.....beige goes with everything

I have decided to re-do my bathroom. However not the “I’ll need to take a loan.....which bills can I forgo paying this month?.....take my first born” type of renovation. This is me, on a stool with a brush, a roller and a whole lotta mess.

My current décor is early aquarium. Blue walls, framed pictures of fish that look like Nemo, big fish, little fish, blue fish, red fish….kinda like Dr. Seuss. Oh and let’s not forget the fish enhanced shower curtain and the matching fish shaped rug. Classy huh? Hence the renovation.

I gave this serious consideration I might add. I wanted something grown up, yet not stuffy….something coordinated but not matchy matchy….and something that wouldn’t make me look seasick when I looked in the mirror. I heard green has that effect and so I went with…..beige. Ok boring you might think, but there is a method to my madness. I cannot paint a straight line. I therefore cannot paint the ceiling white and expect the beige walls to look straight and even where they meet. I also cannot reach said ceiling/wall junction without perching myself on something precarious and therefore I need to paint the ceiling the same color as the wall. Beige works!

I then needed to replace the blue striped wallpaper on the bottom half of the wall with something that went with….beige. I know, everything goes with beige, but brown seemed the most obvious and the most sophisticated especially for someone like me that admittedly has little to no taste. I went to Home Depot. They don’t sell wallpaper any more. I went to Benjamin Moore…ditto. I found a little wallpaper store locally that was closed all three times I went. I finally took my husband’s advice and went to a store on Coney Island Avenue that sold paint, paint supplies and wallpaper. (which I just found out they now call wallcovering so that they can charge twice as much) After a near knock-down dragged-out brawl over a parking spot with Svetlana the Russian bitch from hell, I went into the wallpaper covering store. (I won by the way…my car’s bigger than your car…nah nah nah nah nah!)

There were shelves and shelves with books of wallpaper. I got the impression I would have to order the paper instead of walking out with my double-roll pre-pasted brown wallcovering. A woman approached me asking if I needed assistance as she proceeded to walk passed me and into a back room. (I kid you not!) She came out, briefly apologized and asked me again if I needed assistance. I told her what I wanted and she asked me how many square feet  I needed to cover. Ok she already started with the trick questions! I had no idea so I pointed to a wall and gestured about how high and how wide the area I needed to cover. She immediately said I would need just one double roll. Man she was good! (Of course she ended up selling me two just in case her instant math was off a tad….and no returns allowed by the way.) She asked what room it was for and if I had a color preference. I told her. She asked me if any part of the room was being painted. I told her. She asked what color. I told her. She looked at me and said, 'beige in a bathroom…that’s novel! Everything goes with beige.' Not the response I was looking for exactly but with that she pulled out six rolls of brown-ish paper. One was floral. Ugh One was metallic. Double Ugh One was paisley and would have been nice if it was 1962. One was, well….not brown at all. That left me with two to chose from. Both were similar, but in my desire to get this over with I chose the one I thought looked most like it would complement the beige paint I had bought. I know, I know everything goes with beige.

I also bought a paint brush and a roller tray liner. I already have the rollers from some other project I thought I might attempt and never did. I came home with my supplies, lugged them up to the fishy bathroom and began the daunting task of removing the wallpaper. I picked at, scratched at and pretty much gnawed at the paper and no matter how hard I tried a thin layer of the paper backing remained firmly in place. Piece by postage stamp sized piece I was barely able to remove a section of paper before I gave up, went on line and googled ‘how to remove old wallpaper’. To think it was there all the time, an elucidation, a solution….warm tap water. In a spray bottle. Yup, that was all it took. Spray, wait, peel. Paper off. My nails and fingertips gnawed to the nub and all I needed to do was spray water. Sometimes life isn’t fair.

