There’s No Place Like Home

Since the coronavirus descended upon us and put us in to quarantine mode, I’ve done six 1000 piece puzzles...that’s 6,000 cardboard shapes that kept my mind from prematurely turning to mush.  I painted several things that needed painting and even more that didn’t. I also repainted the things that I did a lousy job painting the first time. I’ve washed my hands to the point that the skin on my fingers look like the before pictures on a crepe-y skin infomercial.  I’ve wiped down things that I was sure had the virus hanging on for dear life including the Lysol wipes container and the inside of the cap from the anti-bacterial spray. I’ve considered buying stock in Keurig as I have used more coffee pods in the past two months than most people use in a year. I’ve listened to doctors and politicians and newscasters all of whom are confusing at best or lying at worst. I’ve binge watched shows about murderous tiger kings, make-up mavens and money launderers. And with regards to laundry, I have to say, those Tide pods were really looking good after my snack supply was depleted.  I thought about wiping every other bathroom visit to save on toilet paper usage noting that men don’t wipe, they shake. I learned rather quickly that shaking doesn’t work for the female anatomy not to mention the gross factor. I’ve listened to my husband’s antiquated jokes, which in terms of boredom only competed with his insistence to watch television shows that bombed even when they were new… in 1947. I started watching game shows. I am proficient now at matching pictures, something I was good at when I was seven and guessing what 100 random people think the answers are to hypothetical questions…and I’ve even gleaned some important information, like that the original Pez dispenser was designed to look like a lighter as a quit smoking device. I’ve shopped. Oh how I have shopped. A grateful Amazon sent me a mother’s day card. Ok they didn’t really, but they should have. Every day I watch from my window as the UPS or mail truck come down my block and joy bubbles up when I see them pull up and stop in front of my house. With anticipation of whether it’s the dog’s treats, a best seller book or a spool of elastic ironically imported from China I come ready with my mask and Lysol wipes to accept my delivery. I bought press on nails since my usually manicured nails began looking like someone who tried to claw their way out of a well. I spend a good portion of the day looking for the nails that go rogue after the glue dries.  I’ve cut my husband’s hair…easy peasy, not much to cut these days. And then I cut mine. No comment. I’ve crocheted baby blankets for my great-grandkids who aren’t even close to being born yet and teddy bears in nurse’s uniforms for my grandkids that are born. I now have the neatest junk drawers and my socks are color coordinated with my underwear and bras.  I’ve taught myself a foreign language through a downloaded app but as of now all I can say is ‘do you have hand sanitizer?’ and ‘back up buddy, you’re too close’ in beginner Italian.  I’ve been potting everything I can cut up and root. Somehow seeing a rotting vegetable sprout has its rewards these days. So yes, I’m ready to venture out of these four walls and do nothing that involves anything creative or organized. I’m ready to face the virus head on… with a mask and gloves and sanitizer and……

MASTER OF NONE

.......MASTER OF NONE 

I have always prided myself on being smart.  Not Einstein black hole smart, but everyday smart.  More than common sense smart but less than PhD smart.  More than street smart but definitely less than Steven Hawkings smart.  So I realized I was a Jack of all Trades but, well you know how it goes, Master of None.  I do however want to share my limited mastery on a few subjects.

 

Medical 

I know which thermometer goes in which end..... although with today's new thermometers you just stick it in the ear clearly cheapening my wisdom. 

If you are screaming for help because you are choking, you are not, in fact, choking.  No air, no scream.  Calm down, you're gonna live.  

There is no difference between Tylenol or the store brand other than maybe $3.00.  Of course if Bob's Acetametaphine is produced or packaged in Taiwan, spend the extra $3 bucks. 

Anything they remove from your body has to be biopsied.  From a wart to a polyp to a cyst.  So if your doctor says he is biopsying something he has removed, don't panic, don't pull out the life insurance policies...it's a procedure. 

Do not put anything other than cool water on burn.  Butter...eh, not so much unless you want to really cook your skin, Vaseline...ditto.  Antiseptic burn cream is fine so long as it hasn't been hiding in the back of the cabinet behind the cotton balls you bought for a school project for your 12 year old when she was in kindergarten.  

