speaking of “rusty,” my instincts did kick right in. I didn’t have to remember to sway gently with Mr. Baby on my shoulder. I just did it. And that whispering-in-the-ear thing? Came right back. As did good ole tuneless humming and dancing around the room. Oh — and coaching:

What did prove rusty were my joints. The afore-mentioned crawling around on the floor is not for the faint of heart nor stiff of limb. Neither is the bending-over-the-Pack ‘n Play-to-lift-or-settle-the-baby. (Speaking of Pack ‘n Play, why isn’t my name Mrs. Graco? Everybody I know who knows a baby has a Graco Pack ‘n Play, including me. The Kids have at least two, plus there’s the one we bought to put in the Air BnB. Printing money, that lucky Mrs. Graco must be.)

The Pack ‘n Play that lives at my house; “changing table” (ie “twin bed”) in foreground

I did get to go to a wedding-related event on Sunday morning — an event not requiring festive attire. This was an outdoor brunch where you could chat and/or play pickleball. (Guess which I opted for?) One lovely young wedding guest (whose parents were babysitting her daughter back home) asked what I found most different about watching a baby now as opposed to Way Back When.

Lovely young wedding guest’s husband, who demonstrated remarkable baby-comforting skills. Because he is also a Dad or maybe because he looks a lot like the SIL

“The gear,” I promptly replied. “All that stuff!” As I wrote in “It’s a Good Thing This Baby is So Adorable,” babies these days seem to require so much gear. Or, at least their parents do. I mean, this baby has a white noise machine. And as for the baby monitor? I demonstrated the one I used: I cupped my hand to my ear while miming peeking around a bedroom door.

To sum up, my babysitting gig was utterly satisfying as well as utterly exhausting. But, unlike those weenie British foreign service employees back in the day who got posted to St. Louis, I did not get — or even request — hazardous duty pay. I earned enough smiles to last me all summer — or until the next time my skills are required. Which I hope will be soon, or he won’t need my coaching anymore:

Amagansett, New York. July 2025

In case you didn’t know it already, I love weddings.

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‘Even weddings I don’t get to go to.’

This weekend I’m flying to St. Louis to not go to a wedding. Yup, The Kids are invited to a nuptial event in the Gateway City and asked me to come along to watch Mr. Baby while they throw rice, sip champagne and join conga lines.

What I’ll be doing instead of eating wedding cake

I’m really looking forward to it, even though I just checked and it’s gonna be 95 degrees. (Fun Fact: Members of the British diplomatic corps get hazardous duty pay if and when they are stationed in St. Louis; the climate is that harsh.) Well, at least I don’t have to stress out about sweaty pantyhose. Heck, I’m not even packing a dress. Just plenty of carrot-proof clothing.

The only wedding hotter than a St. Louis wedding? A Carlyle wedding. This sweaty event was one of Roger’s

Oh, before I forget. The picture at the top of this post is of another wedding I didn’t get to go to. It was The Child’s first wedding; the one at the Grand Canyon. I didn’t feel bad about not going — it was during the pandemic and nobody could go. (Though of course I wrote about it: see “Runaway Bride” for details and amazing height-defying photos.)

Whooping it up with The Bride and my Favorite Sister at Wedding #2

The Kids had another wedding a year later that people could actually go to. I’ve written about that one too, in “Two Weddings Are Better Than One.” In fact, I’ve probably written about weddings more than any other topic, except maybe His Dudeness, who has been a treasure trove of good material.

And, of course, there’s this guy. I’m just getting started on him.

But back to weddings. Like I say, I love them. All of them. The hot ones. The cold ones. The wet ones. Even the really really looong religious ones. Why, I even went to the wedding of two FBI agents. The bride was, of course, beautifully begowned in white — and packing heat. (Another Fun Fact: FBI agents are always armed, even when they are off-duty and reciting wedding vows.)

No, this wasn’t the wedding where the bride and groom were packing heat. In fact, it was rather chilly

I can honestly say that I’ve never regretted going to a wedding. Though I have regretted not going to them. I’m still kicking myself for not going to My Oldest Younger Brother’s, and not just because it was in Vegas. After all, weddings should trump trips — even trips with Dr. Dude.

