Post Stop Cafe

Post Stop Cafe- Westhampton Beach, NY

Post Stop restaurant

I’m not a reviewer of restaurants, films, theater, or books, but sometimes, you just have to speak up. Today is that time.

I was in Long Island over the Labor Day weekend, visiting friends, and on the spur of the moment I decided to drive to Westhampton Beach. I hadn’t been since an old boyfriend and I had gone when I was still in college. I remember cutting the trip short because I either had a UTI, yeast infection or a debilitating hemmoroid. Any one of those would have been possible. I just can’t recall which one.

Now I’m curious. Note to self, call T and ask him why we had to get out of dodge.

I drove along the main road that runs parallel with the beach, admiring the lovely homes and I was struck by an overwhelming feeling of familiarity. I realized that I could’ve been driving in West Palm Beach, Virginia Beach and parts of New Jersey. I suppose at a certain price point, the landscape all looks the same.

I forewent the beach because I was dangerously close to slipping into a hypoglycemic coma and wetting myself, so I drove into town to find a bathroom and food— in that order.

I stopped at the first place I saw, which was an adorable kitchenette. I approached the door, and I saw a sign, Cash Only. Shit. I have been told, on numerous occasions, by ex-lovers, to always carry cash. It’s one of my lazier traits. I got back in the car.

I drove into town and parked the car, again. I really had to use the restroom. However, this did not stop me from spending time entering, and then exiting, two more restaurants, because I wasn’t feeling it. I’ve always found that when you’re eating alone, there are more things to consider, than if you had company.

I went to the ATM (just in case) and went into the Post Stop Cafe. The hostess, a woman in her late 50’s, early 60’s, approached.

Hostess: Hi, can I help you?

Me: Yes, I’d like to sit outside. Where is your restroom?

Hostess: (pointing) Straight back. Is it just one?

Me: Yes.

Hostess: Would you like to sit at the bar? (then pointing to a small table by the bar) Or there?

Me: No, outside.

Hostess: Oh, ok.

I was already pissed, but in all fairness, it could’ve been the full bladder. What about, I’d like to eat outside, didn’t you understand? And because I’m a single woman, you want to put me at the bar or at a table in the corner? I don’t think so. I want to sit outside, where all can see my single, independent wonder— you coos.

When I got outside, the menu and a glass of water was on a table. I assumed it was for me but nobody saw me to it. Thus started a series of annoying and rude events.

A waitress came out and serviced two other tables, and ignored me. I stopped her and told her that I wanted to order. I asked her if this was her station. She said that it wasn’t but that she’d take my order anyway. Hey, thanks for the sacrifice.

It took close to 30 minutes for my food to arrive. In that time, I had a busboy ignore my empty water glass, to which I had to practically tackle him to fill it. Then there was the bee incident.

Apparently the hostess was telling those that wanted to sit outside, that there were bees buzzing around the tables, and that they’d probably be more comfortable inside. She imparted this helpful information to everyone but me.

If her sitting at the bar suggestion was her way of protecting me from the bees, it would have been more efficient if she had mentioned why?!

I looked around and the average age was probably 65. I must’ve wondered into the Cocoon part of town.

My food finally arrived and after scarfing it down, I wanted out. The check came and when I handed over my Visa card, I was informed that they only took American Express. Who only takes American Express? I didn’t want to wait any longer, so thanks to the cash that I had on me (that shit does come in handy) I slapped it down and left.

All in all, the Post Stop Cafe has horrible service, mediocre food and bees. Enter at your own risk.

 

to what lengths for Chanel lipstick

How Far Would You Go For Your Chanel Lipstick?

 

to what lengths for a Chanel lipstick

PhotoCredit:Chanel.com

I have a short post today, (listen up Chanel cosmetics) because I’m preparing my celebration of the American labor movement on Monday. I’m gearing up to honor the social and economic achievements of workers everywhere. What? I can’t pay tribute to the contributions workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of their country? How cynical of you. 

How far would you go to save your lipstick? Not just any lipstick, but a recently purchased Chanel lipstick?

