sacrifices and stickers

      In case you haven't noticed, I have stopped blogging.  Not necessarily rambling, just the blogging part.  It became apparent to me that I no longer had anything to ramble about.  Everything was a rant, a tirade, hysterics.  I watch too much news.  Read too many papers.  Listen to too much 1010 WINS.  I hate the world.  No seriously, I hate the way we treat each other.  I hate that things are so expensive.  I hate the way.....see, this is why I stopped blogging.        Today I went to the bank.  There was a guy going in ahead of me.  He let the door slam in my face.  Thanks buddy!  Once inside I went to an ATM next to a man that had to be one step away from making it onto the side of one of Willard Scott's jelly jars.  He laid his finger aside one of his nostrils and blew.  Yes, blew.  A great big snot ball landed on the bank floor with a squishing thud.  Ewwwwwwww.  I finished my deposit and left side stepping HIS 'deposit'.  I went  next door to my nail salon.  I had to cut my nails because I have started taking piano lessons and it just doesnt work with long nails.. (more on that later..)  My nail girl who I adore is late for our 11am appointment so I sit and grab a People magazine.  The people in People all have boobs and penises drawn on them.  Assuming it must be the work of some unsupervised 10 year old and not feeling especially erotic at 11am,  I put the magazine back and chose another.   The woman seated to my right looks at me and says "why dont you make up your mind'?  Excuse me???  She sucked her teeth and went on fighting with whomever she was on the phone with.  ( Hurry Linh, before there is a fight.)  My hands look ridiculously short and stubby without long nails but for the sake of my budding music career I will have to deal.  It's the small sacrifices.

      I had to buy gift boxes because for some reason the stores I shop in no longer believe in 'giving' you anything for free.  Charge me an extra friggin quarter, I wont notice, and give me a box....you in turn will have my grateful patronage every holiday after that.  My gift boxes, in 3 sizes, cost me more then two of the gifts I bought....which isnt saying much for those gift recipients.  I bought bows which apparently I never affix to the presents since when I got home I realized I had 3 unopened bags.  This year your're all getting bows....maybe two.   The next stop was the post office.  At the risk of being towed or at the very least having a sticker plastered on my windshield, I pulled into a spot in the McDonalds next door.  I did my best to hide the fact that I was headed toward the post office instead of the Golden Arches.  I did all but walk backwards carrying a two foot box I was shipping to my neice in Delaware.  The box contained Christmas gifts.  The line, always twelve deep in this always understaffed postal facility was no surprise.  Nor was the slug like speed of the tellers.  After each transaction the little teller light would ignite and a 'ding' indicated there was a open teller.  After standing in line for better than 40 minutes you would think that they would fly to the light like a moth.  But no...instead they strolled to the windows and only then began to remove the mail from their bags or purses or canvas sacks.  Let's not have them ready to hand the teller, that might shave off 15 minutes of wait time!  I inched along dragging my box and alternately rehearsed my excuse for the tow truck driver (who was probably impounding my car) and considering what would take the non-removable sticker glue off my windshield.  Finally, a light....a 'ding'....it was my turn.  I lifted the box into the safety cage that they designed presumably to protect the tellers from crazed patrons (good luck with that) and listened to about a minute recitation of questions.  Anything flamable, breakable, liquid, fragile, etc., etc., etc.  Did I want it sent first class, priority, 2nd day, media mail, overnight, ground?  Certified, return receipt, delivery confirmation,  proof of mailing?  I chose media mail (cheaper) and delivery confirmation (so I don't have to call and ask if my package made it there before Santa).  The teller felt obligated to tell me in no uncertain terms that they have the right open and inspect the box, and if it is found to not have strictly media items within, the recipient will be asked to pay the difference in premium thereby embarrasing the sender.  I stood my ground even though I knew this troll was going to go straight to the package on his break and insist it be opened.  Well guess what buddy, there are books and cd's in there.  (and playdoh) (and a sock monkey)  I will call my neice tomorrow and apologize in advance.  It's the small sacrifices.

      The next stop was my piano lesson.  I paid for 4 weeks up front for fear I would stink and quit.  I stink, but haven't quit....yet.  My lessson is sandwiched between a 12 year old vocal prodigy and a 13 year old pianist that could put Liberace to shame.  And through it all my instuctor tells me how good I am getting which makes it worth the $70 an hour he gets just to listen to me play When The Saints Go Marching In and Ode to Joy. There is just so much you can teach an old dog....two hands doing two different things doesn't compute for me.... G F E D C....C D E F G....and we didnt even get to the A and B yet.  But playing the piano is on my bucket list....so practice, practice, practice.   It's the small sacrifices.

     I came home to find someone parked in my parking spot.  Yeah, I know I dont really own that spot, but it is in fronf of my house nestled between my driveway and a fire hydrant.  If you park far enough away from the hydrant to be legal then you are in my driveway...which happens often.  I recognize the car and know that it wont be long so I park down the block a bit.   'You leaving the car there,' a neighbors tenant asks.  (key word being tenant)  Yes, why?   'Thats my spot,'  he informs me.  I thought of going into the whole...its no ones spot story....but since I know how it feels to be shut out of 'your spot' I pulled out and into my driveway where I should have parked in the first place.  It's the small sacrifices.

     I'm baaaack!

    

Captains and Kings

Last week my daughter got tickets to the 9/11 memorial. Since my husband couldn't go there was enough room for me in my daughters car. ….and just to get this out of the way, YES I am the worst passenger in the world. In the drivers seat I will drive any where including cross country and taxi polluted mid town Manhattan...but as a passenger, forget about it. So for the sake of all involved, I positioned myself in the backseat behind my daughter so that I could not see out the front window. I could NOT see that my daughter was not braking when there were so many red lights up ahead....I could NOT see the kamikaze drivers weaving in and out in front of us and I definitely could NOT see the 18 wheeler mis-judging the turn ratio he needed. All things considered we arrived safely in Manhattan and in search of a parking lot. We asked the first uniformed person we saw directing traffic for directions to a parking garage in relationship to the memorial site. He babbled something, pointed somewhere and dismissed us somehow. My daughter turned and continued up West Street which used to be the West Side Highway until they, well ….removed the highway. Up Williams, down Greenwich, across Vesey and onto Warren and there it was a parking garage just off the corner. The sign said $12.75 from 4pm to 2am. Perfect! Too perfect! $12.75?? It costs more for a bottled water in Manhattan but the car was parked and with cameras ready we started toward the memorial.

It was just after work hours so the streets were bustling with parents scooping up their kids from after school programs and the multitudes trying to get to the trains for their trip home with cell phones ready, to photographer the gropers. At every corner people navigated the intersections by basically walking in front of the cars, who like us moments ago, looked lost and determined to find their destinations. We followed the blue signs that directed us toward the memorial site. 9/11 MEMORIAL --> In the distance, and I do mean distance, we could see the Freedom Tower surrounded by cranes and hoists as we made our way downtown. We came across a little park nestled in the middle of all the chaos with a sculpture that looked like something a clown could twist and maneuver into a flower or sword. Except this one probably weighed about a ton. After taking way too many pictures of my grandsons posing with the sculpture, pointing at the sculpture and running around the sculpture we made our way passed the park and down West Broadway. It was becoming apparent why the parking lot was so cheap...it was in another borough.

