Eggplant and Lollipops

Sunday was my great-nephew’s Christening. He looked absolutely adorable, but like all babies his age, he just wanted to get out of his little stiff white suit and into his comfy onesie and his mother’s arms. He didn’t care that there were trays of amazing homemade eggplant parmesan or a carousel of cross-shaped lollipops with his name on them. We appreciated them for him. Two or three times!  My daughter’s hernia (a result of two C-sections) was bothering her a lot the last few days and was especially bad at the party. Since it looked as if there was an alien trying to escape out of her stomach, she named it. Fred. My daughter named her hernia, Fred. She’s my daughter after all! Since Fred looked like he was ready to make an appearance (maybe to sample the eggplant) I insisted she call her surgeon and ask what she should do. Of course I knew he would send her directly to the hospital (DO NOT PASS GO!) and he did. He said he would come in the morning and do the surgery she had been putting off for way too long. Her husband stayed with the kids, I picked her up and we were off to the hospital. The triage went well, the registration went well, the admitting went well. In fact so much went well that normally goes bad that I began to get paranoid. The nurses were cordial and patient and just plain NICE! The doctors were all pleasant and smart and good looking. One in particular was really hot, the one with the five o’clock shadow and the little scar that he probably got from fencing or skiing and the scrubs that hung just barely….ok never mind….but he was a pleasant distraction from Fred. And they all spoke perfect English. Tests were ordered, and within minutes the tests were being done. As we waited for her turn in the CAT scan she used the hospital phone to call home since her cell had lost its bars. The scan done we returned to find that she would be admitted and brought to her room soon. Now as fast as things were being accomplished it was still 3:30am by the time I left the hospital. The car that I thought I had parked so very close seemed so very far at that who-the-hell-is-parading-around-at-that hour. The streets were creepily empty and it didn’t help that every pole and mailbox had a flyer of a local girl gone missing. (And to make matters worse, she is an extended family member) A sanitation truck with its two burly men looked like an oasis in the darkness of the night. They could have been psycho rapists, but to me they were Batman and Robin. I made it home unmolested, made tea, checked out Facebook, watched a taped episode of Oprah and fell asleep for a nano second before the phone rang. It was time! The doctor had come in and she was scheduled to go for surgery within the hour.

      I changed my bloomers and socks and left, bringing a bottle of water which I was instructed to smuggle into the recovery room. Since water after anesthesia is a no-no and the lemon swabs and dampened gauze don’t cut it, my daughter decided that Mom would be good at water trafficking. I arrived, parked (same spot only now I had to feed the muni-meter) and got to her room minutes before they came and wheeled her to surgery. No kicking or screaming just a few tears at the O.R. door. And my daughter was pretty good too! Since the surgery was around two hours I went down to feed the meter, went to the bookstore and Starbucks and went back to her room where I charged her cell phone, watched TV and pretended to not be sick with worry as the clock went passed the two hour mark. I chatted with the Russian patient in the next bed and although I had absolutely no idea what she said, it passed the time. I found the waiting area and waited. And waited. And just when I was about to let my mind go to some bad worrisome place I saw her being wheeled down the hall by her surgeon. She was awake and smiling. Well almost smiling. Sort of smiling. Ok, maybe it was a grimace, but she was awake.

     The recovery room was every bit as nice as the emergency room had been the night before. She had a male nurse that took care of all her needs, and thankfully gave her a really water soaked gauze so that I was able to drink the smuggled water myself. All that waiting made me rather parched. Before the IV’s were even out she was on her cell on Facebook telling the world she had survived. I on the other hand was on a mission. There was a young woman two beds down that looked like the missing girl. She had no visitors by her beside and was still out like a light. I thought about using my cell phone to take a picture of her. I was sure that it was totally unethical and possibly a misdemeanor…so I waited until my daughter could see her and confirm her identity. Unfortunately it was not and I was grateful that I waited before calling the tip hotline and exposing myself as the neurotic lunatic I have become.