I still have a lot to do in the bathroom to get it ready to be painted and papered but at least I have all my supplies. Almost. I don’t have a ladder, and I am not sure at 5’ 1” my step stool is gonna cut it. I don’t have a pole to screw into the roller to paint the ceiling unless I use the one attached to the toilet plunger which is kinda short but better than nothing. I will also need to spackle the holes when I remove the nails that hold the fish pictures unless I find some other pictures to hang in exactly the same places which is highly unlikely. I will need rags, a small bucket, rags, blue tape, some rags, a tape measure and razor and a whole lot of rags.

The excitement about my new bathroom has all but left now. The beige paint isn’t covering the blue. It will need two coats. The water atomized wallpaper turns into immovable stone if not swept up immediately, which of course I didn’t. The ‘it goes with everything’ beige paint doesn’t really match my tiles, toilet or tub. I can’t get the nails out of the wall since the one time in my life I hung something…..I hit a beam. The plunger stick, though suitable gets me three feet shy of the ceiling.   I miss my fish.

Of Kings and Queens....

My son moved out. He moved to Queens. I am adjusting. I would adjust much better if I didn’t read the paper every morning. The letter Q…as in Queens is an obvious letter no matter what font it is in. So when I skim through the paper every day my eye is drawn to the Q….for Queens….. Queens man killed in drunken brawl, Queens Blvd named worst intersection for pedestrians, 2 shot 1 dead in Queens, Queens man goes missing. Of course none of these caught my eye while he lived at home safely tucked away in his Brooklyn basement apartment. And none of these are anywhere near the Queens area my son moved to. But still.

Half his clothes are still here. The teeny closet he had now looks like a walk in compared to the shared closets of his new apartment. Space wise it helps that his girlfriend is a size zero at best. I pass the closet with half his clothes and no door everyday when I do the laundry. (ok so I don’t do laundry everyday, but you get the picture) I am tempted to smell his shirts the way they do in sad, soap opera-y movies when someone dies. I have to remind myself he is only in Queens. A borough away but when the Belt Parkway is between you and a loved one it can be as far as a cross country trek.

I spoke to him twice since he moved. Once on the phone and once when he stopped by for a nano-second to get some stuff he left behind. He rang the bell and was double parked. This ain’t gonna work. He did come by this past Sunday to get some more of his stuff and to do laundry. God Bless the laundry room, I knew it would come in handy one day.

We cleaned out his fridge so that we could unplug it and save like eight cents a year. (My husband has been going green since before going green was fashionable) There were six outdated yogurts that he forgot to tell me he didn’t like, so I bought more thinking he did. There were frozen beer mugs, shot glasses and airplane size liquor bottles in the tiny freezer. There was also a frozen mouse, dead I presume (it was in aluminum foil), back from the days when he had a snake. I won’t be drinking anything out of those mugs anytime soon. The snake was adopted out when his girlfriend made him choose her or it when they moved. He took the A-1 steak sauce, hot sauce, the Snapples and the chocolate chips for his chocolate fountain. (yes, it was a gift) I got the inch worth of pancake syrup, the quarter stick of butter that was frozen near the mouse and a few dirty dishes that never quite made it back upstairs.

My son told me my dog smells. I mean he always told me that when he lived here, and the dog does stink….but now as a resident of Queens I feel he has forfeited his right to critique my dog’s…..aroma. He told me the wall near my back door was dirty….twice. I found myself explaining how his father always has filthy hands from working on the car and blah blah blah…what the hell….I am not explaining myself to someone (not even my son, my son) who just recently painted his entire apartment. Wanna paint it, be my guest.

I am feeling useless. I don’t get to wait up for him or even know whether or not he made it home in one piece. I don’t get to assume the worst when he is minutes later than expected, and I miss the elation when he walks in the door safe and sound. I can’t make sure he has his breakfast yogurt…even if they are the wrong flavors. I certainly can’t ask his girlfriend to cook when he gets in late so that he doesn’t have to eat reheated food. I can’t look at his face and know exactly how his day has gone. I miss my son. It’s just me and Mr.Wonderful now and he doesn’t eat yogurt, I don’t worry about him coming in late and he will eat anything reheated or not. Yup, just the two of us yelling across the dinner table over the blaring TV about the dirty wall and how much the dog smells.