I’ll end by saying that this weekend I’m sure I’ll not regret not going to that wedding in St. Louis. I will be otherwise engaged.

Amagansett, New York. June 2025

Somebody needs a nap.

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‘There’s a reason people have babies when they’re young.’

Well, except for Yours Truly. I wasn’t all that young when I had The Child. I was pushing forty. An age which now, in my grandmotherly dotage, seems positively dewy.

Her Childness, when she was about Mr. Baby’s age, and I was relatively young(ish)

I haven’t posted for a while because, well, I’m exhausted. Pleasantly exhausted, but still. The Child and Mr. Baby and, eventually, the SIL, and, a bit later, our nephew’s family (including three little girls) were all here for an extended visit that began in mid-May and lasted till after Memorial Day.

Mr. Baby as the cousins’ Center of Attention

The Child, bless her brave little heart, came all on her own with Mr. Baby. Of course, back in the day I flew solo with her too, clutching a baby carrier and a diaper bag when she was three months old to visit her Grandma and Grandpa. But that’s all I carried. These days, babies need gear. Lots of gear. When I met The Child/Mom at her digs (no surprise we couldn’t put them up in the Ken & Barbie House) she was toting — in addition to His Babyness — a duffel about the size of a Volkswagen and a backpack as tall as me, which is two inches shorter than I used to be, but still. (See my thoughts on babies and gear here.)

Mr. Baby birdwatching from the comfort of his bouncy chair, which was supplied by Yours Truly, though it could have fit in that backpack

During the time in New York, we went to the Central Park Zoo, the Museum of Natural History and a baby shower. We dined out several times and even dodged a parade.

Saturday in the park with doting grandparents

Digging the gems at the Museum of NH

In between bouts of Family Fun, I was able to brush up on my babysitting skills, dealing with (in ascending order of difficulty) squirmy limbs while jammie-dressing, teething squalls and poopy diapers too numerous to mention. (Well, I will mention the poopy diaper I managed mid-poop, for which I deserve extra credit.)

Checking out the ocean for the first time. (He thought it was too cold; he was right) The pool, however, was a big hit. (See video, below)

Shooting pool with Grampa and Cousin Alex

I must have passed muster with my babysitting skills because I’ve been asked to provide them again in a couple of weeks. I am going to watch Mr. Baby while The Kids go to a wedding. St. Louis, here I come!

How we “visit” in between visits. (Yes, that’s a big ole crumb stuck between Dude Man’s front teeth)

I could go on and on — I’ve got ten days’ worth of oversharing I could subject you to (!) but I have to wrap things up and get back to Normal Life, such that it is. I got so distracted by the visit that I forgot to do Wordle and broke a 99-day streak. *Sigh* Now that’s exhaustion.

New York City. June 2025

Babies like balloons about as much as they like clowns.

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‘Which is to say, not much.’

There’s a reason that Stephen King puts balloons in his stories. Balloons are scary. They bob around in your face, they squeak,  they pop. If you rub them, they’ll even pull on your hair. 

Sometimes the balloons in the stories are being held by a clown. Which is, like, doubling down on the scariness. Why, even before Mr. King wrote It, I thought clowns were scary. Circus clowns, TV kid-show clowns, even McDonald’s clowns. All of them: scary. I honestly can’t think of a clown I find amusing. And I’m 73 years old.

Check out the expression on that girl right behind this clown. Maybe she’s hungry for a Big Mac, but does she look amused?

Being over 70 means I remember John Wayne Gacy. He was a suburban serial killer guy who liked to dress up as a clown and lure young boys to their deaths. I’m not sure how this worked, since, if I saw a clown as a child, I was the opposite of “lured.” At the very least, I would shrink away, if not outright run for the hills. (Fun trivia note: Lots of serial killers have “Wayne” as a middle name. You can read more about that right here in my story, “I’ve Seen Fire and I’ve Seen Wayne.”)

My childhood reaction to balloons was pretty much the same: a definite shrinking away, sometimes in tears. As I recall, The Child had a similar childhood balloon aversion.