     The surgery over, the recovery beginning I was able to breathe normal again. That is until I made the trek (uphill) to my car and found an “unsatisfied muni-meter” ticket. Apparently twelve quarters wasn’t enough to get me through surgery, recovery and investigative surveillance.

PLEASE HELP FIND MARION MCCLENEGHEN
MISSING PERSON

NAME: MARION MCCLENEGHAN

FEMALE WHITE 40 YEARS OLD
D.O.B. 08/16/1969 HEIGHT: 5’10” WEIGHT 150-160LBS

EYES: BLUE          HAIR: BROWN

LAST SEEN AT 360 14TH STREET ON 2/7/10 IN THE CONFINES OF THE 78TH PCT, IN THE PROSPECT PARK AREA OF BROOKLYN.

IF ANYONE HAS SEEN OR HAS INFORMATION PLEASE CONTACT THE 78TH DETECTIVE SQUAD AT 1 718 636 6483 CASE#109, COMPLAINT #445 DETECTIVE GIBBONS

I am going to hell......!

This past Wednesday was Ash Wednesday. The first day of Lent. It is also the day you are supposed to chose something to give up for the 40 days leading up to Easter Sunday. It is three days later and I still have not decided. I wanted to chose something that would be a challenge, a sacrifice….but the best I could come up with was….gum. But yesterday I chewed gum so now I need to rethink this. I am a good Catholic…I am not, however a good practicing Catholic. I am one of those hypocrites that goes to church on what I call the ‘give away’ holidays. I go on Ash Wednesday for ashes, Palm Sunday for palm or any holiday where they bless something. Like the dog or your throat. (Yes there is a St Blaize day and they bless your throat….for what I don’t know but I can use all the blessings I can get) That’s it. Too busy cooking, hiding eggs or wrapping gifts on Easter and Christmas to go….see told you I was a hypocrite, but hey honesty is a virtue, no? I was going pretty regularly on Sundays last year so that my grandson who was making his First Holy Communion would know what he was missing when the entire congregation got up for communion and he had to wait til May. I took him so that he would get used to having to be quiet for an entire hour…however his younger brother and my other grandson found it an opportunity to discuss anything and everything other than the gospel. (I shhh’d more than a downhill skier.) They did however enjoy looking up the songs in the song book.

Back to Wednesday…..my parish gave out ashes at 2pm and 4pm. I am at work. Then again at 7:30pm which the rectory recording said was a service. They did not say ‘mass‘….so I assumed ‘service’ meant that it would take slightly longer to get the ashes ex’d upon my forehead. Wrong….or they lied. (which somehow I doubt was the rectory’s intention, especially during the Lenten season) Did they not know that the top 24 contestants were being announced on American Idol? Not everyone has a DVR. Ok, I do, but that’s not the point. I went in and sat down unfortunately in a pew with a man and his son who really liked to sing along with the organist/choir master. I mean REALLY liked to sing. And they were actually quite good, but like I was a kid all over again…it made me giggle. Every time the son (who was in his 30’s and I believe a little slow) belted out a Halleluiah or an exaggerated Amen I cracked up. Inside. To myself. But I was sure as I looked around that there were several other suppressed giggles. (I know, I am going to hell!) The priest delivering the service is from Pakistan or India or maybe Bangladesh. If I was a better practicing Catholic I am sure I would know. He has an accent. A thick ‘would you like a cherry Slurpee’ accent. (Yup, on the way to hell as we speak!) I didn’t understand the Gospel, or the Liturgy…or pretty much of anything he said. And if it wasn’t for what was driven into my head as a child, I wouldn’t have been able to follow the mass at all. We stood, we sat, we knelt, we stood, we sat, we knelt….most exercise I have had in weeks. I didn’t do so well will the kneeling since my knees don’t kneel like they used to. I kept my fat ass on the edge of the seat keeping the weight off my poor depleted knees.