We continued to follow the blue signs North toward our destination elbowing our way through the masses who were anxious to get home and as would have it, were traveling in the opposite direction. My son in law and I took pictures of everything New York and everything American, and well....everything my grandsons could stand in front of. As we turned down Barclay and then Vesey and onto Church Street we happened upon Zuccotti Park with its protest signs and tents. The sight was overwhelming. The smell was worse! My throbbing knee pain was replaced with the eye-tearing sting of urine stench! There were signs, lots of signs…GOD HATES BANKS….. WE ARE THE 99%…..FREE HUGS. Yes we had encountered Woodstock in lower Manhattan. I coerced my grandsons into coming into the park with me for a picture. We walked around the woman offering FREE HUGS….(not enough penicillin on the planet for that one)…around some dude in a blue sleeping bag that looked like it had been slept in since the original Woodstock (circa 1969)…and stopped in front of a statue of a seated businessman where we posed and smiled. Click. The hugging lady looked pissed off, or maybe she just had to pee. We continued past the garbage piled higher than my ten year old grandson and down four more blocks following blue 9/11 MEMORIAL --> signs and arrived at the entrance to the Memorial. The view already breathtaking as the Freedom Tower towered above us. The line snaked right and left passed check points where we had to show our tickets. We arrived at what looked like the boarding gate at Kennedy where buckets accepted our change, metal objects and bags. We were scanned and wanded but unfortunately no pat down as at this point any kind of massage of my legs would have been appreciated. There is no way to aptly describe the feeling of being there at the site so I wont try, lets just say it is the closest thing to feeling like you are walking on hallowed ground.

The day sky turned into a night sky and the thought of hiking trudging walking back to the car in that shadowy environment loomed large. But hunger became the sentiment of choice…and we were off to find food. I pointed out a Panini place, a diner, and a nice Irish pub that I was sure had the most amazing burgers possible….but the kids eyed a Burger King and the choice was made. Across from Zuccotti park and the pissed off FREE HUGS lady. Of course this Burger King had upstairs seating. Twenty two (I counted) metal steps up to the dining area which had a lovely view of the park and its dirty denizens. Unfortunately our seats were feet from the bathrooms. I was too tired and hungry to move…so we found a booth and sat. There were signs that the bathrooms were for customers only, but of course a steady stream of dread-locked hippies from across the street came in to relieve themselves. I made my grandsons promise they wouldn’t pee until Brooklyn. Before we finished eating an even bigger stream of cops came in for the same reason. We continued eating and someone debated how a cop can sit on the toilet with his gun not hitting the floor. Our bellies full, my legs rested (sort of) and the consensus that a cop keeps his gun strapped on while he shits sits….we left Burger King, twenty two steps down.

En route to the car I noticed what looked like two large canisters marked Nitrogen which I only just found out are not flammable. Since I had yet to Google Nitrogen and assumed they were, I commented when a homeless lunatic (who probably got chucked out of Zuccotti) put a cigarette out on one of them. He immediately started waving his hands and asking me if I was the captain and in charge of the tanks. The kids were afraid and so my normal confrontational response was squelched. We walked faster (sorry, knees) as he continued to follow us babbling on an on about how I was not in charge. He definitely was not hugged enough as a kid…gee, where’s that FREE HUG lady when you need her.

Fa la la la BOO

In the past week we have all pretty much been hit over the head with the fact that there are about 60 days until Christmas. The stores are already in the process of discounting the Halloween items, skipping over Thanksgiving altogether and getting us ready to don our gay apparel. I am not prepared to forfeit two fantastic holidays to get a jump on the holiday shopping rush. I would rather make a shopping list for Thanksgiving dinner than make a Black Friday holiday gift list. I want to eat cranberries before I have to string them. I still have my summer clothes crowding my drawers with nary a sweater in sight and even though it snowed today I have on a tee shirt and flip flops…..and the heat! My candles, yes the ones that I don’t ever really light, are scented Bahama Breeze and Sandy Beach not Cranberry Mist or Mistletoe Madness. My mail, now inundated with catalogues all offering a percentage off if I “ACT NOW” and then a not so subtle reminder that Christmas is around the corner! They offer me layaways. They offer me buy now, pay later. They offer me six months interest free. What they don’t offer is to wait until my giblets are cooked and my wishbone snapped. The first holiday scented Glade commercials have begun to air and Toys R Us officially has more air time than Michael Jordan. I have always loved my DVR but not as much as now when I can zip past any commercial that has someone or something in a Santa hat.

The front of my house looks like a cemetery…tombstones, skeletons, spider webs. There are pumpkins and purple and orange lights. I am just not ready to box up the bones and unpack the wreaths. My bowls are filled with candy corn not candy canes and I have no desire for the smell of pine other than from a spray bottle in my bathroom. I have ceramic turkeys waiting to replace the smiling ghosts on my dining room table and a chocolate cornucopia that my husband bought last year that no one ate. Not even the denizens of the attic….so it will adorn the table and all will be warned not to look…..not eat!  There is no room yet for Mr. and Mrs. Claus, the Lenox snowman or the jelly bean pooping reindeer. My nails are pumpkin orange with white webs and a spider that took waaaay too long to paint on…..I therefore expect them to last through Halloween, Thanksgiving, Hanukah, Kwanzaa.…and yes then I will re-polish them red with green spiderwebs wreaths for Christmas. 

I have pumpkin spice, harvest blend and steaming cider in my coffee carousel and since the pods cost more than Starbuck's stock I will finish these before I buy ginger cookie, egg nog latte or nutmeg blend.  Or I will just buy Maxwell House, make a 12 cup pot and save a fortune!  Merry Christmas!

Aye aye Matey!

As an anniversary gift our children joined forces chipped in and bought us a cruise around Manhattan. It came with a buffet, drinks and a DJ. There was a limited time to book which date you wanted so I went on line and looked at what was available. I saw that within the parameters of what time I had left there were no weekends and no daytimes so I booked a Tuesday night. I thought it might be interesting to see what other people booked late and settled for a weekday evening. As the day grew closer I started to get nervous, and while I am not afraid of the dark or the water, the combination of the two seemed ominous. That and the fact the website repeatedly announced it was a ’three hour tour’…now where had I heard that before?? I went on the website to look at the boat. There were three…two yachts and a paddleboat. Since the paddleboat didn’t port in NY it was one of the yachts. Yay! The Rendezvous or the Harbour Lights. Both looked like decent size boats and any reservations I had disappeared.