I don’t have a photo of The Child being scared by a balloon, but I do have this one of her wearing a fish hat. Enjoy

So, imagine my surprise when Her Childness told me about an outing she and the SIL took last weekend. They went — with Mr. Baby — to an exhibition at the Palace of Fine Arts that featured balloons. It was called “EmotionAir,” and featured many examples of what they call “Inflatable Art.” (Which, ahem, I call “balloons.”) Balloons you could blow up. Games with balloons. Rooms filled with balloons that you waded into and frolicked among. I can honestly say the photo they took of Mr. Baby surrounded by “Inflatable Art” is the only one I can recall seeing that features him not smiling.

See? Not crying…but most definitely not smiling

Well, so much for balloons. As far as I know, they haven’t exposed Mr. Baby to clowns yet. Well, except for one. As you can see from the video below, she was pretty funny. And she wasn’t even wearing a wig or makeup.

New York City. May 2025

Art Appreciation, Dude Style

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‘The two criteria he uses to judge any work of art’

Dude Man and I recently took in the Caspar David Friedrich show at the Met. Poor ole Caspar is not well-known over here in America, although he is very popular in Europe. In fact, he was Hitler’s favorite artist. Which could be part of why he’s not so famous here. (It wasn’t Caspar’s fault; he not only didn’t hang out with Hitler, he lived a whole century before him.)

Probably Caspar’s most famous painting, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog. You can buy a poster of it. I wonder if Hitler had one over his bed

Anyway, Caspar David Friedrich’s paintings are mostly landscapes, so I was pretty sure Dude Man would like this show.

The Dude really likes landscapes. In fact, his favorite art is the Hudson River School. You know: Thomas Cole, Frederic Church. Asher Durand. Is it because these paintings evoke majesty? Or because they stir up philosophical thoughts of man’s insignificance in the face of nature?

Thomas Cole: The Oxbow. Majestic. Philosophical. And checks both of The Dude’s “Is it Art?” boxes

Nah. It’s because landscape paintings — or most of them, anyway — look like what they’re supposed to be. A mountain looks like a mountain. A river looks like a river. The moon looks like…well, you get the idea. They also look like they’d be pretty hard to paint. Look at the brushstrokes in that sunset! Check out the jillions of leaves on that tree! Gosh…this painting is so big; I bet it took him forever to paint it!

Landscape paintings, therefore, check both boxes on The Dude’s “Is it great art?” list. First: “Does it look like what it’s supposed to be?” and Second: “Was it hard to do?”

The Whole Dude Family in front of their (real!) de Kooning. Which Dude did not like. Because? Doesn’t look like what it’s supposed to be (though exactly what “les Orages” are, I’m not sure) And doesn’t look like it was hard to do. Read the hilarious story about how Dude’s Fam got this painting in “De Kooning’s Revenge”

One time, at the Museum of Modern Art (where most of the works definitely do not meet the Dude Art Criteria), we came upon a piece that looked like a giant chair — made of thousands of nails — pointing out. It was not only hideous, it looked truly uncomfortable. But Dude Man liked it. And not only because it looked like what it was supposed to be (a chair) but also because it looked remarkably hard to make. “How on earth did he do that?”

Nice try, Artist. But this chair doesn’t like like it was all that hard to make, does it?

I’m happy to say that most of the paintings in this show met Dude Man’s Art Criteria. I liked them too. (In fact, I went another time, Dudeless, so I could take my time with the paintings I liked best.)

One of the more spectacular Friedrichs in the show: The Monk by the Sea. Dude: “Where are the boats?”

Another one I loved and thought Dude would too, since 1. It looks like a real tree and 2. Was no doubt very hard to paint. Dude: “It’s just a tree.” Oh. Okay

After taking in the Friedrichs, we wandered around, checking out other stuff. Of course, some works Dude liked better than others.

You guessed it. He LOVED this column

All in all, a good Art Day. Oh — there’s another criterion I almost forgot to mention: Can the Art be enjoyed with Mr. Baby along?

Perfect work of art here at San Francisco’s Palace of the Legion of Honor: looks like what it’s supposed to be — and incredibly hard to make

New York City. April 2025

 

 

 

 

The Deadhead at the DMV

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‘A bureaucratic nightmare with a happy ending’ 

Have you heard about Enhanced Drivers Licenses? Or a Real ID? Basically, you need one or the other to board a plane starting in May. I keep getting the two mixed up, but, but decided to spring for the more expensive one “just in case” and also since I really really don’t want to go to the DMV again anytime soon. You will, no doubt, relate when you hear my sad story. 