It was finally time for the ashes. We all lined up in front of the two priests as the singing duo broke into Song 671 from the song book and once again I giggled. I remember as a kid I always wanted a big black smush on my forehead, not one of those pale smudges some priests delivered, and I found myself jockeying for the line by the priest with big thumbs. As we slowly made our way toward the priests, and the singers were on their third chorus of Song 671, I wondered if on the way back, I could bypass my seat and head straight out the door. I could still make Idol if I did, but I left my pocketbook on the seat and had to return. I looked around to see if anyone would actually even notice if I suddenly stood and left. Of course that was when I noticed three of my neighbors. I thought about feigning illness…ok lying in church on Ash Wednesday…so NO that was out! I had my ashes, I shook hands in peace with my neighboring congregants, (even Pavarotti and his son) and I was ready to go….but I didn’t. Instead I admired the huge crucifix on the altar, and the beautiful stained glass on the walls, and wondered about the dead leafless tree on the altar. Was there significance to this or had the caretaker simply forgotten to water it? The mass was over and we all made a mad dash for the doors, stopping only to dip my fingers into the holy water trough, bless myself and genuflect at the altar. I felt renewed, I felt blessed, I felt holy….I felt like I might still make it in time for Idol. (I am going hell!)

the GIB 60

My husband was on born on Valentine’s Day. It has always made it easy to buy a card for him since they have “On Your Valentine Birthday” cards at Walgreens. One card, two occasions….works for me! This year though he turned 60. Yup the big 60 (Just in case you were wondering, he robbed the proverbial cradle when he snagged me) and Walgreens had nothing to offer this year. No Valentine Birthday cards….no Happy 60th to my Valentine….just individual cards for individual holidays. I will have to buy two. I only say this because after 35 years of marriage, and a total of 40 years as a couple it has become increasingly hard to find a pre-printed card with the exact sentiment. To My Sweetheart…You Light Up My Life! Um…no! To The Man I Married…My Hero! Um…not so much! To My Darling Husband….ok forget this. Can’t they make cards that really express the way some couples feel about each other? Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, If you weren’t so deaf, I would still talk to you! Violets are Blue, Roses are Red, Why the hell can’t you stay on your side of the bed? I found instead, a card that had hearts and kisses on it (works for the valentine theme) and said Happy Birthday. No Six Zero, no over the top sappy I love you’s, and no poetry. .Just a beautiful red and white card. I signed my name under the word Love and made little x’s and o’s underneath. That is as sappy as I can manage these days.

We went upstate which is what he wanted to do for his birthday. The man has an abnormal desire to see third rate comedians and singers which seem to head the entertainment list at the hotel. It is what we did last year as well except last year he wasn’t forced to wear a light up pin that said Oh No I’m 60! My daughter and her family were already there so we decided to have a birthday dinner in the hotel dining room especially since they had a Valentine menu. Last year they offered heart shaped ravioli’s but ran out by the time our meals came…oh well. This year they didn’t even try…it was round all the way!

My grandsons nixed everything on the set menu, but Jose (our bus boy) and Angel (our waiter) convinced them that they could have chicken fingers and pizza. Or as they put it….cheeeckin feeengers and cheeeeese pisa. I translated, the boys ordered. My daughter had the lobster tails which my husband pointed out were rock lobsters and since I don’t eat lobster I had no idea what the difference was. Or cared. By all accounts they were delicious. My husband, son in law and myself all opted for the Rib Eye Steak Au Jus (steak and gravy if you got it at Denny‘s) all cooked to different done-nesses. (ok you figure out the work that goes there) Two out of three were delicious and done to perfection…guess who got the third. Oh well I was saving room for dessert anyway. The dessert that I wasn’t going to have since I have signed on as a practicing diabetic recently. Jose brought the dessert menu. (or was it Angel?) Everything had a heart or valentine related theme…red velvet cake which my grandson pointed out was more pink than red, a pear tiramisu (which I chose because I reasoned out that a pear is a fruit and a fruit is healthy and I ignored the fact that there were probably 1300 calories in the pear sauce, whipped cream and oh yeah, the tiramisu and quickly instructed my husband what to do if I slipped into a diabetic coma), and there was a heart shaped chocolate cake which fit well into our surprise. Birthday candles stuck on a teeny tiny cake. The candles said…Oh No It’s the Big 60! in individual letters. Quite a feat for such a little cake, but Jose assured us he could do it. No problemo! Ummm not so much! The ‘Oh No’ came back….wouldn’t fit. OK the rest works just as well. We watched as Jose walked back and forth frantically with the little cake in the little dish with all the candles. In the kitchen, out of the kitchen, over to the maitre de, back in the kitchen…. all the while my husband is watching his frantic movements in the wall length mirror. He said nothing. (good man) Jose could not find a lighter. Or a match. Or apparently flint.

