In NYC, there's only one thing a single woman spends more time searching for than an eligible man: a suitable place to live, an apartment of her own (once you're over 30 you really need more than a room of your own).
Penelope has been searching in earnest for an apartment to buy but the more she searches the more obstinate she becomes about returning to her one bedroom rental in Lenox Hill, the one with the perfect entryway, western exposures and coveted herringbone floors.
At this point I've logged even more hours on Streeteasy.com than I ever did on Match.com in my quest for a man. I would spend entire days logged on to match.com, inputting the sought after features (male, NYC, likes pets, Christian, at least a B.A in education), and scanning the results. Often I’d return to the same profile repeatedly because I’d forgotten why I'd rejected a potential suitor. I'd pull it up and spot the tragic flaw: he was 4'3"; he was 74 years old; or he was a devout Jehovah's witness . . .
Occasionally, I would stumble on a profile that was in perfect harmony with my search criteria. I couldn't meet him soon enough. And when I did, there was usually a comical mismatch between my expectation (or his profile) and who sat across from me. Either that or his behavior was not to be believed, like the fellow who started out by telling me my face was less angular than in my photo, then explained that he didn’t vacation because it disrupted his sense of routine and exposed him to too much sunlight. I couldn’t run away soon enough.
It won't surprise you that real estate is full of the same deceptions as internet dating. I try not to get my hopes up but it's difficult to be positive and open-minded without accidentally believing that Apartment 10E is "the one". Look at the trim on that building―how could I not live happily ever after there?
One morning I saw a promising pre-war in Carnegie Hill, just one block from the park. Not only did its profile boast herringbone floors, but an atrium and outdoor terrace. The description did note "waiting for someone with vision." What it required was willful blindness: too dark to discern any herringbone, and the "atrium" was on the inside of the building surrounded by brick walls. Perfect for cultivating mushrooms and breeding bats, but nothing else.
Then there was the perfect Park-Lex apartment with the generous living room, and not a single closet . . .
I spoke with the friend who had tipped me off to Streeteasy.com. She admitted you have to kiss a few frogs before you find the right apartment. At this point my lips were chapped but I wasn’t ready to concede spending my retirement in a rental so I kept at it.
I saw a 2BR in Beekman with multiple walk-in closets (never did I imagine that the initials "W.I.C." would literally send shivers of excitement down my spine). No herring bone floors. I let on to the agent my secret obsession with herringbone. At home, I stare at the Escheresque floor pattern for hours and the frustrations of my workday magically dissolve. He suggested I have someone paint a herringbone pattern on the floors. I didn’t laugh.
One of my owning friends (everyone in NYC knows your friends fall into two categories: owning and renting) advised me that you can't expect one apartment to meet all your needs and that I may not find one with western exposure, herringbone floors, WICs, and large rooms in a pet friendly doorman building within my price range and neighborhood.
What was she saying? Was she recommending I just "buy it"?! It reminded me of Lori Gottlieb's book "Just Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough" and all the controversy the message of "settling" for a guy that's "good enough" stirred up among single women.
At this age, it's unlikely I will ever marry, so finding a womancave of my own is critical. I haven't settled for just any guy and I won't settle for just any apartment. Couldn't she see that?
Then again, maybe my analogy wasn't perfect. You can change apartments a bit more easily than men. There isn't quite the same societal disapproval for selling your apartment as there is for divorcing your spouse. In fact, many people purchase apartments with a keen eye on resale value and have no shame in discussing it. Discussing resale value (aka the prenup) when husband shopping, on the other hand, is usually handled with far less transparency and primarily by attorneys.
So maybe she was right, maybe I should just buy it. Maybe. I think I'll stare at the herringbone some more as I think it over.
Penelope
Monday, April 19, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Lunch Report: Partying with Penelope's Parents
Last Sunday I hosted a party, the first one I’ve hosted in years. I had forgotten what a taxing undertaking hosting a party can be.
It didn’t take a village but it did take a family, my extended family. I enlisted a girlfriend Whitney who, conveniently, has turned herself into a chef since we first met 25 years ago. I also asked one of my brothers to help and make sure Beauford the Bobcat was properly mounted on the wall.* There’s nothing like a bobcat falling off the wall to ruin a good party.
Whitney prepped the food and I prepped my brother on the invitees. I told him who had dated whom, who should be cut off after two drinks, and which women he was and was not allowed to pursue.
Once guests arrived, I found myself pointing out my favorite objects: “This beautiful Mahogany dining room table is circa 1730. The leaves are folded so you can’t see, but it’s in amazing shape.” I had to stop myself from saying “Oh, and to the right are my parents, both circa 1936. They’re also in excellent shape.”