I looked through my closet for my ‘cruise wear’….and chose something light enough that if I ended up in the water it wouldn’t drag me under, and a jacket buoyant enough for the same reason. I considered testing it in the bathtub but knew that was just too extreme even for me. Now I’m not a great sleeper to begin with, but that night whenever I closed my eyes I envisioned icebergs and twin smokestacks snapping in the artic air. It is September…the nearest Iceberg is in my fridge and from the produce section. I felt the cold hand of my husband as he slipped into the icy sea….“never let go Rich, never let go”. Ok ok it was a river and it was 73 degrees...but it’s my dream! I woke up, peed, had a glass of water (counter productive to say the least) and fell back asleep just as ‘the weather started getting rough and our tiny ship was tossed.” I woke again to pee (see I told you…) only this time there was no sleeping so I began the ritual of clicking around the 1100 channels to find something that could hold my interest at 4am. The movie channels…Titanic. Great! Click….A Night To Remember…oh boy…Click! Poseidon Adventure….what the hell?? …some kind of cosmic joke….or was I still dreaming? I went on my laptop. I looked at the website again. The yachts looked smaller. I poured a glass of my husbands cheap ass wine and sipped it as I watched the end of the Poseidon Adventure where everyone was saved. Ok not everyone…poor Shelley Winters…but it ended happier than the Titanic. Poor Jack, Rose let go.

The morning of the day of the night of the cruise…(got that?) I woke to find myself thinking of things I should be telling my kids…like where the safety deposit box keys are….how to make fresh mozzarella which I only just recently learned myself….instructions to ignore some of the stuff they may find in my underwear draw….

 

Everywhere we go we are early thanks to my husband. He anticipates EVERYTHING. Maybe there will be traffic, a flat, traffic, getting lost, traffic, can‘t find parking…did I mention traffic? So for a 7 o’clock boarding we are planning to leave at 5 o’clock. Two hours to go one borough. But he has been right in the past, so 5 o’clock it is. I put on the TV for a distraction. Special Report….Ahmadinejad and Obama are in the city…at the UN for a World Summit…FDR Drive is closed from here to there, with random closing from there to here. OK so Mr. Wonderful was right again, we need to leave early….and hope no one blows up the FDR Drive or commandeers our yacht to annihilate the UN.

There was NO traffic, we didn’t need gas, no flat, there was a parking lot inches from the dock and getting lost wasn’t even an option…so we arrived at the boarding area at 5:35 giving me a whole hour and a half to recreate every water disaster movie I have ever seen. The parking attendant was a nice Arabic man who took $30 to park our car for 3 hours (technically 4 ½ since we were so early) Thankfully there was a bench and a veritable smorgasbord of characters to keep us entertained. There was the man who was rollerblading in a tee shirt and thong, the girl who jogged by practically knocking herself out with her umm, knockers……the humping dogs, and an array of lost foreigners who seemed to think we were the NYC Information Booth. We walked over to the dock to look at the boats that were moored. Harbour Lights and Rendezvous were both there along with several others that looked bigger and, quite frankly safer. Some well-dressed people began walking down a ramp toward a moored boat, so we followed them only to be told in no uncertain terms that it was a private party boat. Well!! How did they know we weren’t invited guests. Just then a Mercedes Benz pulled up and a girl got out in the tightest and shortest red dress with the best spray tan I have ever seen. She was gorgeous. I could see my poor husband attempting to avert his eyes. As she paid the driver a Lexus pulled up and the best looking, best dressed group of men I have seen got out all holding bouquets of flowers. After they all air-kissed each other they headed for the private yacht that we had just so un-ceremoniously been escorted off of…but at least I knew how they figured out we were party crashers. I think my sneakers were a dead give away.

 

It was almost 7pm and a small line began to form. I wondered out loud which side of the ship we should sit on. If we were going uptown the left would have the best view, downtown…the right side. Mr. Wonderful told me to ask the ‘mate’. Yes, he said mate! He then continued to babble something about starboard and port sides. I asked him to speak English…left or right? He said….starboard! F&*K you…I am nervous enough without having to decipher where the hell I am going to sit. The ‘mate’ turned out to be a black guy that looked exactly like Billy Blanks the Tae Bo pitchman. The ’mate’ said we were going downtown because we can’t go uptown because of the police presence by the UN. Uh oh… We sat on the right through dinner and then took our drinks up to the top outside deck where we stayed for the entire tour. The lighted skyline was unbelievable. The view of the Statue of Liberty breathtaking. The rising Freedom Tower spectacular. If there was anything to be nervous about I had completely forgotten it in the shadow of our magnificent city. (I did however notice the hole in the deck where the anchor is lowered and noted that my granddaughter could fall through) Note to self: do not take the kids on this tour.

 

After almost three glorious hours of tourist heaven, we were headed back to the dock. The captain announced that he was going to take us as close to the UN as he could without getting us shot at by the NYPD Harbor Patrol. Here we go again……..

Goodnight Irene...

I have given you all a few days to digest from all the Hurricane Irene info we were force fed for days prior to, during and after the Hurricane of 2011. (so far) I have allowed a few days to pass so that all or most have their power back on and their lives back to normal. I have even waited until the headlines reverted back to more un-‘natural’ disasters, like the plummeting stock market and upcoming elections. But holding it is has almost caused me to bust…so allow me…..

Friday: Everyone went shopping. Everyone bought water, flashlights and batteries. Bread, milk and eggs. I bought Twizzlers.

For two days I lived on those Twizzlers. First black, then cherry. I didn’t have to, there was plenty of food. I had fried 3 pounds of chicken cutlets and there was steak and meatballs in gravy in the freezer. I had tuna and peanut butter and three different cereals. There were some cold cuts and several different fruits. But the logical choice every time I was hungry was….Twizzlers. Not only did my sugar go through the roof, I gained 3 pounds and my shit is green….ok, I know WAY too much info. Sorry…

The proverbial calm before the storm, the sun was shining and not a hint of wind but I was in prepared mode. I watched CNN, MSNBC, the Weather Channel, any channel that had a map with a swirl and a dotted line slowly moving up the eastern seaboard. I found myself doodling the map on napkins, mail and even my hand. (it was like something out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind) Friday night I had a play to go to just over the Marine Parkway bridge….in Rockaway. Yes, Rockaway the now being evacuated Rockaway. As we drove over the bridge and I looked at the waters surrounding us, I felt brave and daring. I stared Irene in the eye! Ok so that is a bit over-exaggerating….the water was calm and still…so far! I came home and spent the rest if the night watching Irene creep up the coast.

Saturday: I woke to find my husband getting ready for work.

“Where you going?“

“Work”

“Are you kidding, if you go in today you won’t be able to leave.“

“Nah, probably be home early”

Guess who was right?!

I spent the day no more than 15 feet from any TV in the house. I didn’t want to miss a single second. I wanted to hear who was being evacuated, what idiots refused to leave, and relished in the videos of newscasters being blown around. The storm was still three states away. By four o’clock it was apparent my husband wasn’t gonna get home in time for Irene, and although I checked that his life insurance policy was paid in full, I didn’t want him traveling in the midst of her wrath. I fried cutlets. Pounds and pounds of cutlets. I am not sure why, it just seemed like the thing to do during a hurricane. The wind was picking up just a bit and it was now raining, but the house was filled with the amazing smell of garlic and cheese, the air conditioning was keeping the stifling humidity at bay, and my all-channel Irene coverage was in full swing. My plan was to cut patterns, sew and generally keep busy ‘not’ cleaning. As the sky darkened and the storm was two, and then quickly one, state away….I text my husband. The storm was getting bad and if he was coming home he should do so now. It would be the last nice text he got until he got home in the morning. I organized my emergency plan. Candles in the kitchen, flashlights in the dining room, ice being made and of course, Twizzlers. I laid on the couch trying to position myself in a way so that if the tree in front blew in my picture window I could spring to my feet with cat like reflexes and dodge disaster. (yeah, ok) Bloomberg repeating not to go near the windows wasn’t helping matters. I sat up. I moved to the recliner. I turned the recliner around to face away from the window, which unfortunately was away from the TV. I laid on the floor. I relocated to behind the recliner by slithering like a slug. I was immediately joined by my stinky dog who remarkably doesn’t stink anymore. I fell asleep.