I Like To Be In America

Last night my husband and I went to see West Side Story on Broadway. We navigated Flatbush Avenue, me driving and cursing the dollar vans and him answering questions that I never asked. We ate at Katz’s, our favorite deli with diabetic me only able to eat half a sandwich, no fries and a diet root beer. (Hardly seems worth the money if you don’t walk out vowing to never eat that much again.) We made our way uptown taking 6th Avenue which was probably a mistake but it was an adventure navigating the fifty blocks along-side kamikazee cabbies and bike lane cretins with, I am sure….a death wish. Arriving without killing an environmentalist or being killed by a radical cabbie we found a parking spot with a muni-meter only a block from the theatre. At twenty-five cents for twelve minutes it cost us $9 to park until the show was over and then some….a big difference from the ridiculous parking lot prices. So far our night was a success.

Since we were early we decided to sit in the designated seating Times Square now offers amidst the lights, the tourists, and the lunatics. As we sat killing time, Spiderman came by, so did a half naked guy dressed in camouflage gear and a woman (I think?) singing an accapella version of “We Are The Champions.” I bought a $150 knockoff bag from a street vendor for $35 for which he gladly accepted only $31 which was all the cash my husband and I had on us since we spent $34 at the deli and $9 to park.

The time passed quickly and we headed to the theatre. At my subtle insistance suggestion, my husband got those amplifying headphones for the hearing impaired. They basically were upside down headphones. Instead of going on top of your head, they hang from your ears with the amplification box somewhere around your neck. He looked like he had had a tracheotomy and I half expected his voice to come out of the box distorted and disjointed. I stifled a giggle but never let on that he looked like one of the lunatics we had left outside in Times Square. Our seating thankfully included an aisle as I now had two pocketbooks, a coat and a playbill to stuff into that anorexic seat.

 

I don’t think there is a person alive that doesn’t know the premise of West Side Story.  The Jets, the Sharks, Tony, Maria. But something was amiss. Even with his wife beater t-shirt and tousseled hair, the adorable Tony looked like he would rather have been kissing Marco than Maria and it was hard to conceive that he was ever a gang member. Ever! His Jets looked like a ballet troupe in sneakers (which they probably were) and none except Deisel were believable as anyone who could remotely win a ‘rumble’. The Jets girls looked too skinny and too slutty in their micro mini skirts and tarted up make up. I started rooting for the Sharks. Bernardo had a great purple suit and looked sexy and oddly manly while his Sharks wore roach killer shoes with heels and bright shirts with vests. The women in their colorful ruffled skirts that they twirled as they danced put the Jets girls to shame. And there are just some things that shouldn’t be changed, or updated or re-written. Womb to Tomb, Birth to Earth…is one of them! But they decided that Sperm to Worm was a better choice. Ugh! Too much of a visual there thank you!

The scene with the Shark girls dancing on the roof to ‘I Like To Be In America’ was a show stopper as was the hysterically funny tribute to ‘Officer Krumpke,‘ the only part of then play where the Jets were believable as street kids. Just before intermission the entire cast sang a mosaic of the song ‘Tonight’ with each character singing independently but joining together for the climax….I looked over to find my husband with his tracheotomy headphones….tearing up.  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  So I laughed.

During intermission I waited on a line that went down three flights of stairs to go to the ladies room. As I get there the lights start blinking and the attendant informs us that we will not be allowed to go to our seats if the play starts before we are seated. I got off the line, trekked back upstairs and to my seat. My husband was already there reading his Playbill which he always keeps and I throw out when he isn’t looking. The second half of the play was far better than the first half and the urge to pee had all but passed.   The curtain down, our hands still stinging  from applause, we returned the trach-phones and manuevered our way out of the theatre and to the car. 