I was on my bike last week, having just left Bloomingdales. Yes mother, I was at Bloomingdales, try to control your pride. A few months ago, I had gotten a sample of a Chanel lipstick, and I had fallen in love with it. I use the term, ‘in love’, loosely here. It’s been a slow month.

Anyway, I decided to go to Chanel and buy the big girl version of the sample. I had never owned anything Chanel, cosmetics or otherwise, and I was excited to make my purchase. Again, I use the term ‘excited’ loosely.

Chanel always reminds me of my good friend and her sister, who used to wear Chanel, and used their products, back in high school. I especially remember the perfume that they wore. For a kid growing up on the streets of Yonkers, wearing denim head to toe, and speaking in an almost undecipherable Bronx-like accent, Chanel represented class and sophistication. Dungarees and Jean Nate just don’t have the same effect.

I made my purchase, feeling all grown up and got back on my bike. I was heading across town on 53rd street, which, like every other friggin street in New York, has construction, so there’s a bit of bobbing and weaving that takes place.

I must’ve hit a pothole, or a discarded piece of trash, because before I knew what happened, my Chanel lipstick popped out of my bag in the front basket and took flight.

Lest anyone think, (and you’d be correct in doing so), that it was my new big girl lipstick that flew out of my bag, it wasn’t. Nope, it was the sample. The sample, the size of my index finger, was now on the cruddy city street.

What to do, what to do? I had to retrieve it of course. I wanted it. There was still some goop left in it. Now I realize that anyone witnessing this scene might have had some choice words, or opinions, but the beauty of New York city is that no one gives a New York city rat’s ass what anyone else does, as long as it doesn’t interfere with what they’re doing.

As soon as I saw my little pink angel land, I slammed on the brakes. I was only a few feet from the end of the block, but the lipstick had been airlifted a few hundred feet behind me, towards the middle of the block. This was a one-way street and now I had to swim upstream if I was going to attempt a rescue.

to what lengths for a Chanel Lipstick

I hadn’t yet gotten a new kickstand, so I had to maneuver the bike against a construction dumpster, that was conveniently double parked. It took me a few choice moments to balance the bike, with my weighted bag in the basket. And yes, there was a slight hesitation as to whether I was really going to run against traffic to retrieve a stupid sample lipstick.

I went for it. As cars raced towards me, I ran to the lipstick, snatched it up off of the filthy ground, raced back to the bike, shoved it down into my bag, climbed aboard, and pedaled home as if noticing had ever happened. That’s all class right there.

How far would you go (if you’d go) for a sample Chanel lipstick?

 

How To Love After 50 Years

LoveAfter50years

PhotoCredit:Seniorlivingrockies.com

I spent last Tuesday in the hospital with my father, admitting my mother, and then waiting for her to come out of surgery. She was having a herniated cervical disc removed. No big whoop.

I used to get defensive when I was expected to attend certain family gatherings or my parents asked if I could meet during the week for lunch. I didn’t think that they respected the fact that, even though I didn’t have a 9-5 or 10-6 or 8-5 (for example) job, it didn’t mean that I was always available.

Maybe being available is why I freelance. So that I can be there for my parents when one of them has to go to the hospital. Maybe this is a part of my calling, my purpose. Maybe I’m the caretaker that horoscopes say us Virgo’s are.

I was thankful that I could spend the entire day with my dad, doing headstands (me, not him) to prevent leg clots that sitting and waiting can cause, eating bad cafeteria food and running out for wine before he started to sweat and tremble.

I had to be there. I wanted to be there.

The familial tides are shifting. I was now asking the hospital staff to bring my mother water. I was listening to the doctor’s post op instructions because my father’s hearing isn’t so good. Although, instead of caretaker, I prefer personal assistant.

I was supposed to be there. I’m supposed to be available to them.

After 53 years, my parents love each other like they did when they first met. They are each other’s best friend, and they both know that, at this point, who else would have them. They care for each other intensely and they would crumble without the other one.

This I witnessed last Tuesday.

It brings me to tears. I told my dad that I wanted someone to feel about me the way he feels about my mother. I want someone to be afraid to lose me. I told him that they set the bar pretty high. He told me that what he and my mother had required work.