Sunday: I opened my eyes just as a bead of sweat was dripping onto my nose. The room was dark. The TV off. The dog (and me) panting. The worst had happened….the power was off. More importantly the AC was off.  I sprung to my feet (ya didn’t by the whole ‘sprung’ thing did ya?) and made my way into the kitchen to light my candle. Should have figured on matches in my emergency plan! I dug through the silverware draw only slightly slicing my finger and found a book of matches. Candle lit….check! I went back into the dining room, found the flashlight and put it on pointing it toward and illuminating the TV screen. (I can dream can’t I) The rain was driving, the wind howling and I had no idea where I had put the Twizzlers. I sat at the far end of the couch staring at the miniscule amount of power I left on my cell phone and went on Facebook. Everyone, was there. Everyone with mobile capability and battery life.  Mine was dwindling fast.  I thought about going out to my car and charging it from there, but the tree above my car was swaying more than I cared to brave. I picked up my phone and used what little power I had left to tell my husband what a crud he was for being in the air conditioned, well lit hospital where he worked while I sat sweating in the darkness. Just then….. a huge thud. I looked out and saw nothing but swinging trees so I decided to retreat to the couch and stay there until morning. It was 2:30am.

I remembered that I had a battery operated radio in my junk draw. Not crazy about rummaging around there in the dark, but since I had already cut my finger looking for matches I dove in. I felt a cord that I was sure was part of the radio. It wasn’t. It was a personal alarm that screams an ungodly sound when the pin is pulled out. That cord pulled the pin out. The high pitched screams were only muffled by the high pitched screaming in my head and my god damn dog barking. I found the alarm, put back the pin, stifled the noise including the dog and used the candle to light my way back to the couch. I blew it out since I was afraid to leave it lit where the dog could easily knock it over. (I figure he may want to pay me back for the earlier alarm fiasco) I sat in the dark with my little pink battery operated radio that only got 3 channels…..two of which broadcast in Spanish. It didn’t, however, take a linguist to figure out ‘Mucho Grande Hurricano en Nuevo York’ meant the waiting was over. Irene had arrived. As I sat sweating and cursing my husband I remembered where I had left the Twizzlers and promptly and carefully made my way to retrieve them with the extinguished candle.

For the next two hours I sat there totally missing my eastern seaboard map with its swirling and dotted lines. I sat perched up with a snack tray in front of me that held my cell phone which was dead, my house phone which was equally dead, the remote for a TV that wouldn’t work and an empty bag of black Twizzlers. Things were going from bad to worse. And then as my dog growled, my front door opened. Was this really happening? Was I being robbed, now? Really? REALLY? Hadn’t I had enough for one night? The sound of the driving rain got louder as the door opened wider, and as the dog growled harder I grabbed the flashlight and shone it on the intruder. My soaking wet husband, lit up like a prowler, said “it’s just me!”. I wish I had been armed, I could have gotten away with murder. It was 530am.

The hours leading up to daylight were pretty mundane.  By daybreak I was speaking to my husband again and in the light of day the wind and rain didn't seem quite so bad.  We found the origin of the thud...part of the tree in my yard was now leaning on my neighbors house.  The spiders that were trying desperately to get out of the plastic bags I had encased my hanging plants in when I brought them inside would soon be free to terrorize once more.  I anxiously awaited the storm to pass so I could bring my patio set back outside and of course buy more Twizzlers.

shake, rattle and a buttered roll........

Yesterday there was an earthquake in Virginia that was felt all the way up the east coast to New York City. Everyone has a story to tell about where they were, how they felt, how scared they got. Me, not so much. I was eating (what a shock!) lunch in the city with a friend after a rather boring exhibit in Times Square, and I missed the earth moving under my feet. (apologies to Carole King) The exhibit was, fitting enough, the ruins of Pompeii when Mount Vesuvius erupted back in 79AD and covered Pompeii in ash and lava. The exhibit was coupled with the Harry Potter exhibit which for an additional $14 you could see both. Never a Harry fan, we just opted for Pompeii and its molten residents.

The crowds lined up to see rocks…..basically. Not moon rocks, or even lava rocks…they were cement rocks…casts of people who apparently were too slow to out run the lava flow. And to add insult to injury, they were not the real bodies, (those were either melted or disintegrated) they were casts they made when they found that inside the hardened rock-like lava was an empty hole. So some genius archeologist said, ‘let’s fill it will cement to see what it used to be.’ And guess what, dead people! (“Let’s make an exhibit and charge the tourists and unsuspecting Brooklynites way too much and have an overpriced gift shop at the exit”) In fairness, there were two, no…three interesting things in the exhibit. One was the dead dog mold which looks like my dog when he is sleeping upside down, legs in the air….until I read the caption that said that the dog probably died climbing higher and higher to beat the lava flow and choked to death because his lousy Pompeiian owner never unleashed the dog before fleeing. Lovely. The second thing was the ‘sex for sale’ exhibit, cleverly hidden behind wall warning of its unsuitability for children where everything from paintings to plates depicted someone doing something to someone. Damn those Italians were kinky. Short, but kinky. The third thing was the Buddy Valestro (Cake Boss) life-sized cut out that we posed for pictures with. It was our free souvenier. I didn’t need a $12 coaster that looked like a broken tile, I didn’t want a imitation lava rock for $9 or even a t-shirt that wouldn’t have fit anyway with a picture of an erupting Mount Vesuvius for $26 (the same amount it cost to get in the exhibit) so the gift shop was a bust. We wandered into the Harry Potter gift shop and there were people dressed as wizards and owls. And they didn’t work there!! We left, looking forward to lunch. The earthquake was about a half hour away at this point.

Times Square was the typical circus it always is. We went into Lidz where I bought NY Mets hats for my traitor grandsons and was talked into buying a discount card for future purchases by a quick and savvy salesboy salesman, and then the Yankees store for my grandson who has stayed true to the pinstripes. $75 dollars later I have souveniers. (My granddaughter got stiffed!) Still no earthquake. We walked the two blocks towards the parking lot and found a rather interesting looking restaurant. We were offered a seat in front by the window, but after being seated we realized that the view was that of the side of a parked moving truck and besides, the wicker seats just did not sit well with my ass. (even with all my padding) We moved to the back of the restaurant with minimally better seating….ditto our view. At this point the earthquake hit and we had felt nothing. The waiter laughingly asked if we wanted bread. He brought a basket and a small bowl of….ummm, chick pea paste? Maybe hummus?? Looked like something beige and pasty in oil. Hungrily we buttered it on the bread and it was delicious. I had an omelet with asparagus and a glass of house merlot, my friend had fish and chips. (considering she is Irish I thought this a bit disloyal) We speculated about the men lunching at a discreet corner table…were the observably gay couple married, planning on getting married, or having an innocuous affair. Either way we never considered them to be straight which was terribly unwarranted since they could have been saying the same about the two woman sitting in the other corner…us! I went to look up something on my cell phone and had no service. Just then a phone call from my friends job informed us that there had just been an earthquake. And then the call went dead. I tried using the internet. Nothing. I tried calling my kids. Nothing. One by one all the calls checking up on us came through. And everyone of them had felt the earthquake. The most vibration we had felt thus far was during the fake volcanic eruption at Pompeii exhibit. Since we had missed the movement, we decided on dessert. Or at least that’s what I told myself. Two coffees and a Creamsicle Crème Brulee to share. (Let’s give the corner guys something to talk about!) Lunch was sumptuous and quite expensive considering I had what equated to a diner meal…except for the beige pasty stuff which I personally though classed up the menu.

