There is a restaurant in New York City called the Waverly Inn. You can’t simply call and make a reservation. I mean, com’on. That would be ludicrous.
You have to know someone who knows someone who knows the secret number or email address or spy code and then, if all the planets turn just so, you get a reservation. Or you can show up in person and beg and sob and plead some more and hopefully they will squeeze you in at 5:30 pm or perhaps 10:45 pm, if that’s more convenient for you.
It’s insulting. It’s pretentious. It’s aggravating.
So, of course, I really wanted to go. I’m not proud of this. But I wanted a peak at this super secret celeb society, run by Graydon Carter of Vanity Fair.
We scored a reservation through a friend of my husband’s. You know who you are and I hope the gift of a future child is enough to repay you for your overwhelming generosity. We tend to have girls around here so I hope you are ok with that (I have found girls to be just delightful and I’m sure you will love yours madly).
The Waverly Inn is very quaint and charming inside. The food is well, so-so. But forget the food, WHO IS THERE?
Me: Honey, go to the bathroom and see if there are any celebrities here. (My husband has incredible celebrity radar. He’ll see a flash of some woman’s ear and say, “that’s Nicole Eggert from “Charles in Charge.”)
Rick: I don’t have to go.
Me: Please. Because if I go to the bathroom first, I’ll notice no one and then you’ll go later and see Sarah Jessica Parker, Gwyneth Paltrow and Colin Farrell. And I’ll be just completely annoyed. So please go first.
Me: Pleassssssssssssssssssssssssssse. Come on. Pleassssssssssssssssssssssssssssse.
Rick: Fine. I’ll go.
Rick heads off to the loo and comes back with this report.
Rick: Charlie Rose (PBS tv host), Michael Stipes (R.E.M lead singer) and Salman Rushdie (the controversial Indian-British novelist who hid for a decade because of a Iranian fatwa, ordering his execution) are here. They are all seated on the right hand side as you head to the bathrooms.
Damn. I’m not really into Charles, Michael or Salman. No offense to the Rushdie party at table 17, but who wants to hang in a restaurant with a guy who’s had an Iranian death threat hanging over him for years and years? Yeah, that’s definitely not how I roll.
No Sarah Jessica? No Gwyneth? Are you sure? Sigh.
I try to sashay across the dining room as if I am indeed someone famous and fabulous. But alas, I am not. Well, at least there’s no line for the ladies room.
And I finally have the Waverly out of my system.
Meanwhile, we did the birthday party circuit this weekend. On Sunday, I took Dylan to Carter’s birthday party. Carter is this sweet, too cute boy from Dylan’s preschool. All the kiddos had such a blast, except for my Dyl pickle.
The girl just doesn’t like crowds or most group activities, so she basically sat in my lap and waited for cake.
2 hours of waiting. Just. for. cake.
Of course, after the birthday cake, everyone put on their coats to go home. I told Dylan it was time to leave and she cries, “But I didn’t get a chance to play! I want to play.”
I can hardly breathe I’m so frustrated.
As she sobs, I put her jacket on.
We get outside. She recovers a bit and says, what’s that song from my yoga class?
“Take a deep breathe, sit up tall, rub your hands, Ommmmmmmm,” I sing to her.
It’s like somewhere deep down, she knows I am the one who needs to stay calm, to keep breathing.
Finally, something Dylan does love intensely (just like her nanny)…. flowers.
She always makes a point to stop and sniff the roses, or the hydrangea or the daisies or the carnations. As she takes in the sweet essences, she murmurs, “They are so beautiful. So beautiful.”
Right back at you, babe.
mama bird notes
Buffy is the winner of the new fragrance from Lacoste, the limited edition Dream of Pink! Sweet scents are coming your way.
Contributing mama Daphne Biener is here with a tale from the h20. Click on contributing mamas to read about the swim race. My money is on the mama.
And don’t miss the piece by our contributing papa (aka my handsome hubby Rick Folbaum), on why we could all use a few more surprises in our lives. You mean our lives might be a tad predictable?! I think he has a point (and you know, I try not to admit that a whole lot). Click on contributing mamas to read more.