As expected, the car was still there and we even had ten minutes left on the muni-meter. I had considered sitting in the car til the meter ran out, just to spite the city and Bloomberg and the D.O.T. but I really did still have to pee and so the faster I got home the better. 

one potatoe, two potatoe

My mother in law is 83.  She will be 84 in April if I don’t kill her in March. She is a sweet, wonderful, generous, totally exasperating, and infuriatingly frustrating woman. And that is on her good days. She is from Illinois. Not quite middle America, not quite East coast. Not quite Bible belt, not quite border region. Not quite normal, not quite certifiable. (yet) Just good old hillbilly hick. (without the twang) She married my father-in-law when she was 16 years old and came to New York a child bride. She raised three sons, each to their own degree of normalcy, one of which obviously, I am married to. Over the years I have come to understand her idiosyncrasies and more often than not ignore her….I mean, them.

My father in law passed away almost two years ago and although she fought with him on a daily basis, she misses him and says she still hears him peeing in the morning. (More info than I needed….) Recently my brother in law who lives with her (god bless his patient soul) had to go into the hospital. He has been sick for many years, but like Ben Gazzara on Run For Your Life….he will probably outlive us all. On one occasion when his health was at a low, she called me up in hysterics.

“Oh God, I think he is dead! I can’t wake him. I don’t think he is breathing!” I calmed her enough to tell her to hang up with me and call 911. “That is what Joy said to do.” she makes known. Joy is her sister who lives in….Illinois. My brother in law doesn’t stand a chance if her first call was to Illinois, the second to me….and all before calling 911! He wasn’t dead and he was breathing and 911 could wait for another day.

Since it is basically like the blind leading the blind there, we got her a medic alert…you know the ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” systems. All she has to do is press the button if she has fallen or is ill and a voice will come on the unit and ask what is wrong. If they do not get a response they call…..you got it…ME! So for the first 48 hours she pressed the button twice by mistake. Second 48 hours she was just testing it a few times. By day 5 I had gotten six emergency calls until finally they offered to send someone to explain to her how and how NOT to use the unit. She refused saying she wasn’t an idiot and knew how to use it. I threatened her to not press the button unless it is an emergency or they will come and take the unit away, which of course wasn’t true, but hick, hillbilly….remember?? One Friday I was shopping for about and hour and had accumulated quite a cart-full. My cell phone rang and it was the emergency response unit. I was tempted momentarily not to answer recalling the boy who cried wolf story. But I did and was told she had pressed the button and although they got no response when they asked her if she was ok they did hear her breathing. I thought to myself, good God this is it, she really is in trouble. I sprung into action….ok maybe not sprung per se, but I did abandon my cart full of carefully hand picked items and was en route to her house within minutes. I kept calling her house phone in the hopes that she was ok and contemplated calling 911 in the interim. After several attempts, she answered.

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” she answered sounding annoyed that I had interrupted her soap opera.

“The medic alert called me…you pressed the button?”

“Boy are they snitches….I pressed it by mistake.”

“Why didn’t you answer them when they asked you if you were ok?

“I thought they would get mad and take it away.”

So much for threats!

With one son living the life of a recluse in Queens, my husband the workaholic and my brother in law in the hospital the job of making sure she has milk…and bread…and red potatoes falls on me. She loves red potatoes. Can’t be the ones in the bag, can’t be the ones in the bucket, has to be the loose ones that need to be carefully inspected for potato eyes. (don’t ask) I bought the ones in the bucket dumped them in a produce bag and she was happy. Since she eats breakfast at 4:30 am, lunch at 11 and her dinner somewhere around 3, it makes sense that at 6 she is ready for a snack. Her snack of choice is Celeste frozen pizza. Has to be Original Cheese though, not Pepperoni (heartburn), not Vegetable (gassy) and not even X-tra Cheese (bothers her stomach). So of course they are out of Original Cheese. I buy X-tra Cheese and cross out X-tra neatly with a permanent freezer safe Sharpie. She was happy. I bought the wrong oatmeal. She likes the kind you cook. I bought instant. I returned it. I bought 3 minute Oatmeal. Still wrong. I returned it. I bought the right oatmeal. She decides to tell me she already has three in the cupboard. (yes, she calls it a cupboard) Although there is smoke coming out of my ears, she is happy with her oatmeal, her eye-less red potatoes and her frozen X-tra Original Cheese pizza.