 

We walked out of the restaurant and saw no evidence of an earthquake. No panicking, no running, no one looking skyward for falling buildings. Just tourists looking at maps and street vendors hawking cheap t-shirts. Had he thought quick enough he could have sold dozens of I SURVIVED THE EARTHQUAKE OF 2011. I’d have bought one, even if it didn’t fit.

Pillows and Peter

So far the summer of 2011 has proven to be both fun and relaxing, exciting and restful. Yes quite a contradiction, but that seems to be my life. Highs and lows with no rhyme or reason.

My husband and I went with a friend to my condo upstate. For some rest, some fresh air, and for me quite frankly, Peter Lemongello. You remember Peter…his Love ‘76 album that sold millions long before Ron Popiel even knew what infomercials were. His face and smile was as much an attention-grabber as his silky sexy voice. He was performing as he has done in the past at a Catskill nightclub. For some reason my husband enjoys watching me make an ass out of myself elbowing old ladies out of the way to get the best seats in the house…front row, center. When I get to the front of the club there is a woman who I have seen many times at his shows. She is probably a bigger groupie than I am but since she is in a wheelchair she was able to get reserved seating. Bitch! Ok so we sat front row, off center. That will have to do. I text a picture of her to my grandsons who, like my husband, get a kick out of knowing that I am like a school girl with a crush when I go to his shows. As he sang and we both swooned, I considered things I could do to “Miss Wheelchair Groupie…but considered the karma aspect and refrained. Instead we ordered drinks and settled in for a great show. I’ll get her next time!

The next day my husband went to a financial seminar at the hotel. The financial wizard apparently also does card tricks and taught the class some tricks to entertain the grandkids. For the next two days my husband practiced his slight of hand, which quite frankly was slight of…well, skill. By the time he finally got to show off for his grandkids he was a master…trouble was they were more interested in whether or not my fish was dead. The distracted audience were only slightly impressed by Papa’s magical talents.

Even though it is only mid August, the Back to School signs are everywhere so I thought I would stop into Kohls to buy some things for the boys. Evidently so did every other parent and grandparent in the free world. The parking lot was full. I circled the lot a few times, eyed the handicapped spots but drove on, circled some more, even considered parking in the pregnant woman’s spot in front of Babies R Us (I can and do pass as pregnant unfortunately) but then decided to just park on the other side of the massive lot and use it as an exercise stratagem. I found a spot and trekked my way to Kohls. Found a wagon…busted wheel. Found another….squeaked like I had run over an injured animal. Found a third….another busted wheel. I’ll just carry my stuff. I headed for the elevator. When the doors opened there was an Asian family inside with baby carriages and unbroken wagons. They made no move to get out and the doors closed. I really gave it no thought until a line had formed behind me now as we waited for the elevator to return. The doors open and guess who is still in the elevator, and still not moving. I asked, nicely….are you getting out? No answer. The lady behind me said rather loudly, “what are they doing?” I had no idea so I asked again, less nicely…are you getting out? They looked at one another, said and did nothing, and then the doors began to close again. I put my foot in the door stopping it from closing just as a huge Russian man with a crew cut and a dragon tattoo on his neck came from the back of the line, and I kid you not, in perfect (I think) Cantonese asked them what they were doing. They smiled, answered him and simply got out. I have no idea what had just transpired, but I was now in the elevator packed with people and babies and working wagons on my way up to the 2nd floor. We all briefly commented on what the hell had just happened and wished that Igor had gotten on with us so that we could ask him how he knew Chinese.

 

I picked out ‘cool’ clothes for my three grandsons, at least clothes that I thought were cool….looked at sheets that cost more than my damn mattress and made my way to the escalator. Didn’t care to attempt another ride on the Oriental Express. The lines were long but thanks to my clever eye I spotted a shorter line at the very front of the store. I got on line and immediately regretted it. One guy in front of me, three pillows, how long could it possibly take?? One pillow had no price tag…the light goes on for management. The cashier rings the other two pillows as she waits for someone to come over and price the third. The man shows her that the pillows are all the same. She agrees but waits for a manager. As I watch the other lines emptying out one at a time I contemplate switching lines always worried that that one would come to a dead halt as the original one sped up. Decisions, decisions! When the manager arrives, agrees that all three pillows are the same and I think I am in the clear….she needs a SKU number and off she goes to get one. Like a football player with a playbook, I manuever with my pile of clothes from register 2 to register 4 only to be told she is closed and so I quickly regroup and move to register 7. One person in front of me with…no, can’t be….a pillow! (must have been a sale) I asked if there was a price tag on it and she looked at me like I had asked for her social security number. I started feebly explaining why I was asking and she simply turned her back and put the pillow on the counter. A tag….Eureka! One, two, three and I was next. I had just maneuvered myself to the head of the line while pillow-boy was still waiting for his SKU. A few minor glitches at my register and I still made it out before him. I smiled as I carried my bag passed his register.

 

As I walked out into the ridiculously humid air I realized that I had parked in God’s country. I trudged through the parking lot dragging my bag of school clothes snarling and sneering at the people parking in the handicap spots. ‘So your crippled…big friggin’ deal’ I thought….and then my hip decided to twinge a bit and I thought OK OK I get it, lay off the handicapped. I made it to my car, threw my bags in the back, turned the AC on super-throttle and went into my pocketbook for my phone. I eyed my wallet nestled inside and couldn’t recall putting my credit card back. I looked and it wasn’t there. Damn it…I knew that cashier looked shady. I was NOT walking back to the store so I drove hoping my card was there waiting for me. Of course there still were no spots other than the pregnant woman ones. It’s a boy! (guess where I parked) I got out of the car and went in ready to argue with the cashier for not returning my card when a smile suddenly crossed my face. Pillow boy….still there! When I got to register 7 I realized that she never had my card, that I swiped it in the little machine myself. I leaned on one of the broken wagons and checked my bag again for the elusive card. Not where it should have been, but there none-the-less. Dripping with sweat and feeling like an ass, I made my way passed pillow boy who was now waiting for his pillows to be squished into a not large enough plastic bag. I got to my oh-so-closely-parked car pretending to be pregnant. Two very really pregnant people gave me dirty looks. Hey, I beat pillow boy, found my credit card and not really pregnant…what more could I ask for. It was a good day!

Salty the surfer dude.......