Starve a cold, feed a fever.  Why is that?  No one has proven to me that eating the last of the chocolate lava cake in the fridge while congested is a bad thing.  Grab the box of tissues, and the cake and make your way to the couch.  If however you have a fever with your cold, feel free to add a scoop of ice cream. 

 

Sleep

 

Everyone dreams although most do not remember what they have dreamed which is probably good since most dreams translate into sexual situations no matter what dream analysis book you read.  If you dream you are being chased and cannot run fast enough it will probably translate into something regarding a deviant past encounter or the desire to have one. 

You will sleep better in a cool room.  Cool as in less degrees, not posters and lava lamps. 

Snoring can mean you have sleep apnea which loosely translated means, you stop breathing in your sleep.  I call that dead, but again what do I know.  If your partner snores wake him constantly through the night, in the morning you both will be exhausted but neither of you will be dead.  That is unless your spouse kills you for waking him up all night. 

There is no difference between 400 count and 800 count sheets other than the 30 plus dollars Macy's will charge you.  Do you seriously think there is some Egyptian out there counting the threads? Besides, do you really think that the snoring lump beside you can tell the difference? 

If you are an insomniac that means you are up til all hours of the night.  If, however, you fell asleep at 8:30 and woke up at 1am not being able to go back to sleep that is just a long ass nap screwing with your REM cycle. Stay up and start again tomorrow.

 

Cleaning

 

Vinegar cleans everything.  From windows to countertops and toilets to jewelry, vinegar will make things sparkle.  You will, however, have an unnatural craving for romaine. 

If you have a pet and have unwanted hair on the furniture, use a damn sponge to 'wipe' up the pet hair.  And unless you are into hairy teacups throw out the sponge immediately to avoid inadvertently reusing. 

There is a floor behind the toilet.   

If u are strategic with your dishwasher loading skills, you can potentially get away without ‘un’loading  for at least a week.  Think Tetris. 

Clorox bleach spray is an amazing product that cleans virtually everything.  It also has a wide over-spray which nicely tie-dyes everything in it’s path.  

Cleaning out a closet means throwing some things out.  It does not mean moving stuff in closet A into closet B.  It does however count as cleaning if closet B is in someone else’s house.

I AM GRANDMA!

I am a night person.  I am an all-night person.  I don't sleep well, never have and guessing never will.  Recent studies show that not sleeping well is bad for your health, however the revelation that it could be sleep deprivation and not the Twinkies that makes me fat...makes me happy. That's my excuse and I am sticking to it!  It was because of that sleepless agenda that I haven't seen a sunrise in probably 15 years.  This morning, my first day babysitting in Long Island for grandchild #5, I saw the sun rise.  Actually I saw darkness...and then the sunrise.  Quite frankly from sleep encrusted eyeballs behind a steering wheel it wasn't much of a hurrah.

I allowed myself more than enough time because the belt parkway is always backed up although at this ungodly hour I didn't anticipate much traffic. Wrong.  Unlike me, many, many people navigate this God forsaken parkway and watch the sun rise on a daily basis.  As traffic started flowing at a decent rate, apparently everyone was late for work.  Between the  s l o o o w e r   t h a n   t h i s  school buses and the Kamikazee cars switching lanes at 90 ignoring the fact that I already inhabit that lane, I made my way to the Southern State.  Referring back to my driving handbook days I clearly remember that the right lane was for the slower drivers and the left lane was for passing or speeding.  I opted for the middle lane since I was not speeding, passing or going slow.  The rules may have changed in the last 40 years.  The 12 mile an hour school buses spewing diesel fumes were in the middle as were the kamizazee cars as they made their way around me and the buses.

Two exits onto the Southern State an overhead sign proclaimed a Grey Alert with the plate number and description of a car with apparently a wayward elder person.  I felt sad but wondered, if I had gone missing would it have been a Clairol #37 Alert? As I drove I scanned the plates in hopes of locating said missing elder, however by the fourth exit I had forgotten what the plate number was and was left simply wishing him or her well in their endeavor to escape.   I got to my exit in record time and even had time to stop at Starbucks....which of course wasn't open yet.  I drank my now cold coffee I had brought with me from home before realizing it was in the other cupholder.  I had drank coffee from......well, I would rather not do the math. 