Sometimes I slip into a juvenile habit of regarding my parents as an integral part of the background, whose roles are somehow confined to supervising. So, I was strangely flattered that so many of my guests had such kind things to say about my parents. I’m not sure why I was surprised. After all, they’re independent individuals with independent interests and their existence as “my parents” may not be their only noteworthy attributes.
I forget how unique my mother's path has been: born in New York; spent a few years in China; had a short stint in a convent (her reward for graduating early from boarding school); "came out"* at the Debutante Assembly and the New Year’s Ball in New York in 1955; dumped Charles the race car driver thereafter; and married my dad in 1961. Now an accomplished alpine gardener, her expertise in penstemons* is discussed in hushed tones in elite gardening circles in New York City.*
I forget that my father grew up just outside of NYC with several siblings as blonde as he (when he still had hair), had an adman dad who may have been the archetype for Don Draper, started out in the Manhattan D.A.'s office, transitioned to Dutchess County where he had his own firm, two horses, a dog, several cats (one of which peed on his documents one evening, which was entirely my fault), chickens that laid Dr. Seuss-like green eggs* and four children who orchestrated simultaneous attendance at college in an effort to challenge his capacity as a provider.
I don't know if any of these details figured among what intrigued my guests, but I did want to pause and reflect. They're not just a series of anecdotes or facts. They're my parents. They didn't just bring the extra bottles of vodka and wine (but thank goodness they did). They brought themselves.
Thanks, Mom and Dad. You done Penelope proud.
Notes
*Although Beauford had already passed to bobcat heaven long before I secured him on eBay, I recognize my acts may be construed as condoning the slaughter of pretty kitties. For this, I am truly contrite. When I look at Beauford, I hear my dead grandfather’s voice: “I want to find out what your thinking was. I want to find out what your feelings are. And did you learn anything.”
*No, she’s not a lesbian. “Coming out” refers to the tradition of a young lady or “débutante” being introduced to society.
*Technically, a Penstemon is a large genus of North American plant from the Scrophulariaceae family. Untechnically, they’re all frilly and girlish.
*Active in the North American Rock Garden Society (NARGS) since 1984, she is one of their most highly recommended lecturers. She has taught at the New York Botanical Garden, is past president of the Berkshire Chapter of NARGS and has taught Master Gardener classes as well. See “The Low Down on Gardening Low Down,” New England Wild Flower Society. http://www.newfs.org/learn/catalog/sym0901
*Of Chilean descent, Araucana chickens lay naturally blue, pink and green eggs.
Important Post Script: FEMA workers have now completed the post-party clean up. Among the objects found include two cell phones, one "Sycuan casino" water bottle, one fuschia feather boa, and one hand grenade. Please email penelope.frost@yahoo.com if any of these objects belong to you.
It didn’t take a village but it did take a family, my extended family. I enlisted a girlfriend Whitney who, conveniently, has turned herself into a chef since we first met 25 years ago. I also asked one of my brothers to help and make sure Beauford the Bobcat was properly mounted on the wall.* There’s nothing like a bobcat falling off the wall to ruin a good party.
Whitney prepped the food and I prepped my brother on the invitees. I told him who had dated whom, who should be cut off after two drinks, and which women he was and was not allowed to pursue.
Once guests arrived, I found myself pointing out my favorite objects: “This beautiful Mahogany dining room table is circa 1730. The leaves are folded so you can’t see, but it’s in amazing shape.” I had to stop myself from saying “Oh, and to the right are my parents, both circa 1936. They’re also in excellent shape.”
Sometimes I slip into a juvenile habit of regarding my parents as an integral part of the background, whose roles are somehow confined to supervising. So, I was strangely flattered that so many of my guests had such kind things to say about my parents. I’m not sure why I was surprised. After all, they’re independent individuals with independent interests and their existence as “my parents” may not be their only noteworthy attributes.
I forget how unique my mother's path has been: born in New York; spent a few years in China; had a short stint in a convent (her reward for graduating early from boarding school); "came out"* at the Debutante Assembly and the New Year’s Ball in New York in 1955; dumped Charles the race car driver thereafter; and married my dad in 1961. Now an accomplished alpine gardener, her expertise in penstemons* is discussed in hushed tones in elite gardening circles in New York City.*
I forget that my father grew up just outside of NYC with several siblings as blonde as he (when he still had hair), had an adman dad who may have been the archetype for Don Draper, started out in the Manhattan D.A.'s office, transitioned to Dutchess County where he had his own firm, two horses, a dog, several cats (one of which peed on his documents one evening, which was entirely my fault), chickens that laid Dr. Seuss-like green eggs* and four children who orchestrated simultaneous attendance at college in an effort to challenge his capacity as a provider.
I don't know if any of these details figured among what intrigued my guests, but I did want to pause and reflect. They're not just a series of anecdotes or facts. They're my parents. They didn't just bring the extra bottles of vodka and wine (but thank goodness they did). They brought themselves.
Thanks, Mom and Dad. You done Penelope proud.
