Welcome to NY. Now Shut Up.

Husband and I need to make some decisions. How to move forward, where our money is going to come from, corporate jobs or continue trying to start our own business(es), what we want to accomplish, where we want to be as family in 10 or 20 years -- little stuff like that.

So, after spending yesterday morning sequestered in the home office tossing out questions and finding that we have no clear answers, to cheer ourselves up we went out for lunch. Yes, we have almost no income, but the weekly budget from savings includes a little bit of discretionary cash and, well, burgers at home just aren't the same.

Scene 1: The Austin Street Tea Party
We decided to go to what we call "Grumpy Guy" diner. So-called because the owner used to always yell at DuckyBoy for being in the aisle. He was always worried, so he said, that DB would trip someone up who was carrying hot food. It's a small place, and it's his place, so, OK. And he has good fries and wings. But the family nickname stuck. We just ordered in until the Squirmy Model got big enough to sit for most of the meal.

Yesterday was bitter cold, and since the car won't start we walked. After we sat down at one of the many empty tables, we ordered our beverages. Diet Coke for Husband, and since I know this diner has herbal tea, I expected the waitress to understand when I said, "lemon tea."

When a Lipton tea bag with a wedge of lemon on the side arrived, I specified, "herbal lemon tea."

"Oh, Lem-mun Zinnnger?" she said in her accented English, and upon my nod of assent she whisked away the Lipton bag and reappeared with the yellow Celestial Seasonings pouch I'd expected. (I suppose I should just order "Lemon Zinger." But it's not the brand every diner carries.)

Then, Husband ordered his burger deluxe and I ordered one of the lunch specials, a "fresh ham sandwich," along with lentil soup.

The lentil soup was disappointingly bland. As it was only noon, it was probably better by dinner time. But if that was a ham sandwich, I'll eat the plate. How long does ham have to be cooked to taste dry like turkey? I didn't really care what I had, so I ate it. It was fine. Then when I asked about it, the waitress insisted it was ham, so in retrospect, at least I didn't have to pay the difference -- since the turkey sandwich lunch special actually cost more. (I'd asked in case the ham was more.)

But then the check didn't quite add up. Not even after we figured out that the prices, scribbled down the righthand column, were in a different order than the way our food order was listed on the left. About 70 cents off, Husband estimated.

Was it even worth inquiring about 70 cents? I could see the question in his eyes.

As the TV screens all around us flickered new lows for the S&P 500, he decided to ask. The waitress matter-of-factly pointed and said, "Oh, I charged you 80 cents more for the herbal tea."

80 cents? Do you know how many bags of tea can I buy with 80 cents?

Actually, it's not the 80 cents. The price of tea at a diner is never comparable to the price of tea bags.

It's the fact that I wasn't given the choice. Some days, when faced with an 80 cent surcharge on herbal tea, I would have acquiesced. Yesterday, I'd have stuck with the regular Lipton.

Well, we won't be back there soon. For 80 cents, they've lost a customer. Three, actually.

Scene 2: We Deliver Less
Then, we decided to brave the post office. I hate going to the Forest Hills post office and avoid it whenever possible, but we had something that needed to be picked up. So it's at that branch.

As usual, there was a line. I have a system for estimating how long I will be in line, which I find helps me not get frustrated with the wait. I count the number of people in line and multiply by 5. (Other lines at stores, etc., get shorter numbers. This P.O. averages 5 minutes per patron.) While I vaguely wondered whether coming at lunchtime was a good idea -- I could just imagine the 3 workers shutting down one by one to go on lunch break, leaving 12 people in line with 1 open window -- I noticed the following extra special factors:

• One worker was valiantly punching her screen, trying to fix her broken scale.
• The second had a fascinating hangnail. She spent several moments examining it before moving to get the package that her current customer was waiting for her to weigh.
• The third was letting someone fill out all 296 forms for his 3 large international packages (with "Used goods! For personal use only! No value!" hand-written on the sides) at the window, and then chatting with him about the homeland as she processed his forms.