Mary Poppins has nothing on me.....I may have arrived in a Jeep and not floated in via umbrella, her canvas satchel replaced by a torn plastic grocery bag but I am GRANDMA!

breathe in breathe out

My daughter in law and her twin sister do yoga.  My daughter and law and her twin sister combined have a smaller waistline than my upper left thigh.  My daughter in law and her twin sister unknowingly have inspired me to try my hand (and foot and core) at yoga.

Before I ventured into yoga I decided to try my hand at meditation.  I envisioned myself learning to relax and ultimately finding my third eye.  Having no yoga mat I grabbed my dog’s bed and positioned myself in a cross legged seated position which when I was a kid was called the Indian position.   I couldn’t do it then, I can’t do it now.  I sat with my legs as close as my inner thighs would allow.  My back protested and promised to punish me tomorrow, but I was determined to get this right.  My hands in a prayer like stance, I practiced the breathing technique, in out…ok nothing new here, I can do this!  Oh wait, it was in through the nose and out of the mouth.  As I tried to slip into that relaxed meditated state I was so desperate to obtain,  I kept nervously thinking I wasn’t breathing right.  I was focusing on opening my mouth at the right time, inhaling and exhaling with some kind of rhythm but eventually I just ended up holding my breath.  That euphoric feeling wasn’t my third eye surfacing, it was oxygen depravation and passing out.   Before I keeled over,  my dog realized I had his bed and came bounding over and sat on my kinda-crossed legs causing my left ankle to impale my right calf.  OK go ahead, I’ll wait….got the visual…hey I said they were kinda crossed!

I repositioned myself on the rug, got into a more comfortable position and began breathing again, this time getting the in and out right. I was clearing my mind, quieting the voices in my head and then I thought….what am I making for dinner? I shook it off and as instructed concentrated on the sounds of my breath and then I thought….is Mob Wives on tonight? Once again I re-grouped and then I thought….I really have to pee. So much for meditation…I will just move along to yoga. My daughter in law and her twin sister will never know I quit before my third eye or chakra showed up.

I was going to buy ‘how to’ yoga videos but that made no sense since I am sure this yoga thing would pass like every other physical activity I have endeavored to master in recent years. I found some fascinating videos on you tube and planted myself on the rug once again, this time equipped with a lap top of instructions. First… lay on your back….ok can’t see lap top anymore but I can still hear the instructions. Feel your abdomen…FEEL? Even laying down I can SEE my abdomen! Pull your right knee up towards your chin pressing your thigh into your abdomen. Ummmm…ok This stretches your lower back or in my case crushes the lungs and inhibits the ability to breathe. Did I mention the size of my thighs? Beginner yoga, as I soon learned, is nothing more than stretching parts of your body that normally don’t get stretched unless you inadvertently fall down a flight of stairs, which is how I felt after I completed my first video. I am pretty sure I haven’t moved my body parts even an iota of the amount the thin, tan, toned girl in the video has. Lesson two has the rabbit pose, the camel pose and the cobra pose none of which sounds like something a human body should be aspiring to achieve. I have learned there is advanced yoga, weight loss yoga, yoga for men and even chair yoga. There is yoga for runners, for couples and even for pregnant women…there doesn’t seem to one for an overweight indolent who has a daughter in law with a twin sister.

Lily the Christmas Eve

I stopped blogging over a year ago.   I would like to say it was because I was busy writing the next great American novel....promoting it on Leno before he decided to abandon late night TV,  cashing huge advances, fighting off paparazzi, potentially scuffling with one,  like Alec Baldwin.  I would like to say it was because I was relaxing at my villa on Lake Como in Northern Italy with my tanned hard body that took that whole year to achieve.  I would really like to say it was because I was the front runner in some political campaign that didn't involve hookers, texting, corruption or bridge closures.  Sadly the reason I have been gone so long is simple....Lily the Christmas Elf.  Well, let's not blame Lily, she is actually the product of my back burner mentality.  I excitedly start something and as soon as it is not as entertaining as it originally began I put it on hold, stick it in a bag, banish it to my hoarder room.