I wasn’t afraid of work. In fact, I welcome it because it would mean that I had something, or someone, that I felt was worth working on. Isn’t that something to write home about?

When my dad and I were allowed to see my mom, she was hooked up to all sorts of plugs, chords and machines. She was pale, but for the most part, she looked good, even her hair. She had just come out of anesthesia. I kissed her. My dad followed and then stood at the end of the bed, squeezing her foot (not feet) one foot.

I could see the relief in his face and just how nervous he had been throughout day. It was as if that squeeze steadied him and confirmed that she was still with him.

Then, out of nowhere, my mother pointed to my dad and said to me, “Did you see the shirt he’s wearing?” Earlier in the day, my dad and I were talking about clothes, (I forget in what context), and he told me that, while my mom was being admitted into the hospital, she saw that his collar was frayed, and she made a remark about why he’d leave the house wearing a tattered shirt.

And there it was. Their whole relationship neatly wrapped up in a frayed collar.

 

Teenage sex

Is Teenage Sex Happening Under Your Roof?

images

REPOST… All new on Tuesday!

Would you let your teenage daughter, and her boyfriend, sleep together in your house with the potential of teenage sex also happening in your house? Would you even let her boyfriend sleep over?

A few years back, my boyfriend’s teenage daughter asked us if her teenage boyfriend, could spend the night. The first thing I thought of was that they were going to have teenage sex. My boyfriend knew where I stood on the topic. No f’in way!

After a bit of cajoling and guilt, I caved. We set him up in the basement on a futon. We also made it perfectly clear that this was not to become a habit. For me, the issue falls under the broad category of boundaries (mine) and speaks to the idea of respect, and what I’m comfortable with. We’re not running a brothel here people.

When I was a senior in high school, I asked my mens group attendee, consciousness raising meeting host, grass-toking, Kerouac reading, Woodstock foregoing because the traffic was going to be too intense, parents if my boyfriend could sleep over. It was after nine o’clock and he only had his permit. They agreed but I could tell that they weren’t excited about the idea.

He slept in the guest room down the hall. In the middle of the night, my boyfriend tiptoed the 50 feet down to my bedroom, and climbed into bed with me. We thought we’d pulled one over on my folks and felt oh, so grown up.

The next morning, we all met in the kitchen for breakfast. My boyfriend and I looked at each other, and then caught a glimpse of my mother’s face. Her look screamed disrespect, disappointment and two-bit hussy. Under breath but loud enough for me to hear she said, “How dare you.”

What could I say? I was royally embarrassed and I felt like a child. I was a child. Maybe that was the point. I had betrayed their trust in the most sordid and humiliating way. If there was anything that I held near and dear to my heart, and which remains the same today, is my unwavering respect for my parents.

This incident affected me deeply and from that moment on, I have gone out of my way (almost to a fault) to do the right thing and to never put my parents, or anyone that I care about, in an uncompromising or uncomfortable position.

Now, with my boyfriend’s children, I must see to it that it is I who is never put in an uncompromising or uncomfortable position. Ah, the circle of life. I know that the children aren’t mine, in the biblical sense, and I know that, just because I was a disrespectful hussy, it does not mean that the Girlfriend Mom daughter will be. I have my mothers steely look seared into my brain, and that alone ensures that there won’t be any sneaking down hallways, or co-ed sleepovers.

I know that this is a process, like everything else in this relationship. I’m confident that, as I become more comfortable around the kids, that my sphincter will release its grip. images-1

Einstein_Opposite

Are You Insane or Is Something Else Going On?

PhotoCredit:loveserveshine.com

PhotoCredit:loveserveshine.com

I think by now we’ve all heard Einstein’s definition of insanity; you know, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. If this is the case (and all roads lead to it being so) then I am bat shit crazy.

Sure I could list the many, many, ways that would colorfully illustrate this insanity; tales of arrogance, ignorance, insecurity, fear, and on occasion, good ol’ fashion stupidity.

As funny (and sometimes sad) as these gems are, I’ve put them behind me. I’m changing the record, rewriting my movie’s story, switching out the 8-track (what?). I’ve decided to do things differently.