Nothing sadder than Mom’s empty chair. Not even my DMV story

Of course, writing about a visit to the DMV is not nearly as sad as writing about the death of one’s parent, so there’s that. But it’s also not nearly as cheery as writing about Mr. Baby. So before I start, I’ll share a couple of recent adorable baby pics.

Adorable baby with Dad, AKA The SIL

Adorable baby with Mom, AKA The Child

Okay. That’s done. Now for the DMV.

I live partly in New York City and partly in Amagansett, so I have a choice of DMV experiences. I could take the subway to the DMV near Macy’s, which I used to do until a really mean DMV employee fixed me with an icy stare and refused to accept my the paperwork for my Vespa title-transfer because Dude Man’s signatures didn’t match. (Or didn’t match enough for her purposes.) At that point I had been waiting in three separate lines for hours, so I did the only reasonable thing: I burst into inconsolable tears and vowed never to darken that DMV door again.

Gazing at the country in the City

I took my non-matching paperwork instead to the DMV nearest Amagansett, which is in Riverhead. This is the same Riverhead of getting-lost fame, which inspired my story, “Okay, you know where the jail is, right?” Which is pretty hilarious, if I do say so myself.

Gazing at the country in the Country

Now, Riverhead may not be a simple subway ride away — it takes 50 minutes by car — but in Riverhead, at least in my experience, the people are nice. When I showed my City-disputed paperwork to the woman at the counter, she not only didn’t fix me with a mean icy stare, she smiled and wished me a good day. After accepting said paperwork.

A picture of some lines. Nice lines, on a sweater

There also were no crowds, no lines, no hassle whatsoever. But this time was different. I supposed I should have realized something was up when I tried to make an online appointment and all the dates in the calendar were grayed out — through June. Must be a computer glitch, I told myself before hopping in the car at 7:00 Monday morning. The office opened at 7:30, but I figured getting there at 8:00 would be fine.

Not so, it would seem. The place was jammed to its bureaucratic gills. They did accept walk-ins, thank the scheduling gods, so I took a number — WU016 — and settled down to wait. After about 15 minutes, it was called. Wow, I thought! I’ll be home by 9:00!

Hah. That was just the guy taking my picture. That done, he instructed me — nicely — to wait for my number to be called again.

A picture I took of The Dude. Not at the DMV. At the MET

Well. They had nineteen “service desks,” and numbers were being called mere seconds apart. I had brought a New Yorker for a distraction, but I couldn’t look at it for fear I would be so distracted I’d miss my number being called. So I just sat there, staring at the screen displaying the numbers like a zombie — and like everybody else there.

To complicate things, I felt the urge to visit the ladies’ room (or whatever it’s called in a DMV…”rest area?”… “parking spot?”) I gave myself till 10:00, and if my number wasn’t called, I’d risk it.

A really nice pic of three generations of girls. Because why not?

Sure enough, the clock registered 10:00 and good ole WU016 was called to Service Desk 11, where a young man with dreadlocks greeted me with a smile. Examining my paperwork, he admitted that my ConEd bill reminded him of a Dylan song. (“Joey”, I think he said it was called.) So we talked Dylan some. For a guy who was in his thirties he was remarkably well-informed. He even knew the scene in Don’t Look Back where Donovan is completely intimidated by Dylan’s playing.

He said that he had been to a Grateful Dead concert when he was three — his parents were Deadheads (!) He was also a fount of knowledge about Jim Morrison and Leonard Cohen, and commiserated when I told him I was not allowed to hitchhike with my boyfriend to Woodstock.

The boyfriend who hitchhiked to Woodstock. Read about him in “Larry and the Nose Holes”

I told him he was about the same age as The Child, but that The Child didn’t realize the significance of living in Haight-Ashbury. Which is where she, in fact, lives. He asked at one point if I wanted 5’6″ on my new license (I had put 5’4″ on the form) and told me his mom was having the same issue with shrinking. (See “Skirting the Issue” for more on that.)

Well. Crowds or no crowds, lines or no lines, that little dreadlocked deadhead baby sure made my DMV Day. He even knew where the ladies’ room was.

New York City. April 2025