Lily is a crochet project I began some two years ago for my then 3 year old granddaughter.  She has a head,  her pointy little ears pinned on to where they will be sewn at a later date (Lily, not my granddaughter), she has a stuffed body although still naked and a striped leg with one green boot.  Lily has been bagged and banished through two holidays seasons.  I found her while looking for white wool to complete a Valentine project which is coming dangerously close to being dismissed as boring and repetitive.  Lily will probably ready for my granddaughter's Sweet 16....I hope her color scheme is red and green.

Crochet and knitting projects aren't the only things I do this with.  I have half-written novels, countless un-submitted and un-published short stories, a book of 10 poems only 7 of which I like, and two possibly three journals that started out as cathartic, liberating scripts only to end at the bottom of an end table awaiting a new entry.  I have sewing projects that are cut, pinned and ready to sew.  I have matched the thread color with irrationally eccentric accuracy, wound a bobbin with matching thread and then....nothing!

I am a frame freak.  I have collages that say FAMILY is fancy scroll letters, I have bohemian woodgrain 5x7's in every color that wood doesn't naturally come in, and dozens of modern-glass-no-border-break-every-time-they-fall-off-the-wall 8x10's.  Each frame has an array of smiling happy people in various situations enjoying life and each other....too bad they are not my family.  I have yet to get around to printing any of the thousands of pictures I have imprisoned on my cell phone.  There is even a picture of a completed Lily on there just in case I forget what the finished product should look like.

I am working on my inability to finish things.  I started a diet in November which I abandoned before the holidays.  I gained 3 pounds.  I restarted the diet and subsequently suspended it until after Super Bowl...same results.  The key to this dieting thing may just lie with Lily.  If I could complete what I start out so tenaciously robust for I could probably fill those frames by Spring, complete a novel by summer and have poor Lily's dismembered body resurrected.   And maybe then I could....I'll finish this later.





 

 

 

a drawer, just a drawer

Today I wait for Sears.  I wait because the door on the drawer is broken off.  Technically, the clip that holds the door of the drawer is broken.  I bought a fridge that has a drawer the width of the fridge.  It is good for storing large items, like sheet cakes, hor d'ourves trays, body parts  pizza boxes??   The door cleverly opens and closes when the drawer is pulled in and out...or NOT!  Sometimes the clip holding the door snaps off.  And so I wait for Sears.

When the clip broke the door fell off and the door broke.  So now I have a broken drawer (clip) and a broken door.  (Ok thats not what happened, I dropped the milk and cracked the drawer door which is not covered in the contract so I lied...sue me!)   I call for repairs.  I call because when we bought the fridge my husband insisted (and I resisted) we buy the 5 years service contract which cost almost as much as the damn fridge.  Sometimes he knows what he is talking about.  (and I hate it)  The girl answered the repair call bright and chipper and  as it turns out she was definately not one of the two.  I repeated the illiteration....the drawer, the door....and she repeated it back to me having to be corrected several times.  The door would be shipped to me directly and I could simply clip it back on....I WOULD IF I HAD A FUNCTIONING CLIP!!!   Ok so the door will be shipped but the service man would have to come to replace the drawer.  I tried to be patient and explain the drawer was not broken, that the clip that holds the door on the drawer is broken but I think two "D" words in once sentence was throwing her. But in the end, she got it right....the door was broken because the draw clip was broken too.  Jeez!  I would have to take off work to wait for the repairman with the replacement drawer clip.  The replacement door came in the mail as Miss Repairgirl had said it would.  So far she is batting 1000.  Good girl!