The small chocolate heart shaped cake ablaze with candles finally came out and Jose put it in front of my husband as we all sang Happy Birthday, some of us louder than others as my husband’s 60th pin blinked on and off. He tried to read the candles before blowing them out…it said IT’S THE GIB 60.…yup, GIB not BIG. Get the camera! We laughed, we sang, he blew and we ate! I consumed the greater part of the pear dessert and did not go into a coma, so I finished it. Happy Birthday Valentine!

...patience...not a virtue

I think I need to go to therapy. Or anger management. Or therapy. Or take up yoga. Maybe therapy might help. I think I may need to talk to someone who can explain why I have little to no patience anymore for so many things, and in no particular order my top ten patience busters!

10. Anyone who cannot speak English well enough to be understood. I work in customer service which means I answer phones most of the day. Today a customer called that was Chinese, spoke less English than my take out restaurant and to add a little more confusion to the mix, he lisped. A lisping Mandarin man. Or maybe he was Cantonese...either way, I couldn't understand a word he said. It had something to do with his car insurance. He either hit a car, a person maybe even a tree. He could have said a tree hit his car. Or his tree hit a person. The combinations were endless. I did hear a word here and there and eventually connected the dots...but a word of advice. You want my help learn English or have someone that already has make the call for you!

9. The person that takes their car out once a week at best and feels the need to break at every intersection. Even if there is no light. Even if there is no stop sign. Even if they have the right of away. Don't make me miss the light or get to my destination 15 minutes late because you have a pedal fetish. I promise you, on a bad day I will plow into the back of your car and swear you backed into me. Learn how to drive confidently before you back your car out of the garage.

8. If there is one thing that have zero patience for it is waiting at the doctors office. I don’t mind waiting in the...well, waiting room. Hell since they named it that, I guess I should expect to wait. But when the nurse calls me 45 minutes after my scheduled appointment, only to sit in the examining room for another half hour I want to walk out. I stare at the scale daring myself to get on. I don't. I look at the tongue depressors and q-tips and wonder how many will fit in my bag to take home. I don't. The doctor finally comes in with my file and within 3 minutes I am off to cough up my co-pay. How the hell is it that I waited over an hour to see him and my visit is only 3 minutes? I must be doing something wrong.

7. I call a help line with a problem. Whether it is related to my computer, my taxes, car issues or even an airline.....I reach India. Or New Zealand. Sometimes Ireland. Now we all know how I feel about that, but the issue here is patience. Whether I got the help I needed or not, our conversation finished, I would like to simply say thank you and hang up. But nooooooooooo...they have a script they have to read keeping me on the line an indefinite amount of wasted time. "Thank you for calling and if I may be of any further assistance in the future please feel free to call back. I hope I have answered all of your questions adequately and to your complete satisfaction. If you are satisfied please hold for a short survey regarding this phone call. May I place you on hold and connect you with our customer survey hotline?" Absolutely friggin' not! Goodbye, and click.