As someone close to me once asked, after I spent 12 hours in Nicaragua after impulsively accepting a non-paying job working with drug addicted kids in the barrio, and then moving back to my parent’s house, ”How’s this working out for you?”

In the Seinfeld episode, The Opposite, George Constanza begins doing the opposite of what he would normally do. I have to admit that I’ve only seen the first six minutes, so I don’t know how it ends, but it’s really the concept that I’ve taken to heart. I’ve been doing the opposite.

I’ve made crap ass choices and I’ve made some of the best decisions of my life. But when it feels as if you’ve been chasing your tail, because you keep ending up back where you started, time and time again, even I can see that something isn’t working.

It makes sense (at least to me) to take an honest look at possible reasons and explanations. I mean really look; like pick up the friggin’ area rug and sweep that shit out, looking. Look under the bed too. And of course in the mirror.

I’ve pulled geographics, I’ve left jobs when things got too hard and I’ve doubted myself, and let insecurity take control. Even when I’ve identified my impulsive choices, and less than stellar decisions, I carried on, expecting, as Einstein said, that this time would be different. It wasn’t.

Doing things differently isn’t for the feint of heart, especially if you’ve got decades of thinking, reacting and behaving in a certain way. Resisting what comes naturally, or what is habit, is not easy.

Unless of course you like chaos, drama, endless complaining and dissatisfaction, while you continue to wonder why where you are is not where you’d like to be, but just can’t understand why. If this doesn’t bother you, carry on.

I can tell you from personal experience that when you begin to do things differently, doors open, and opportunities reveal themselves. I know now that when I catch myself and there’s is a clear choice between the old and the different, and the idea of the latter scares the holy bejesus out of me, then I know that I’m in the right place.

Besides, what do I have to lose? Insanity will always be available to me.

 

Betrayal and Trust

Betrayal and Trust: This Video Speaks Volumes

Betrayal and Trust

CreditTo:ashridge.org.ik

Trust is everything and it’s betrayal can have everlasting and profound effects. Then I saw this.

I took the liberty of transcribing it because the words about trust and betrayal are just as beautiful, and inspiring, as the dancers and their abdominals. Holy crap.

I don’t know who wrote this piece, but credit goes to the dancers, Alya Titarenko and Gael Ouisse, (who may, or may not be the writers), and Cirque Du Soleil.

Alya and Gael have to trust each other, as acrobats in Cirque du Soleil they sometimes literately put their lives in someone else’s hands. Trust is a confusing thing. It seems so simple but when you try to pin it down, it can be elusive.

I think of the way that my body sits on a surface that’s new to me, unknown, and how my muscles remain tight, anticipating anything, and I’m constantly aware of that surface.

Over time, with familiarity, I can relax and start to lean back. For many of us that initial tension exists so much of the time, we expend so much energy watching and calculating, trying to predict, reading signals in people, ready for anything to change suddenly, preparing to be disappointed, so much energy spent. 

We talk about trust as something we build, as if it’s a structure or a thing, but in that building there seems to be something about letting go. And what it affords us is a luxury that allows us to stop thinking, to stop worrying that someone won’t catch us if we fall, to stop constantly scanning for inconsistencies, to stop wondering how other people act when they’re not in our presence. It allows us to relax a part of our minds so that we can focus on what’s in front of us. 

And that’s why it’s such a tragedy when it’s broken. A betrayal can make you think of all of the other betrayals that are waiting for you and things that you haven’t thought of; people you rely on, and you can feel yourself tightening up, bracing, and in the worse cases, you might resolve to trust no one.

But that doesn’t really work. Trust is your relationship to the unknown; what you can’t control and you can’t control everything, and it’s not all or none, it’s a slow and study practice of learning about the capacity of the world and it’s worth it to keep trying and it’s not easy. 

Alya says that trust is like a fork; not one way, many ways, physical, emotional, maybe something else. I almost imagine trust as these invisible hands that we stretch out into the world looking for someone to hold onto, as we walk into the unknown future. Alya and Gael began practicing together as friends and now they are a couple. It took time.

So who do you trust and how can you grow?