Yesterday I cleaned the fridge.  (Well at least the parts that would have to be removed to make the repair.)  I found things that had morphed into....well, clearly other things.  I think something that had started out as garlic turned into fossil fuel and a fruit of some kind was now a breeding ground for some new vaccine.  First thing this morning the repairman called to say that his 8am - 12noon window was on target and I was his second call.  It was 8:05....Yay!  And then he spoke some more.  "Do you have the parts?"  Clearly he spoke in the plural.  "Partsssssssss??"  I have a door...just a door.  For my drawer.  The one with the broken clip that you were supposed to have with you according to the suddenly failing Repairgirl.  Nope, no clip.  And to add insult to injury, didn't think he would have it on the truck either.  But he would come and take a look.

The thought that I took off from work for nothing pissed me off, so I decided to call the repair service to see if they had actually gotten the repair order right and the serviceman really did have the part with him.  I actually just needed to complain to someone other than my poor daughters.  The first three attempts at reaching the right party resulted in a dropped call, another dropped call while being transferred to the parts department and a woman who answered, said 'hold on' and simply never  bothered to come back.  At the beginning of the call there is a recorded announcement that the call may be recorded or monitered for quality purposes...clearly these calls should have been monitored in some way...but I am sure weren't.  I finally get through to someone who reads the work order back to me and it seems that the broken clip is mentioned and that the broken door is being shipped.  So far so good.  She transfers me to parts.  Parts tells me there is no mention of a clip, that the only part ordered for this repair has been shipped and it is a drawer door which I can easily attach myself....IF I HAD A FUNCTIONING CLIP GOD DAMN IT!!!

I check the drawer door box just in case the clip has been shipped along with it.  Nope, no clip.  The parts man gives me a customer service address where I can write a letter to complain about the fact that I took off work for nothing.  He seems eager to please me, and even more eager to give me the complaint address and get me off the phone.  Perhaps he knew this call was being recorded or monitored for quality purposes.  It was now 10:03 and no 'part-less' serviceman in sight.  At 11:30 the bell rings.  It takes me almost 10 minutes to get my dog to stop barking in circles and safely out on the back deck before thankfully realizing in time,  that I had no bra on. 

As expected he didnt have the drawer clip.  After much conversation about Maytag and Whirlpool parts numbers he leaves and re-appears from his truck with my drawer clip, installs it (backwards at first) and promptly leaves.  It is 11:50.  Now, with a functioning drawer door I realize they have met their obligation   8am - 12noon  Good Job Sears!

Fifty Shades of Grey Hair

I haven’t blogged in awhile for several reasons (none which I will bore you with here) but at this point in time a good therapeutic flogging blogging is definitely necessary.

My basement has been home to law students (ok just one), runaway brides (ditto), homeless friends and now….. the mother in law. Recovering from self inflicted food deprivation and dehydration. No she wasn’t trying to kill herself (us perhaps, not herself) She got a stomach ache when she ate so stopping eating and drinking sounded like the logical solution….until she was near comatose. After a brief stay in the hospital she went home where she would stagger around. It was just a matter of time before she ended up breaking something sooooo as I partied at a B’nai Mitzvah my husband brought his mom home to the ‘everything on one floor’ basement. SURPRISE! (well not really I knew that was always an option)

She is 86. She is half-deaf. (or has selective hearing, my husband suffering from the same affliction) Apparently she hates my cooking, the TV shows I watch, the basement lighting, my laundry detergent scent, the brand of ice cream I bought for her and my Keurig coffee pods. (now that is just crossing the line….I haven’t made coffee in a perk pot in years and I’m not starting now!) She takes a gazillion pills three times a day and each time she counts them one by one…I suspect to make sure I am not trying to speed up the inheritance. Pill taking takes about 20 minutes. Little blue capsule…swallow, little yellow pill….swallow, baby aspirin...swallow, big orange caplet…swallow and it goes on and on. 

My husband gave her a bell so that if she needed something she could ring the bell and one of us would come running. One of us???   Running???   Like her Life Alert system, she rang the bell several times at first to ‘test’ it. Since she can’t hear I would have to descend half way down the steps to find what she needed. Just testing. And again. And again. We have caller ID that shows up on the TV. It took me awhile to figure out that the bell ringing right after the phone ringing was her calling me to announce that she saw someone’s name appear and then disappear on the TV set. I have walked up and down my basement steps more in the last few weeks than I have in the twenty plus years I live here.   My knees cry out in pain.  If ever I needed a 'safeword' it is now...and it would be HOMICIDE.

