My fallen heroes

Two gods in my pantheon died this week: Diana Wynne Jones and Irving “Daffy Dan” Shulman.

Every writer has a story. Before there was J.K. Rowling writing Harry Potter on the dole, there was Diana Wynne Jones writing the Chronicles of Crestomanci to replace the mediocre books that were available for her kids. I spent a good 10 years curled up on couches with one child’s head or another snuggled to my bosom (back when I had a bosom) reading Jones aloud. It put the fun in motherhood.

My friend B introduced me to Daffy’s, back when the main store was on Fifth Avenue and 18^th Street. It changed my life. Suddenly I could afford clothes I liked. And there was a lot to like at Daffy’s. In fact, not a day goes by that I don’t wear something from Daffy’s, though now I shop at one of the stores on 57th St. Today it’s a pair of brown cotton sweatpants that has a magical drape. My mom has a matching pair in gray because she saw me wearing them and asked for them. I mostly dress down, but when I’ve had to dress up, Daffy’s made it possible. Hanging in my closet is the black satin palazzo pants and the beaded vest top I wore to a gala where I met Elizabeth Edwards and Wesley “the Subway Hero” Autrey. 

The Subway Hero and me (I'm not sure where he shopped but I'm wearing Daffy's)

New York in the time of bedbugs

This is what it has come to. This afternoon, a woman was having an argument with her two teenagers in the row in front of us at the movie theater: “You’re crazy!” she said. “No, we’re just playing it safe,” they said. ”What a great idea!” I told the girls, who were spreading out a giant piece of clear plastic over each seat before they sat down. The mother turned around and told us that where she grew up—Cuba—everyone had bedbugs and it was no big deal. Then she broke out into what she said was a traditional Jamaican song about bedbugs that sounded a lot like “La Cucaracha.” It was a reminder that in New York (and elsewhere), It’s always something, as Gilda Radner used to say.

Branching out

Everybody's got a birds-in-a-tree iPhone snap. Here's mine:

Boss yoga

Every time I think I may have taken yoga as far as I can—or it’s taken me as far as it can—I realize there are more lessons to learn and more applications to put them into practice. At work, where I took on more managerial duties than usual this week, I realized how important it is to keep breathing, slow down. In the physical practice of yoga, there’s a rule of thumb that your breath is your guide to how hard to push. If you’re holding your breath or breathing high and fast, you need to back off. If you’re breathing easily, you should stay where you are or increase the challenge. There were a few hours this week when I was so stressed out, I think I inhaled about once every 15 minutes. Sadly, in situations like these, I rarely think about yoga, much less try to apply it. 

A sad little drama

A week ago, we noticed this amusing addition to the construction site that has become a permanent fixture outside our window:

Yesterday, we noticed that things had taken a creepy turn:

Achy breaky body

When I told my yoga teacher E a while back that sometimes my back is so sore and weak in the mornings, I can hardly get out of bed, she looked perplexed, as if she was confused by my bringing up the obvious. “Everyone our age has aches and pains,” she said. “I can’t bend over the sink to brush my teeth in the morning.” 

Schadenfreude at works

There's a guy at work who says peculiarly comforting things. It's hard to explain exactly why I find them so helpful, but I do. For example, when I obsess about potential imperfections in a task that I have completed, he says, "That ship has sailed." Poof! Anxiety gone. And this week, when I worried about how I was ever going to get all my work done, he said, "Well, at least you don't live in Japan." Wow! I cheered right up!