Today at 9am Salty the tree pruner came. His name is Danny, but the business card says Salty so that is what I am gonna call him as I imagine how he got that nickname in the first place. Since he has great sandy colored hair and a body to match, (great, not sandy) I have decided to go with a surfer dude who realized he had to get a paying job and didn’t want to completely leave the salty surf behind. That or he really likes pretzels.

My entire backyard had become a forest with a tree from a neighboring yard and my own fiasco of a purchase, the dreaded ‘it won’t get fruit’ but it did….walnut tree. Salty arrived on time with his crew which consisted of three guys with tank tops and arms the size of tree trunks. Oh yeah and chain saws, mile high ladders, ear protection that made them look like DJ’s and a ‘let’s get this party started’ attitude. Within minutes he was in the tree happily buzzing the shit out of the walnut tree from hell. As the branches fell and the ground men grabbed them up and whisked them out of my neighbors yard, I enjoyed the view from my kitchen window….Salty, complete with safety harness accentuating his bulging…..umm, biceps. He climbed higher and higher in the tree, tying himself off with each new limb and then WHAM a huge walnut encrusted limb came crashing down. Walnuts flew everywhere much to the delight of the squirrels who sat nearby watching as their favorite dining spot was reduced to fire pit logs. Their little beady eyes starred at me and I know they will seek retribution as soon as Salty leaves. My tomatoes would no longer be safe on my now sunny deck.

As limb after limb fell and was dragged away or cut into pieces Salty called out orders to his workers who, considering it was 94 degrees, worked at a phenomenally fast pace. I was sweating just watching them through the window from my air conditioned house.

Salty checked with me periodically on what I wanted. After 37 years of marriage, I knew what I wanted alright…..but instead I just told him what I wanted cut and what I didn’t. I honestly never saw so many overly happy, overly sweaty hard working men…they apparently loved their job. I began calculating a tip over their fee. They keep smiling’ like that it’ll cost me a fortune.

The walnut tree is done within an hour. It looks great. On to the neighboring tree. A mighty oak…or elm…maybe it’s a Dogwood …whatever it is, it is over my yard and blocking my sun. Now in the big scheme of things, taking away most of the shade I have when it is close to 100 degrees outside doesn’t seem too smart. But when I go to lay on my deck to take the sun, I usually walk away with an imprint of a shadowy leaf on my face. I am not one of those…:gee it’s summer, lets eat outside’ kinda people. I like air conditioning. I like saying, wow it’s like a refrigerator in here. I like the fact that I have no idea what the temperature is outside until I open the door. I live in the Bio-Dome and I am fine with that. I only use my deck to take the sun, grow tomatoes and basil and apparently not often enough, water my plants. So I needed these trees pruned. And pruned they are. I can now see my neighbors yard directly behind me. Although I knew they had a pool and I’ve heard them frolic in the pool, it is one thing to know, and quite another to see. I have dead grass and a trampoline…they have quarry pavers and a pool with a slide. Should left a few branches. Too late now.

Salty is in my neighbors yard now cutting the parts that they wanted cut. Great big waves of tree branches are falling outside my window. My kitchen is suddenly awash with sunlight. My poor little fish on the windowsill had to put his sunglasses on. I watch as his fins quiver and his eyes bug out then squint and I think maybe just a few less branches on the ground would have been nice. I can feel the A/C work a little harder to cool the house from the glaring sun. The last branch that fell from the neighboring tree allows me to see another neighbors deck. I can see she has a cleaning woman shaking rugs and windexing the sliding door glass. She is probably bobbing in her pool while her lady cleans. Can I ask the neighbors to stop the pruning? Do I really need to know that my neighbors are enjoying their yards more than I am? If I only had some shade…………

DINER 101

Friday was my day off. I had already done all I was gonna do in the way of cleaning so I called my daughters and invited them and my grandkids to lunch. It was overcast and humid and looked as if a monsoon was coming so it was the perfect day to be indoors.

We went to a local diner and to their benefit I won’t mention which one. We walked in and were seated in the dining room since I haven’t comfortably fit in a booth in years. We were seven all together and for some reason they had pushed a square table up against a round table and handed us menus. There was no reason why they couldn’t push two square tables together, but I just figured the waiter was stupid being creative. That unison created a lovely little triangle of room for everything and anything fall. Four kids remember. I elected myself as guardian of the ‘space.’ I continually moved plates, glasses and silverware away from the abyss that was created by Mr. Creativity. As soon as we sit down my youngest grandson decides to hold his nose and announce that it smells in there, his older brother agreed, his mother said they had said this the last time and I asked why the hell didn’t you tell me this before we were seated?? I eyed the two gentlemen next to us who looked as if perhaps they hadn’t showered recently, and the table that had just been served some kind of fish platter and determined one of the two to be the reason for the odor that only two of the seven of us smelled. Collectively we decided it was safe to eat there and attempted to navigate the 2 foot menus. (this as I kept an eye on the ‘space’ that had already claimed a butter knife)

The kids were easy….chicken noodle soup (hold the chicken and anything else that wasn’t a noodle) and of course French fries with a quart of ketchup. I ordered a tuna salad sandwich and coffee, good old fashion diner fare. Of course I ordered the triple decker (the more bread the merrier) which came with hard boiled eggs and a blop of potato salad. At first I thought the blop was a bit sour and hesitated eating it so I put salt on it and tasted it again. I could eat a spare tire if it had salt on it so the sour went away and the salty stepped in. My quartered sandwich was held neatly together by three inch toothpicks with little frilly shit on the end that came off and I am sure I ate. The egg slices dropped out as I picked up the sandwich as did the half inch tomato slices. Just as well since I am not fond of tomatoes unless they are pureed, seasoned, cooked and ladeled over some kind of carbohydrate. (Hey I never claimed to be a healthy eater) One daughter ordered a BLT wrap which came with enough French fries to feed….well, France (ha ha I made a funny) A BLT wrap is the same as a BLT sandwich except they make it easier for you to pick up without the aforementioned tomatoes falling out. In fact, I am pretty sure the whole wrap idea came about when some slob had to wrap his sandwich in a napkin not to wear most of it and after consuming said napkin in error decided to make the ’napkin’ edible. My other daughter ordered the fried zucchini from the appetizer menu. She has always beat to her own drum. This hugely portioned appetizer went basically untouched. And since apparently no one thought to order the baby anything at all, she just shared everyone else’s.

The bus boy brought waters and pickles and cole slaw much to the delight of the kids although no one drank the water and no one ate the cole slaw. The pickles they devoured. As the abyss claimed a half eaten pickle and another butter knife I realized I wasn’t doing so good on ‘space’ watch and simply gave up. As I watched the boys fish ice cubes from their water and deposit them in their soup (for cooling purposes) the ‘space’ claimed a package of saltine crackers that accompanied the soup. The waitress came by enough times to ask if everything was alright and the bus boy gave us enough coffee to keep us in the bathroom for days.