Notes
*Although Beauford had already passed to bobcat heaven long before I secured him on eBay, I recognize my acts may be construed as condoning the slaughter of pretty kitties. For this, I am truly contrite. When I look at Beauford, I hear my dead grandfather’s voice: “I want to find out what your thinking was. I want to find out what your feelings are. And did you learn anything.”
*No, she’s not a lesbian. “Coming out” refers to the tradition of a young lady or “débutante” being introduced to society.
*Technically, a Penstemon is a large genus of North American plant from the Scrophulariaceae family. Untechnically, they’re all frilly and girlish.
*Active in the North American Rock Garden Society (NARGS) since 1984, she is one of their most highly recommended lecturers. She has taught at the New York Botanical Garden, is past president of the Berkshire Chapter of NARGS and has taught Master Gardener classes as well. See “The Low Down on Gardening Low Down,” New England Wild Flower Society. http://www.newfs.org/learn/catalog/sym0901
*Of Chilean descent, Araucana chickens lay naturally blue, pink and green eggs.
Important Post Script: FEMA workers have now completed the post-party clean up. Among the objects found include two cell phones, one "Sycuan casino" water bottle, one fuschia feather boa, and one hand grenade. Please email penelope.frost@yahoo.com if any of these objects belong to you.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
This Little Piggy Went To Market
I've had nothing to say for weeks. I blame that on the person who told me if I wanted to be heard, I had to "market" myself. My stomach turned.
I've always been suspicious of marketing. It transforms people into who they are not. Isn't this how so many of us came to believe Tiger Woods was not just a golf star but a star at large? Yet one of the most successful marketing projects ever degenerated into a nightmare. Image witchdoctors the world round are still trying to sever the image of a pathological philanderer from the products he advertises.
It's unlikely I would face the same issues as Tiger, at least not right away, but I was still ambivalent. How would I market? The "f" word immediately came to mind.
There are now over 400 million Facebook (FB) users. Even God has a FB page* so it may well be the marketing medium of choice.*
FB is revealing, as much because of what people write or post as because of what they do not. The person who posts what he had for breakfast may be more opaque about his political views. FB creates an illusion of social and communicational transparency.
And if statistics are to be trusted, FB isn’t just for kids anymore. For adults, Facebooking may not be like breathing, as it is for most under 24, but it's still an adult preoccupation.
Some adapt to FB frighteningly well, posting items as care freely as teenagers. Others go through a honeymoon phase of reconnecting with long lost friends before fading into voyeurism, snickering at friends' posts and accusing them of PWI (Posting While Intoxicated). Still others, like Penelope, marvel at the promise of the FB paradigm, but break into a cold sweat at the mere thought of posting something on their own wall. What would it mean?
How can one ever decipher the implicit rules and the secret language of FB? “Friending” someone may have little to do with friendship in the traditional sense. P'lo gets that. They may be friend junkies inviting others to see how many friends they have (hoarding friends in order to win the unannounced competition for the most friends).
Who can imagine translating the implications of intergender FB gestures? "He friended me" may resonate with some girls as "He wants to date me" while it smacks of "Great, I'm just a buddy . . ." to others.
All of this said (posted) and despite her deep-seated fears of FB and becoming a networking tramp, after several cocktails and a flickering of an epiphany, Penelope resolved to market herself and create her own FB page.
The background info was easy (although maybe this is not a place for candor but another marketing opportunity? Who cares who Penelope IS—who SHOULD she be?) but then she hit "The Wall." Did Pink Floyd ever imagine "The Wall" would be an internet venue for sharing the minutiae of our daily lives?
Penelope was speechless (postless).* Are people who update their walls numerous times a day really lucky enough to have friends who care what they ate for lunch?
Or are they pumping their profiles for the News Feed?
The more one updates one's page, the more one's profile will appear in the FB Newsfeed (the CNBC ticker of your own social life) when your "friends" (in the most inclusive sense: random acquaintances; frenemies; ex-husbands; estranged relatives . . .) log on to FB. It doesn't matter what you think of them, but how often you think of them.
Despite all this, Penelope wants to "friend" you. Her motive is not impure—she really wants to know what you think and have to say and believes FB will facilitate this. If FB isn't for you, she understands, but she still wishes you would check out her blog, comment, criticize or just post an emoticon.
If you’re shy, need to protect your identity, or work for the CIA, please consider adopting an anonymous persona. After all, one of the reasons the Internet and blogging have become such robust and blissfully transparent fora for the swapping of ideas is the anonymity they allow.*
Looking forward to hearing from you (and your friends).
Yours truly—P’lo
NOTES
* See http://www.facebook.com/pages/God/10141208299?v=info. He is very Christian about accepting new friends.
