Ep. 44: Late is not better than never

December 17, 2013

This is too weird. Only a few weeks after the tragic derailment on my line, the Hudson Line, the morning train to Grand Central has become arriving early.

Normally, one might rejoice. However, since it usually arrived slightly late, I could briskly walk down the hill and always have a couple of minutes to decompress before I stepped onto the train and settled into my seat.

Now, the train arrives 1-2 minutes early, rather than late, so that it sits in the station for a couple of minutes, but leaves exactly at 7:30.

Today, I made barely-barely made it. As the tell-tale beep and flashing lights went on, I literally yelled "Hold the train!" to the conductor who had signaled all was clear to shut the doors.

It would have been the third time in less than a week that I missed the train as I was coming down the pedestrian stairs from the bridge that runs above the tracks.

Missing the train would have meant having to wait another twenty-five minutes, putting me into the office almost half an hour later.

So, in my case, three times is not a charm; and it is not better to be late than never.

Usually, I've got a little leverage and no one is watching when I unlock my office door. However, my boss and I are neighbors now. Last Friday, in perfect coordination with my train misses, she moved into the office right next to mine. Alas, she not only does she get in half an hour earlier than I do, but she lives along the same train line as well and has a few kids of her own. Meaning, while I've gained some parental empathy, there's even less room for excuses.

When she took over our team six months ago, she began booking early morning team meetings. Ugh. It gave me just a few minutes to turn on the lights and my computer, check to see what room it was in and grab a pen and pad of paper.

This completely threw off one of my colleagues, Liz Lemon, who for the last two years arrived an hour later. Single and free, and living in the city, she could stay late to finish work, sleep in and then leisurely roll out of bed to walk her dog the next morning. Not any more.

Our old boss was very matter-of-factual and albeit always punctual, each of us had built a hard-earned rapport with her, so that we weren't as self-conscious about our arrival times as we are nowadays.

The old boss came in from Connecticut each day, a two-and-a-half hour commute each way! So although she got up a lot earlier than I, we were at the office almost at the same time. Since she had a train to catch, she also always left earlier than me too. And although her office was right next door to Liz, they had an understanding based on 6 or 7 years of working together.

Starting all over with the new boss has been a bit of a rocky journey. She has a very different approach, which is more hands-off and managerial; as opposed to the old boss who was well-versed in our profession and our procedures.

Nonetheless and allthemore, although it feels like we're beginning to level off of the steep learning curve in the office, I've still got to adjust to this new train schedule. I've simply got to get out of the house a few minutes earlier and let go of my impulse to help with crying babies who need a bottle or their diapers changed. This is particularly true since we just had snow and the temperature has been holding below freezing, which means that although the roads are salted, the sidewalks are often still frozen with thin sheets of ice. I was cruelly reminded last night when I body slammed into the pavement as I was ten feet away from our back door. Luckily, for my neighbors this compelled me to spend the next hour breaking ice and salting the sidewalk.

So apart from the anxiety caused by almost missing the train for the third time and a sore elbow from the fall, at least it was a fairly smooth walk to the station this morning.


(The sidewalks are clean and salted about Dominguez Manor this morning)

Ep. 7: The lessons we learn and the day it snowed in San Jose, 37 years ago

Growing up in California, snow was simply something you 

enjoyed while you were on a family vacation every other year 

in Lake Tahoe. Pictured here, in 1978, are a ultra-geeky me 

with snowball in hand, my father, and siblings

Tuesday, March 19, 2013:

Getting up at 6 AM to shovel snow beats yoga any day.

I had been lamenting the fact that I haven’t used my mats in over six months (one hangs behind my office door; the others are neatly wound up in an umbrella stand at home), when nature called me to action and satisfied my yearning at 6 AM this morning.

Apart from the sore back one gets from hand-plowing and heaving a corner lot, admittedly the task of shoveling sidewalks was as satisfying as successfully bending over backwards for an Urdhva Dhanurasana (try saying that ten times fast), the yoga pose otherwise known as the Full Wheel or Full Backbend.