The boys had eaten as much as they were going to, which wasn’t much, but considering it was chicken noodle soup with ice, umm they ate more than I would have. I asked them if they wanted dessert. With no menu I suggested jello or ice cream. They hemmed and hawed. One of my daughters suggested chocolate pudding which the other one immediately suggested was a mistake. I ordered 4...the boys and me….and a bowl of whipped cream for the baby. (she still thinks it is ice cream) The puddings arrived in large soda glasses topped with three inches of whipped cream. The boys all licked at the whipped cream, tasted the pudding and announced they were done. I ate mine all, even as I complained that it tasted like instant pudding. At $2.50 a pop I had spent $10 to buy one eaten pudding. (Note to self…. listen to the daughter that said it was a bad idea….next time.) Even the baby didn’t eat her whipped cream until it was a white puddle and cried when it wouldn’t stay on the fork.

The waitress brought a styrofoam container to take home the zucchini that wasn’t eaten. A covered soda cup to take home the pudding that wasn’t eaten. And foil for the fries that weren’t eaten. Looks like I was the only one who listened to my mother growing up….I cleaned my plate. And my dessert plate. At least my son in law would enjoy the pudding that my daughter insisted he liked….instant. I checked the floor beneath the tables finding that the ’space’ had eaten up a spoon, a breadstick that was never ours, and the sugar packet tray while I was off duty. I left a tip, paid the bill and got 4 blow pops for my grandkids from the cashier. Next time we are going to McDonalds or Wendys….I will squeeze into their booths. They have no noodle soup, no abysses and no pudding instant or otherwise.

punky pink and the pits

It’s that time again…summer. The transition began with the bins of tee shirts, capris and flip flops being replaced with gloves, sweaters and those winter clothes that never got worn because I was apparently thinner last winter. After wondering why the hell I bought these tops, and noticed stains on those tops, I picked out which ones made it to the 2011 summer collection which are still waiting to be hung in my closet on hangers that I bought on QVC for a ridiculous amount of money.  The rest either got bagged for donation, bagged for garbage, or put back in the bins in the hopes that next year I will be thinner. (or tanner....read on) The bins remain, inevitably, waiting to be returned to their dark little haven behind the door in the ceiling until my son comes to do laundry  visit.

The plants on my back deck are always staring at me now, trying to remind me that I need to water them daily as I almost always forget until they are hanging over from thirst. My central air conditioning unit has not shut down since mid May and Con Ed has started sending me thank you cards. My legs and arms are covered with mosquito bites, some from hanging out on the back deck with my parched plants but most from my broken screen door. The door has been broken for almost two years, a product of an overzealous FedEx guy and a under-active husband. Whenever I threaten to call a handyman he suddenly becomes ‘handy’ and fixes something….but for some reason never the screen door. So as people come in and out the door stays a tiny bit open…just enough to let those blood sucking bastards in.

I have replaced my ‘merry wine’ color nail polish with ‘punky pink’ nail enamel. It is brighter and shinier (and more expensive) than any other nail polish I own. When I get my nails done every couple of weeks (much to the dismay of Lin, my nail girl) I do not get them polished. I have no patience to stay there and wait for them to dry, and if I do get polish I assuredly mess it up en route to my car. So punky pink will be the summer color unless one of my daughters (or more likely my son) will point out that I am not young enough to wear anything with ‘punky’ in the name. And they are probably right.

I find that during the summer months I turn into a lesbian. Well, not really, but I do find myself staring at scantily clad women or bikini babes at the pool and wonder where it all went wrong. I started out with the same amount of baby fat that they did….is there a chance I will still lose it? Is that really where my boobs are supposed to be? Where my belly button belongs? I go home and eat an apple for dinner. And then I forget how much hate wearing capris instead of shorts, and sleeves instead of sleeveless. And then I eat a Twinkie. It’s what I know. Remember the song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini? The girl who wouldn’t come out of the water…that’s me. Except my bathing suit is black and it has a skirt. The water part is the same. Although I have found a way to navigate to the shallow end, up the steps and into my white cover-up with the mustard stain without drawing much attention. Of course there are the times when I don’t give a rats ass, and that is usually when it is 100 degrees out and the nearest lounge chair is a block away. (Eat your heart out skinny bitches, this is what you’d look like….if you ate.)

The smells of summer now surround me. It seems no matter what my neighbor barbeques it smells so much better than what I am cooking. She could be grilling an old sneaker and it still would smell better than my Omaha Steak burgers. I make franks she make burgers. I make burgers she makes steak. I make steak she makes something on a skewer. I skewer she smokes. I give up! I’ve often wanted to hop over the net fence and shake her hand in concession. But I don’t, I steal her figs.

Pretty much everyone around me has a fire pit. I guess it‘s a new thing….to sit outside in 80 something degree weather next to a roaring fire dodging ashes and smoke and melting marshmallows that we pretend are gonna actually stay on a graham cracker square without sliding off before the chocolate melts. The smell of burning wood, which normally would raise a red flag, now goes unheeded. As we sit sniffing the sweet aroma of firewood, someone’s house could be ablaze…here’s hoping their smoke alarms have good batteries.

Tanning is the best part of summer. Basking in the sun, sweaty and greasy from lotion that should have a much higher SPF, recalling the days when I had no idea what skin cancer was. The darker the tan, the thinner you get. It’s a fact. Like a little black dress, a tan takes pounds off. To date I am down about ten tan pounds….to reach goal I will need a rotisserie.

yadhtrib yppah

No need to look for the fountain of youth. Tell Ponce de Leon he is off he hook. I have found it and it was at arm’s length the whole time.

Memorial Day weekend went to our house upstate. It was actually a Thursday night when we arrived and decided to go see the show at the hotel. The itinerary said it was an ‘entertainment duo”. That right there should have been our first tip off. The other was the fact that the little shuttle bus that takes us to the hotel was packed with seniors complete with walkers, canes and yes, oxygen tanks. Now at the risk of sounding horribly insensitive, especially since I will hopefully be around to even need a walker, I was not looking forward to a night of entertainment surrounded by click click click of the appliances they needed to get from point A to point B. That and the smell of desperately in-need-of-a-change, Depends. But here we are 4 hours from home, on our way to a nightclub show, to see an ‘entertainment duo’ with people who I wasn’t always quite sure were still alive as their heads nodded on the shuttle bus. (My 50 something knees felt better already.)

We arrived and as they shuffled their way to the nightclub I seriously considered rethinking the whole thing. But of course Mr. Wonderful wants to see the show, so we plodded on, found seats and began the grueling experience of a lounge singer and (I am sure) her accordion playing husband. Suddenly, as if God himself had decided to pull the plug on this dynamic duo, the lights went out and the dimly lit emergency lights went on. The scary part was that no one seemed to notice except us and the singer. I’m thinking most of them were asleep. Her microphone now dead, she did her best to keep order by singing at the top of her 80 year old lungs. Ummm, not so much a good thing. A staff member ran up to her and told her to announce that the nightclub was being evacuated because of a terrible storm raging outside and that the transformer had been hit by lightning. She told the audience to move in an orderly fashion out of the club and on to another portion of the hotel, still dark but obviously not in danger of…well I am not quite certain what they though might happen so we just complied. Now in the grand scheme of things, everything went well. He helped her, she helped him, we helped them and slow but sure we made our way down a minimally lit hallway and into the restaurant and bar on the other side of the hotel. Click, drag, click, inhale, click, click, click.  As I watched each careful, hesitant, assisted step I felt my painful sciatica nerve relax….(I was in my 40’s again). We had to wait out the storm and although the ‘entertainment duo’ offered to perform in our new surroundings, no one answered when they asked. Again….asleep I am sure. By the time the storm was over most of the 150 over-75ers were ready for bed.  Or embalming.

