Forty is NOT the new twenty--Part II

"Happy Birthday, Baby."

I'll admit it. This 40th year o' mine has been more than memorable so far. First, rocker and outstandingly beautiful spirit, Lenny Kravitz, peered over his sunglasses, and uttered his coolest of birthday wishes, while signing my VIP Today show pass.

Then we (André and I, not Lenny), checked into the Jersey Shore.

Literally.

As any true Rhode Islander knows, the MTV casting of Johnston's own Pauly D for their reality show was no accident. Indeed, the Shore vibe is alive and well within our borders. But, trust, the sheer number of string bikini, headband wearing, twentysomethings waiting to check into what was clearly THE party hotel of Atlantic City, has never been seen in these parts--not even on the Hill, on a warm Saturday night in the summer.

It was almost enough to give a girl some serious culture shock--if it hadn't been so darn amusing.

Sure, I graduated from URI, where the joke was that New Jersey residents were so numerous, that they should be the ones paying in-state tuition. But I don't remember ever experiencing an over-the-top scene quite like this, where everyone in view, outside of me and the desk clerks, seemed to be working the same hyped up stereotype, that, until that point, I assumed was only for the benefit of the cameras on tv.

I was so wrong.  

Thankfully, I was wearing my straw fedora. It was really the only thing I had going to nudge my appearance a bit closer to respectably hip, and a bit further away from the 'house-mother-reporting-to-govern-the-frat-house' reality of the scene. And André, naturally, didn't make things much better once he arrived in the lobby with our bags.

"I feel like someone's dad coming in to chaperone the party," he said. Thanks. Alot.

But, lucky for us, things were not as they appeared.

At 11pm, we came back to the room, not to retire, but to change shoes on our way back out for a bit of salsa dancing. That once happenin' party on our hall? (The same one that earlier had me testing out the air conditioner to make sure that the white noise of the fan, combined with my ear plugs, would muffle the festivities enough to ensure a good night's sleep.) It was in total meltdown mode, with some dude crying about the demise of friendships and threatening to catch the bus home.

Wow. I do believe that we just punked off youth.

Again.

Forty is NOT the new twenty--Part I

Now hear this. Forty is NOT the new twenty.

It was my birthday sign, created by my husband (and resident artist) André that caught the woman's attention in the Today Show plaza.

"Well," she said, giving me a slightly sympathetic look, "Forty is the new twenty."

Um, do I look sad? A bit tired maybe, but I had been up since 2am.

I'm sure that she was trying to be kind, but I sort of felt bad for her. I mean, she was way past forty herself, and instead of saying, 'Amen girlfriend. It only gets better from here', she went the backhanded compliment route--along the same lines of telling the bride that rain on her wedding day means good luck.

The facts: I turned twenty on September 2, 1991.

That was literally half a lifetime ago. And I don't want to go back.

At twenty, I was a junior at the University of Rhode Island, living with my cousin Lynne in a beach cottage literally a block from the ocean and partying on weekends with my friend, the dollar Rolling Rock.

And life was hard. Seriously.

When I was twenty, I was trying to figure out who I was, what I stood for and who I wanted to be in this world, all while listening to, or opting not to, those voices of judgment that always think you're going about things all wrong. I was working to feel completely comfortable in my own skin. To recognize that I do know best, even though sometimes it's a lonely place to stand.

The truth is, if I were twenty, I wouldn't have even been here, in New York City, literally feet (and sometimes inches) away from rocker Lenny Kravitz, getting a birthday hug from Ann Curry, talking to Matt Lauer about Wes' Rib House or being interviewed on air by Al Roker, with these beautiful birthday signs, in the first place.

When I was twenty, I didn't talk to strangers. What good ever comes of that? You know who you know. Who else do you need to know?