The first time I had to shovel snow I wasn’t so gracious about it; the second time God taught me a lesson about being more appreciative for the little that is asked of us.

In 2002, with my first wife, two-and-a-half year old and newborn in tow, we moved into a house on a corner lot in Bloomfield, New Jersey. I soon begrudged the thought and task of my obligation to clear a path on freezing, snowy mornings.

You see, I’m like the rooster on the rooftop who revels in the sun. Being born and raised in Northern California, snow is an experience from another dimension; growing up, it was simply something you enjoyed while you were on a family vacation every other year in Lake Tahoe.

The only snow I ever saw in San Jose in the twenty years that I lived there was on one freaky-Friday afternoon, circa 1976, when our fourth grade teacher opened the doors of Hester Elementary and let the kids out, so that we could experience the wonder of a few minutes of snowfall.

If you believed Ms. Luna, it was God’s way of teasing you. She was poor little Carmen’s mom, who a couple years later stumbled into our sixth grade Sunday school class one morning drunk as a whiskey-barrel. She told the whole class out loud, “Do you know what is happening when it rains? God’s peeing on you!,” adding a mouthful of spittle-riddled laughter as her exclamation point. Yuck. Needless to say, the nuns at St. Leo’s were none too pleased by this priceless nugget of wisdom. Obviously, it made a big impression on me.

Anyway, point is, before moving to New York and getting married to a Jersey girl, snow had always been a privilege, not a chore.

Yet, 26 years later, after that special day in fourth grade on February 5, 1976 (according to Wikipedia that was the last time snow fell in San Jose—“many residents around the city saw as much as three inches on car and roof tops”), in 2002, at 34, I'm suddenly being introduced to a whole-lot-of-adulthood, obligation, home ownership and a life in the burbs—and now, shoveling a hundred feet of snow off the sidewalk and into the street. Let’s just say it wasn't as fun as the biennial snowball fight I had with my cousins outside our cabin in Lake Tahoe.

The Holy Payback for all my bitching-and-moaning came after my first marital separation at the close of the winter of 2005.

I was blessed with the opportunity to stay at The Little Church for three months in the middle of Manhattan, where I was offered a free apartment right above the sacristy. In exchange, I had to serve as alter boy every Sunday, take alms from the parishioners, deflower a harem of votive candles every night, and shovel snow at six in the morning—almost an entire city sidewalk of it. It was a great lesson learned.

In fact…(here comes the gratuitous plug) I learned, or rather was reminded of many of my life’s lessons during this time and was rather fortunate to be inspired to write a memoir as a result—25 Lessons I’ve Learned, the #1 bestselling photo essay and artist biography on Amazon for three years from 2010-2012.

Thus, perhaps, quizas, my job this morning was a portent or opportunity to finally write the sequel, 25 More Lessons, which I have long yearned to write.

I’ll add, although I never thought I’d say this, there just might be one good thing about global warming.

The shoveling wasn't so bad this morning. Even though I had far more sidewalk to clear than I once did in Manhattan and Jersey, it was quite soft and almosht-slushy (the last compound word must be said with a Sean Connery accent).

It took me less than half an hour to clear the car windows, as well as shovel and salt the driveway, walkway and sidewalks. Apart from ordinances compelling me to perform my neighborly duty, I was driven by my desire to clear a safe path for my lovely wife who is expecting and carrying our little princess, Olivia.

Moreover, Chelsea is an inspiration, as she never complains about getting up before everyone else, to go to work for another long and emotionally-draining 12-hour day of life preserving and prolonging.

Considering all the wacky weather around the globe over the last decade, presuming that warming is truly upon us, there is one more benefit in addition to easier shoveling.

Now, my East Coast peeps might better understand why the natives often yearn to return back to Cali and the tepid winters and perfect springs, summers and falls of our idyllic childhoods.