That chat was the last straw for the elderly lady with the pinched nose and red crocheted hat. Clutching her handbag and her package to be mailed, she began stirring up those around her. "That's not fair! He's been there for 5 minutes already and now they're chatting?!"

She then began calling to the roving supervisor who was in the middle of helping someone decide which form he needed to fill out."Excuse me! ExCUSE me!"

"You're being rude," was the supervisor's instant response, followed by, "That's what we have. End of story."

While I passed the time reading the slapped-up sign on each window urging "Former DHL Customers!" to switch to the USPS delivery services "And Save!," I was strategically holding my orange pickup notice in my hand, as sometimes the supervisor or one clerk will pull people out of line and take care of pickups.

Lucky me! After the supervisor finished helping the broken-scale worker get set up at a new window, she noticed my slip and pulled me off the line. Scrutinizing the slip as she walked to the bulletproof security door that separates the public and worker areas, she asked me, "Do you know what you're expecting? Is it a package, a registered letter? Does it require a signature? See, nothing is checked off here."

"I don't know," I replied, biting my tongue to avoid adding, "Someone who works here fills those out, don't they?" or "Welcome to my world." Because then I'd never get whatever it was.

And it was exactly what I expected: A notice from our co-op managing agent dunning us for replacing the radiator valves in our apartment THREE YEARS AGO. Because the new agent and board who took over in 2008 have decided that is not a common charge. Because those new valves have so much personal benefit to us and none for the building, never mind that we used to leave our windows open in winter while people on the building ends froze. That's of no value to the building or the board as a whole. Not saving any money on heating oil or anything.

So, not only did we get this moronic notification, but we had to endure the post office to get it. They oughta design a new stamp that says "Adding Insult to Injury" for corporate use.

Scene 3: Even More Great Customer Service
Then, I decided a cookie would cheer me up. The recession-proof upscale coffee house/bakery was right on our way home. I would have gotten my goodie To Go, but Husband said he'd have coffee if I was up for staying. So, OK.

This bakery is long and narrow, with the display cases in the front and seats in the back. One side has benches and backless stools, the other has tables and cafe chairs.

I had to interrupt a conversation between the waitresses to ask if we could choose where we sat. Yes, OK. Since there were no other patrons in the back, we had our pick. We chose back support and the second table. The first table can get the draft from the front door, so it's really the least desirable.

Now, remember, it was cold yesterday, so cold that Husband was wearing his long winter coat and a scarf. As he removed them, he draped them over the chair behind him, a chair at the first table.

One of the waitresses sprang over instantly and informed him he could not place his coat there.

He was flabbergasted. "But there's no one in here!"

"I know, but you can't take up 2 tables. What if someone wants to sit there?" she said. "You can put your coat on your own chair."

After the diner incident, I'm edgy about prices, so I scrutinize the menu. A $5 latte? Uh-uh, no way. "American coffee" for me, $1.15 a cup. And a peanut butter cookie, please.

The fact that Husband was willing to remain in the cafe tells me how much he loves me. I was almost ready to leave myself. In retrospect, I suppose we should have. Some days I need that cookie; yesterday, I could have lived without it.

The Coat Nazi turned out to be our waitress. So when she asked if I wanted my cookie heated up, I declined. (The less she did for me, the better!) She very nicely recommended it, saying it's much softer. So I agreed.

But I almost asked, Is there going to be a charge for heating it?

There wasn't. In fact it came with powdered sugar and whipped cream, and my $1.15 coffee was jumbo and delicious, and Husband and I both enjoyed it.

Even if he was a little cramped, having to share his little cafe chair with his long wool coat and all.

Epilogue: The City Kid Dilemma
Every time I have a day like this and suggest we leave NYC, Husband reminds me we made a conscious choice to raise a city kid. Yesterday's adventure makes me wonder.

Do I really want to raise a city kid, or is my goal to raise a kid who CAN survive and thrive in a city if he chooses to do so someday (like I did)?