* See proliferation of evolving citations to articles posted on the Internet about the power and necessity of marketing via FB. Seriously, between the time Penelope writes this and you read this, anything Penelope could cite would have become stale—that’s how many articles are being written about FB and marketing.
*At this point, you may be wondering why I am referring to myself as "Penelope" in the third person. Well, I hired a bespoke marketing agency (too elite to identify here) that, together with a psychoanalyst, specializes in blogging. They immediately recommended that I switch from the first person to the third person. The shift is intended to create a sense of disembodiment and self-alienation that enables Penelope to do and say things that I certainly never would. The shift also creates intrigue for Penelope's audience (previously known as "you"!).
*For a thought provoking analysis on transparency and the Internet, please see the four part series posted by Paris-based sociologist qua marketer, Minter Dial: http://themyndset.com/tag/transparency/
I've always been suspicious of marketing. It transforms people into who they are not. Isn't this how so many of us came to believe Tiger Woods was not just a golf star but a star at large? Yet one of the most successful marketing projects ever degenerated into a nightmare. Image witchdoctors the world round are still trying to sever the image of a pathological philanderer from the products he advertises.
It's unlikely I would face the same issues as Tiger, at least not right away, but I was still ambivalent. How would I market? The "f" word immediately came to mind.
There are now over 400 million Facebook (FB) users. Even God has a FB page* so it may well be the marketing medium of choice.*
FB is revealing, as much because of what people write or post as because of what they do not. The person who posts what he had for breakfast may be more opaque about his political views. FB creates an illusion of social and communicational transparency.
And if statistics are to be trusted, FB isn’t just for kids anymore. For adults, Facebooking may not be like breathing, as it is for most under 24, but it's still an adult preoccupation.
Some adapt to FB frighteningly well, posting items as care freely as teenagers. Others go through a honeymoon phase of reconnecting with long lost friends before fading into voyeurism, snickering at friends' posts and accusing them of PWI (Posting While Intoxicated). Still others, like Penelope, marvel at the promise of the FB paradigm, but break into a cold sweat at the mere thought of posting something on their own wall. What would it mean?
How can one ever decipher the implicit rules and the secret language of FB? “Friending” someone may have little to do with friendship in the traditional sense. P'lo gets that. They may be friend junkies inviting others to see how many friends they have (hoarding friends in order to win the unannounced competition for the most friends).
Who can imagine translating the implications of intergender FB gestures? "He friended me" may resonate with some girls as "He wants to date me" while it smacks of "Great, I'm just a buddy . . ." to others.
All of this said (posted) and despite her deep-seated fears of FB and becoming a networking tramp, after several cocktails and a flickering of an epiphany, Penelope resolved to market herself and create her own FB page.
The background info was easy (although maybe this is not a place for candor but another marketing opportunity? Who cares who Penelope IS—who SHOULD she be?) but then she hit "The Wall." Did Pink Floyd ever imagine "The Wall" would be an internet venue for sharing the minutiae of our daily lives?
Penelope was speechless (postless).* Are people who update their walls numerous times a day really lucky enough to have friends who care what they ate for lunch?
Or are they pumping their profiles for the News Feed?
The more one updates one's page, the more one's profile will appear in the FB Newsfeed (the CNBC ticker of your own social life) when your "friends" (in the most inclusive sense: random acquaintances; frenemies; ex-husbands; estranged relatives . . .) log on to FB. It doesn't matter what you think of them, but how often you think of them.
Despite all this, Penelope wants to "friend" you. Her motive is not impure—she really wants to know what you think and have to say and believes FB will facilitate this. If FB isn't for you, she understands, but she still wishes you would check out her blog, comment, criticize or just post an emoticon.
If you’re shy, need to protect your identity, or work for the CIA, please consider adopting an anonymous persona. After all, one of the reasons the Internet and blogging have become such robust and blissfully transparent fora for the swapping of ideas is the anonymity they allow.*
Looking forward to hearing from you (and your friends).
Yours truly—P’lo
NOTES
* See http://www.facebook.com/pages/God/10141208299?v=info. He is very Christian about accepting new friends.
* See proliferation of evolving citations to articles posted on the Internet about the power and necessity of marketing via FB. Seriously, between the time Penelope writes this and you read this, anything Penelope could cite would have become stale—that’s how many articles are being written about FB and marketing.
*At this point, you may be wondering why I am referring to myself as "Penelope" in the third person. Well, I hired a bespoke marketing agency (too elite to identify here) that, together with a psychoanalyst, specializes in blogging. They immediately recommended that I switch from the first person to the third person. The shift is intended to create a sense of disembodiment and self-alienation that enables Penelope to do and say things that I certainly never would. The shift also creates intrigue for Penelope's audience (previously known as "you"!).
*For a thought provoking analysis on transparency and the Internet, please see the four part series posted by Paris-based sociologist qua marketer, Minter Dial: http://themyndset.com/tag/transparency/
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