When I was twenty, I would have never, ever butted into a conversation about H&M inside a bar overlooking Times Square, while André went to refill our drinks. (In fact, when I was twenty, I probably wouldn't have even been sitting alone in the first place.) When I was twenty, I would have never chatted up my New Orleans girl, fellow Virgo and kindred music spirit Kristine, who graciously invited André and I to come along on this most fabulous birthday adventure ever, after assessing our character over a couple of cosmos the year before.

Indeed. Forty is not the new twenty.

And please, please, please, don't tell me otherwise.

Surprise!

I like surprises.

In concept. But in actuality, my practical Virgo tendencies tend to need to know what's coming next, you know, so I can plan for it. And that sort of defeats the purpose. But this weekend, the surprises just kept coming--good, bad and ugly--and there was no where to hide.

Surprise! There's a hurricane coming, but your husband is insistent on taking you to Mosiac on Saturday night, and because folks are hunkering down, for most of the meal, you're literally the only patrons.

Surprise! Because it's almost your birthday, you get a free refill on sangria--take a lesson from that Chili's--a beautiful dessert platter, and a card signed by the entire kitchen staff.

Surprise! Your husband keeps checking the time, then after a phone call made in the men's rest room, you go on an extended tour of the city of Providence, from the West End to the East Side and back again.

Surprise! Clearly you're on some sort of stall mission, stopping for a drink at Temple, which has sadly lost its downtown cool, and is way too brightly lit for a bar.

Surprise! There's a bunch of really cool people inside your house, who have decorated, shopped, cooked and come out to help you celebrate your birthday a week early--in the hours before a hurricane--and have the advance language skills to sing to you in English and Spanish.

Surprise! The best man from your wedding, has come from NYC, and his planned overnight visit has quickly blown into an unexpected weekend getaway, for him.

Surprise! Your guests are raving about the convenience of the now empty bags filled with ice cubes inside your freezer, that are supposed to save your chicken in the event of a power outage.

Surprise! Your husband has used cash you've been saving for vacation to cover all party expenses.

Surprise! That sneaky Puerto Rican sangria snuck right up on you, again.

Surprise! It's 5:30am, and you realize that you forgot to fill the bathtub with water, and now there's two men in your house that potentially need to flush the toilet, and you only have enough stocked water and canned goods for one of them.

Surprise! It's 5:35am, and your husband is outside in his underwear during a tropical storm, filling buckets with a hose.

Surprise! Your brand new central air compressor got pushed off its platform by the wind, but luckily there's another strong man on the ready to help.

Surprise! While three out of five households in the state lose electricity, yours is not one of them.

Surprise! You mostly survived.

These Shoes Were Made For Walkin'

I never really thought much about my relationship with the UPS man.

I order things. He delivers. Pretty cut and dry really. But then he started messin' with my shoes.

In my advanced age, my feet have become increasingly more temperamental. Yet, I refuse, REFUSE, to go the traditional route of the American white sneaker. Contrary to popular belief, they do not go with everything. My solution? Bargain shopping stylish shoes on-line that are, gulp, given a seal of acceptance by the American Podiatric Medical Association.

Thank God they exist. And they arrive at my house on the creep. That's usually the easy part.

Granted, in the two years we've lived here, two things we were anticipating were never delivered: a pouch of prescription drugs (hope those water pills provided you with an outstanding high) and a pair of costume clip-on earrings. But in both instances, there was no proof of delivery, so replacements were issued immediately.

We've since smartened up, placing a vintage milk tin at the side door for the smaller stuff, which consequently makes us appear to be the only folks in the 'hood receiving a fresh milk delivery, as well as obsessively tracking the packages so we know which day to expect them.

My new shoes? The tracking status claimed they were delivered to the rear entrance. Now that's odd, because our UPS man du jour, while parked outside our house at the time that delivery was recorded, didn't exit the truck. I was watching. I know how this can go. So I called the on-line vendor, who launched the UPS investigation.

Such a serious term for a lost pair of sandals.