6. My house is never quiet. I either have a barking dog, a chatty husband or a attention demanding grandchild. It is for those reasons I detest the voice activated phone call centers. I needed an answer about my phone bill. After reading my ten digit phone number, 17 digit account number and three digit customer code my dog barked and sends me back to square one. I plug in the necessary numbers again and while I listen to Press 1 for this and 2 for that, my caller ID beeps in and sends me to the wrong department. Which really doesn't matter since as soon as I get anywhere near to the right prompt, I make the mistake of running the water or rustling a paper....or god forbid sneezing. It took me 17 minutes of standing in the closet to get to the right prompt and then I got someone in New Zealand who wasted 17 more minutes saying goodbye.

5. I have no patience for scams. I got a postcard in the mail that said I might win $1,000,000 if I call this 800 number. Ok before you get ahead of me, yes I too thought it was a scam, but it was from Publishers Clearing House and it said that I didn't have to buy anything or agree to anything, just call to verify that you got the postcard and register your potentially winning number. I bit.....I called. The gentleman was friendly and jovial and verified all my information. He joked about the weather where I lived and compared it to where he was. He asked what I might do with the money if I won, and agreed wholeheartedly with me with me when I told him. He joked and cajoled and wished me luck citing my outgoing personality deserved to be rewarded. And then the bastard tried to sell me a magazine subscription. He suddenly became a nosy, dirty old man who was one step away from asking for phone sex. (Did I mention I need therapy?)

4. I have no patience for dumb people. I don't mean the ones that come in third on Jeopardy, (who are still smarter than I'll ever be) or even the ones that refuse to buy a vowel. I mean the ones that can't follow a conversation that doesn't begin with...."so anyway...." You know who you are. Ok on second thought, maybe you don't. I don't have the patience nor the inclination to explain how to do some mundane task four times when it shouldn't have had to be explained at all. What I probably am most impatient with is the lack of common sense. If it says “shake well” don’t ask if you should shake it, if it is raining don’t ask if you need an umbrella. Let a few of those brain cells loose, charge ‘em up…do word power or sudoku….

3. I hate call waiting. I hate when I am just getting to the good part of a conversation when there is a vacant distant sound signally another incoming call and then the old familiar, "hang on a sec, I have to get this". If it isn't an elderly parent or a sick child....I was here first. I have no patience to stay on hold while you conduct other business. I have time invested in this call and I expect you to finish your conversation with me first. If Uncle Frank has fallen down the stairs he should know by now how to dial 911. If the meeting has been cancelled...haven't they heard of email?? Sometimes it is me that is getting the call and I ignore it until I then hear my cell phone ringing. Then I am pretty sure it may be Uncle Frank calling me to tell me to get off the phone with you so that he can get through. 911 must have been busy.

2. I have no patience for jealousy. Jealous people want what you have, but can't or won't admit it. It makes them bitter and cranky. I have no patience for bitter or cranky people. You can always spot a jealous person even as they hide behind their cranky indignant selves. The world is unfair, the situation is unfair, life is unfair, their lot in life is unfair. There is a lot of drama in their world. And they love to compare notes…my disaster is bigger than your disaster, my bad day is worse and longer than your bad day, my boss is worse, my vacation sucked more…and the list goes on. It’s a game they want to win. The good thing about jealous people is that they make you realize just how good your life really is.

1. Don’t have alot of patience for people who don’t take no for an answer. There are people who ring my bell at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning. They want to convert me to…..well I have never actually listened so I am not sure, but it may be Jehovah Witnesses. If you ring my bell that early you better have a bagel with a shmear or at the very least a buttered roll with you. A bible just again gonna cut it. And when I answer the door and politely tell you that I am Catholic and want to stay that way, please don’t tell me we all believe in the same God. My God graciously asks me to visit him once a week, hell I even get to pick the time, a wafer and a sip of wine and I am good for another week. My God does not command me to ring bells and have people dismiss me from behind curtained windows. When I tell you that I am Catholic and I courteously accept your handouts to read later (preferably after coffee) please don’t pretend I am not blowing you off. You know it and I know it. Give me the damn literature and go. Let me close the door without further ado.