We show her how to use the TV remote.  Cable...click.  TV...click  Simple.  Somehow on an averge of once a day she manages to completely unprogram the remote.  And that, somehow, is my fault. 
As I sweat in my 85 degree house (since I can’t put the A/C on because it gets cold enough to hang meat in the basement) I have officially been accused of causing her everything from diarrhea and nausea to the nasty dry skin on her legs, hiccups and flactulence.  Unlike touch sensitive Christian, she lets me touch every part of her body especially if it needs cream.  Ugh

While I desperately try to read how Ana and Christian are dealing with the hard limits, I am dealing with my own limits and there is nothing kinky-f@*kery about it. Unlike Ana’s, my inner goddess is happily hacking up my husband into tiny hideable pieces.

We begin our nightly ritual....I sit with her to watch the 10 oclock news.   As soon as the weather is over she makes her way to the bathroom.  I prepare her morning pills and get the bed ready for her.  Pillows for her head, pillows for her swollen feet, pillows so she doesnt roll off the bed.   I could think of many ways to better use these pillows, none of which involve sleeping, swelling or rolling.

As I sit down for the night to catch up on DVR’d shows I no longer have the time or the inclination to watch live, I try to distinguish which TV I am actually listening to…mine, the one blasting in the bedroom or the one breaking the sound barrier in the basement. I give up trying and pick up Mr. Grey again. As I turn the pages I am transported to a place where a tie is used for much more than strangling the son of the mother in law in my basement.

Today we are getting the heads up if she can go back to her own house where the lighting is better, the coffee is perfect and the temperature can stay a balmy 85.  I think I might miss her.

samples, scars and security

I am going to heaven.  The worker angels are smelting my halo as we speak.  I was talked into decided to volunteer in a program to help cancer patients.  A pre-requisite was to have blood work done to be certain I didn't have any illness that could further complicate the lives of these poor souls.  It was downtown Brooklyn and I was taking the bus...need I say more.

I started the morning off by calling 511 the new hotline for traveling by public transportation just to find out whether or not I needed a metro card or could pay with cash.  That worked about as well as my previous experiences with 311.  I got their semi-automated voice recognition system....Press 1, Press 3  "let's try that again....sorry I dont understand that...goodbye!"  The damn thing didn't understand my perfect English and hung up on me.  I opened my snail-paced computer and went to the MTA website.  Loading,...loading....loading...MTA..finally.  No where, and I mean NO WHERE on that site does it say if it takes cash.  It gives you 52 options regarding your metro card but nothing about cash.  Throwing caution to the wind, I counted out $5.00 in quarters and fit them into the change purse in my wallet which promptly ripped open spilling quarters to the bottom of my bag.  I started questioning why I was doing this all again, and then remembered that my ripped wallet wasn't anything compared to what those poor souls were going through. 

        I drove (yes it is only one block) and parked in a parking lot across the street from the bus stop.  Pacing to keep warm,  I finally saw the bus coming......and then just breeze right past me.  I cursed the driver a moment and then noticed that there was no longer a bus stop sign on that corner.  Apparently while I was zipping around in the comfort of my car, the MTA fairies came and wanded away this bus stop.  I ran to my car and jetted past the bus that had just past me.  I parked and ran (ha!) toward the bus stop and the arriving bus.  I boarded and asked the driver if she took quarters.  Not sure that she even answered me, I dug to the bottom of my bag and counted out 9 quarters.  I ignored the one I dropped for fear of landing on my head as the driver from hell lurched back into traffic. And of course, I jammed the coin slot.  At the light she banged on the box until the quarters fell in and my fare recorded.....still not acknowledging my presence other than a dirty look.  I saw the Priority Seating with its bright red writing heralding that if needed you would have to get up for the elderly or disabled.  Since the bus was all but empty, I sat.  There are alot of reasons I do not belong on public transportation, the first being the person's ass they used as a mold for the seats is apparently way smaller than mine.  I will get to the others later.  As we made our way toward my final destination the bus filled up.  At one point the Priority Seats were filled with the exception of me and a woman who pretended to be asleep whenever an elderly person got on.  At the next stop,  a man with a limp got on.  The sleeper and I eyed each other in anticipation of who would give up their seat.  The sleeper slept, so I stood and let him appreciatively sit.  This good deed doing felt really good.  As the bus emptied out stop by stop I heard the driver say that the next stop was her last, no where near where I needed to go.  I asked if I had gotten on the wrong bus to which she replied...yup, not a word! (in fairness she did point to a sign that said LIMITED)  I think this was payback for jamming her coin box earlier.  We all exited to wait for the right bus as she begrudgingly gave us transfers. 