And thus began my intensive UPS education, where I learned, thanks to my new, slightly combative, pal at the national customer service center, that an investigation for a lost package takes 1-8 business days. During this time, not one, but two members of the UPS team, first national, then local, call to make sure you haven't somehow recovered your lost package, next to hypodermic needles in a weed filled lot.

I also learned that the UPS drivers have a whole lot of power. If no signature is required, they have the discretion to leave your box. Ho-hum. But much more disturbing: if a signature is required, they can use their authority to approach a neighbor, any neighbor, and ask them to sign for your package.

Say what?! Indeed, I trust my neighbor across the street, he's from Kansas after all, but I couldn't believe UPS asked him to sign for my new computer if I didn't come to the door.

Yup. All in the very same week.

As my shoe investigation entered its second week, the national office said the next step would be for the driver to return to the scene to see if he could remember where he left the package.

LOL indeed.

Two days later, the local office told me they'd be happy to close out the investigation, and refund my money, because it appears that someone is following said UPS driver around the neighborhood and stealing packages. Clearly, this must be one really quick thief. So quick, that I almost wonder if they hitched a ride on the truck. You know, on the back bumper or something.

So Brown, now that my case is officially closed what can you do for me? I'm so glad you asked.

1. Stop giving your full support to clearly incompetent drivers and/or scammers. 2. Consider that all of those boxes you are processing everyday actually have something in them--that the receiving party would like to see, instead of being obsessed with just the sheer volume of movement and the money that goes with it. 3. Work on getting someone cute to do my route, 'cause if we're going to be brushing hands over the delivery pad, seeing that my address now requires a John Hancock, it might as well be slightly enjoyable.

 And then all might be forgiven. 

East Versus West

On the menu last Saturday? Grilled pork chops.

Or that was the plan.

What I actually ate? A heaping Styrofoam plate of marinated skirt steak, rice, macaroni AND potato salad, passed over the fence from our neighbors, who were celebrating the birthday of their mom, visiting from Guatemala. Awww, right? And so not an isolated incident. Two weeks prior, three Coronas, from a completely different set of neighbors, traveled the same route over the fence.

Life is just kinder here on the West End.

For thirteen years, my husband André and I rented on the East Side. It's typically known as the most desirable area of the city. Clean. Safe. Quiet. Cultured. Highly educated. Professional. And very white (not advertised in polite company, but so, so true). As a result, it's also about four times more expensive to buy real estate here than in other Providence neighborhoods--as well as one of the biggest reasons of why we were renting, for thirteen years, on the East Side.

At first, the West Side, and more specifically, the Armory District, appealed to my bargain hunter instinct. We could buy a single family home here, a historic one even, built on the grounds of the Providence Greys baseball field grandstand, with a backyard, for cheaper than an East Side condo. Sorta like TJMaxx for the real estate market. But the longer we live here--and we're at two years and counting--the more we fall in love.

There's a real sense of community in this part of town. Folks are just, truly, more friendly. During all of our time on the East Side, we made exactly two connections: our friend Courtney, who we would continuously scare in the basement laundry room, and our next-door neighbor Ann. Dozens of tenants passed through our apartment building during our stay there, with an amazingly large number afraid to make eye contact, even if we were within feet of each other.

Invisible? That's not something that I play very well. I'm also not a fan of unfriendly. Or homogeneous. I want to live somewhere that challenges me. And makes me feel alive. And has people who aren't afraid to talk to each other because of the color of their skin. Or how they spend their working hours.

Granted, the West End is still urban living. Gangs are in effect, drugs are bought and sold and an unlocked door might invite someone inside to make off with your tv. But if you don't think that there's an element of this anywhere, you're pretty damn naive.

For us, the vibrancy and unexpected quirks more than make up for its perceived shortcomings. Where else are you gonna see a neighbor manning a powerful telescope on the sidewalk, educating the 'hood to the night sky. Or an Asian vendor at the farmer's market happy to share their recipe for bitter melon. Or dudes pimpin down the street, with a parrot on their shoulder.

Yup. It's good to be home.