The next morning feeling chipper and spry in my new 40-ish body we decided to go to the local casino where I was run into by a motorized wheelchair with an oxygen tank strapped to the back. The man tried desperately to apologize between inhales. Not hurt, I told the gentleman that I was ok, not to worry and that a 30 something woman should be able to take a hit from a wheelchair. (I am sure God was punishing me for all the things that went through my head the night of the storm…like using one walker-bound guest as a lightning rod so that I could get back to my condo without getting electrocuted. Hey, It was just a thought!)

A week later we went to see Jackie Mason who my husband loves. We go to most of his shows, which may be the reason I could probably do his entire act…maybe without the great Jewish accent. We navigated through hundreds of cars, all with handicap passes hanging from their rear view mirrors or license plates with pictures of little blue wheelchairs all vying for the coveted ‘handicapped parking’ spots. Able bodied and with a spring in my step….we parked and began the trek to the auditorium. The theatre was packed and I truly believe that we were the youngest couple there. I could feel my blood sugar lower already. The row filled in and a man sat next to me who had the same Yiddish accent as Jackie Mason. He told me how he loved the comedian. He told me how he hated Ed Sullivan for black balling him years ago. He told me he gets confused sometimes. He told me he was 84. All this as he prepared himself for the show. He adjusted his hearing aid. He squirted something on his fingertip which he then inserted into each nostril and inhaled deeply. He sipped from a bottle of water and then poured a small amount on his fingertips (I assume to wash off the nasal shit). The water dribbled onto the crotch of his pants which he tried to brush off but I have a feeling it was better off leaving it there as concealer (if you get my drift….I know what can happen when you laugh too hard). The lights went down, Jackie came on the sweet aroma of Ben-Gay permeated the air. (I was unexpectedly 25 again!)

As we drove home I realized that here I was this healthy, agile young thing and sitting next to me was Mr. Wonderful….still ‘my old man’.

snip snip snip

     I know its been almost a month since my last ‘ramble’, but rest assured I have been rambling! So today, the supposed end of the world…the rapture, the apocalypse, I think it would be appropriate to post…just in case.

 

Yesterday I got a haircut for my grandson’s party. I was sick of sleeping in rollers only to have the hair straighten at the slightest hint of humidity and given the fact that I sweat like the proverbial pig when it is humid, I needed a change. The curling iron and straightener never did what they promised. I was always undecided between mousse, gel or hairspray. I must have invested over $100 this year alone in hair clips from dollar stores. When in doubt, clip it up. I used my eyeglasses as a headband more often than a visual aid. I trimmed my own bangs and it showed. I hated taking pictures, and while I could position myself behind someone to hide the failed diet, the hair was always front and center. So this time when the hairdresser asked what I wanted, I told her lots of layers and she could take some of the length. The key word being ‘some’. There is nothing so disturbing as to be in front of a mirror with wet slicked back hair and a cape tied around my neck leaving just me and my chins staring back. She asked again about the length. I told her I just didn’t want to look like a man. I don’t, I look like a Justin Beiber.

Last week I was tired from working all week, something I am not used to, something I don’t want to get used to. I usually work part time but with our only customer service person out sick I filled in. So 16 hours turned into 40 hours and I found new respect for those that always work full time. I had no desire to cook Saturday night and wanted to go out to eat, somewhere local, somewhere easy, somewhere I didn’t have to get dressed up. My husband made a suggestion to go to a place on the other side of Brooklyn that we used to frequent often and I agreed mainly because I was too tired to think of another place. Besides other than local, it fit the bill. We called a friend to join us since she lives practically around the corner, that and the fact that I think my husband likes that we talk and he listens…if you can call it listening. He hears about three words of each sentence and fills in the blanks…kind of like playing Mad Libs. We pull up to find that the place is packed and looks like a line is forming. Not what I had wanted. Easy, remember! We heard music and could see from the front window that there was a three piece band playing and a waitress was singing. Karaoke night?? When we went in it was close to impossible to hear anything other than the band which was surprisingly good even though they were currently doing a Monkees medley. We yelled asked if they had a table for three which we could clearly see they did not. Through a series of hand signals we determined she wanted us to wait while they cleared a table. A man who had to be in his 80’s got up to dance on a non existent dance floor with a woman who clearly had too much body for her little outfit. Another series of hand signals told us that the table would be ready in another minute. The band was now covering the Beatles and most of the restaurant was happily singing along including us. Ok so maybe not Mr. Wonderful but he was definitely enjoying it as he positioned himself so that his good ear was not being deafened by the amplifier he stood next to.

A young man in a motorized wheelchair was enjoying the music and the show the dancers were putting on when the waitress (who obviously knew him well) moved him to clear the table….FOR US! All I wanted was a quick easy night without cooking and here we were evicting the poor crippled guy so that we could eat calamari. With the apocalypse so close I felt it wasn’t such a good idea but the waitress steered him toward a spot at the bar, and the table was reset for us. There was no way to convey over the loud music that we didn’t want her to move him for us, so we just smiled as we sat down and avoided eye contact with him. Once I realized that he was just as comfortable in his new location I was able to concentrate on the menu. My friend and I sang and toe tapped as we waited for our meal. We discussed how impressed we were by the dancing man’s stamina and, of course, critiqued his dance partner’s wardrobe or lack thereof. My husband ate…and poured my wine. It was a good night….even for the crippled kid.

Last week, prior to my 40 hour work week, my civic organization ran their annual senior luncheon. A hundred and fifty 62 and older seniors in a church gym for lunch, music and raffles. And guess who was right smack dab in the middle of it. The usual complaints of too much salt, not enough salt….it’s hot, it’s cold….soda is warm…were overshadowed by the amount of praise for the lovely job we do each year. But of course we had the man who wanted to trade in for a ‘man’s’ basket, he had won a bath basket clearly designed for a woman. I told him we didn’t have one specifically for men and seemed quite hurt until I told him to give it to his special someone and he might get lucky. He looked at me and said….and a quote.. ”I couldn’t get it up if I tried and if I did I don’t remember what to do with it.” That visual being too much for me, I went to clean up the kitchen. We had the lady that wanted to know how come last years plants were bigger (they weren’t) and healthier (they weren’t) and could she have two. Sure, we had extra. And of course the afternoon wouldn’t have been complete without the lady who took the salt and pepper, sugar packets and butter before the meal was served. Twice. We had a lady fall off her chair and thankfully wasn’t hurt but she thought for her pain and suffering she should be given one of the raffle baskets. She wasn’t hurt and she got no basket….maybe I should have introduced her to the man who couldn’t get it up. She gets his basket and his…ok never mind. It was a good afternoon….even for the injured.

So tonight, at 6pm EST an earthquake is supposed to rock us into an apocalyptic state. My only regret will be that if I survive I will have to live with Beiber hair and my Yankees one game down to the Mets.