Can You Hear Me Now?

My mom called the other day and asked what I'd done over the weekend.

'Well, my office got rid of some fabric, so I made a pillowcase.'

'A what?'

'A pillowcase.'

'What?!'

'Pillow Case, Mom. A Pillow Case.'

'I can't hear you, darling.'

'PILLOW CASE!! PILLOW CASE!!' I could hear Mark laughing at us in the other room.

'Karoke??'

Oh dear.


I was at Mark's apartment, calling from my cell phone. Like many New Yorkers, neither of us has a land line. The younger generation eschewed their land lines because they're transient. Mark and I, on the other hand, feel it's a waste of money to pay for two phones.

It used to be that there was a hierarchy about having a 212 area code, the area code for Manhattan. Before cell phones, there was 212 and everyone else. The outer boroughs (Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island and The Bronx) all used 718. It was high contrast.



Early cell phones were able to get 212 numbers, but very soon all the 212 numbers were used up. Most people have 917 cell phone numbers but now there are 646 and 347 numbers, too. I'm glad we've gotten over ourselves in terms of the area code hierarchy. Aren't there more important things in life, people?

Meanwhile, here's the pillowcase I was yelling about:


(Not Miffy, but the flat sham in the beige woven).


The fabric doesn't photograph well, but it's really beautiful. It's a delicate beige with some gold and blue threads thrown in.


Top photo by myself, on Lower Broadway. I swear, every block of this city has scaffolding on it!