     At the bus stop, in not the best of areas, I went over a mental check list of what was in my bag in case it was torn from under my armpit.  I befriended the limping man I let sit and a woman who had a walker....sadly  figuring they were easier victims than me as I was pretty sure I could run faster than them.  Then the right bus, sailed right by us, infuriating the limper. He raised his cane cursing the driver.  (been there, done that) Some school kids (they had backpacks so I naively assumed they were students) circled around us, too close for my comfort and I foolishly made eye contact with one of them.  He smiled.  It wasn't that 'have a nice day' kinda smile, it was more 'i know you have a wallet that in that bag' smirk.  It was the first and only time I considered risking my life and boarding a dollar van.  Thankfully the bus came, the limper limped on and the students....well they never got on the bus.  Perhaps they knew the wallet had a ripped zipper. 

     I arrived at my destination, signed in and rode the elevator up.  The room, cleverly disguised on the application as a 'suite',  was crowded and I had to sign in again.  (I guess they didn't believe me the first time. ) As I waited to hear my name called I looked around. I think I was the only one without a facial scar.   At least three women had scars straight through their eyebrows narrowly missing the eye and down the cheek.  I wondered if they all pissed off the same knife wielder.  And if so, hoped he wasn't in the vicinity. As our names were called one at a time we were made to line up in a narrow hallway holding an empty red folder with our name.   A man dressed like a janitor instructed us to put our coats and pocketbooks in one of a wall full of lockers and secure.  He said 'secure' like he knew of past problems with unsecured lockers.  I only found out later that they were making sure no one brought in a 'clean' urine sample.  It felt like we were being processed for prison confinement and I mentally drew the line at the strip search and lice shower.  We were then handed a sealed plastic cup and dixie cup.  The janitor pointed us toward the line of bathrooms and told us nothing.  I guess it didn't take rocket science to figure out what to do.  I could tell alot of these scarred women had done this all before and simply sat holding their cups and waiting their turn.  I did the same.  I wished I had my phone.  My book.  Anything to distract me from the fact that I felt like putting down my yellow donation cup and walking out.  But then I thought of those poor souls that I was going to help....as long as I had no communicable disease.  Instead I sat and wondered if anything that had crept out of someone else's coat or pocketbook was now creeping into mine in the secured locker.

     I was grateful the blood work was fast but told I still had to see the doctor.  The doctor turned out to be someone who looked like she stepped from a Victoria Secrets catalogue.  She said we needed to do a hearing test.  The hearing test consisted of her covering one ear and asking me to repeat what she whispered in my other ear.  I was sure she was going to say something obscene, tear off her glasses, let down her hair and expose her catalogue body.  But instead she just said CAT in my right ear and BALL in my left.  My urine, blood and hearing test done I retrieved my belongings from my secured locker and left shaking my jacket.  When I got outside I now began the daunting task of finding the bus stop to get me home.  I asked four people.  No one spoke English.  I walked four blocks and found every bus stop but the one I needed.  I call 511....you can well imagine how that worked out.  I saw a vendor selling Super Bowl tee shirts and like a junkie buying crack we covertly exchanged money for the bag of shirts so that the NYPD didn't confiscate his bootleg merchandise or arrest me for soliciting an unlicensed product.  I asked my 'dealer' if he knew where I get my bus, and he not only knew, he gave me a metro card that he said someone left on his table.  I boarded my bus avoiding the NYPD, avoided a coin jam with my metro card and avoided the priority seats.  

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.