Get well soon dear brother in law…PLEASE!

Eggplant and Lollipops

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

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

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

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

PLEASE HELP FIND MARION MCCLENEGHEN
MISSING PERSON

NAME: MARION MCCLENEGHAN

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

EYES: BLUE          HAIR: BROWN

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

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

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

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

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

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

the GIB 60

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

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

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

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

...patience...not a virtue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sit..stand..clap......repeat

If there is one thing you need to know about me is that I am a creature of habit. Every morning I have the same routine….I make my coffee and I sit down with my breakfast to read the paper. (ok I pee first but I thought that might be too much info) Granted, I am not reading the NY Times or the Wall Street Journal but the news is so disconcerting that it probably is a practice I should stop. The headline is always something with big bold letters a catchy phrase and exclamation points. Today’s is about Obama’s State of the Union speech. I watched some of it last night and had to turn it off. Just watching Nancy Pelosi stand and clap, sit, stand and clap, sit, stand…well you get the picture…made me want to throw something at the TV. And each time she stood the audience stood and clapped as well. Like mindless robotic morons. Other than this one guy that my son pointed out was reading the paper…or so it seemed. He didn’t stand and he didn’t clap. Maybe he was doing the Sudoku puzzle? I liked his audacity to snub Pelosi’s clapping, standing prompt but bristled at his disrespect when the President of the United States was speaking…even if I didn’t vote for him. I ventured further into the paper to find that PETA is afraid that the groundhog used in the celebratory Feb 2nd activities is being traumatized by the crowds and media lights. They want to replace it with a puppet. It’s a friggin’ groundhog people and he is probably being fed better than he ever would have eaten out of someone’s garbage can. According to the article he even has his own fan club. I vote for keeping the real little critter, after all he did us all a favor and bit Bloomberg last year. Gee, I wonder if PETA saw the Macy’s fur sale ad on page 16.

A few murders and a teacher charged with sexual misconduct preceeded the State of the Union address on pages 4 and 5. In addition to the highlights of his address was the highlights of her address…I mean her… dress. Michelle Obama wore an ugly over-priced designer dress, a purple silk and knit by Mizrahi, pearls and what looked like a Kate Gosselin haircut! People are living in their cars and she had to wear an $1800 dress??

The PC Richard HDTV Super Sale is still printed in Jets green…I suppose the art department wasn’t watching one of their HDTV’s when the Jets lost their bid at the Super Bowl. Or maybe it was in their honor.

Now as I said before some things in the paper are just plain upsetting and unfortunately for me (and anyone in my path basically) set the tone for the rest of my day. Page 12 has a Transportation Security guard asleep on a bench at LaGuardia Airport. The picture was taken by an irate traveler with his cell phone and forwarded on to Homeland Security. If it was up to me I would petition to re-name a street after this whistleblower. (if Sean Bell can have one, basically anyone can) At least he may have just saved hundred of lives. The part that bothered me the most wasn’t the picture of the snoozing guard, it was the fact that she wasn’t fired, she was put on desk duty. She may have been on a break they said, although I would think protocol would be to nap in the break room instead in front of tourists and terrorists. And then to add insult to injury a security expert (what ever the hell that is?!) was quoted as saying..”they are underpaid and overworked.” Are they kidding? Overworked? How hard is it to walk around an airport without falling asleep? Underpaid? Give the job to the next guy if you think you are being underpaid….I personally know a lot of people who would love that job…and stay awake.

A bright spot was the rescue of girl from the pile of rubble that is now Haiti. After 15 days being trapped without food or water she is pulled to safety. My prayers are with her.

I got to the horoscopes only to find my sign missing. No Sagittarius. Virgo…Libra…Scorpio…Nothing. Probably an oversight…maybe a misprint. Either way, not a good sign.

On to the obituaries….or as the Daily News so aptly puts it…Death Notices. Does that mean someone noticed these people were dead? Seems so cold. Zelda Rubinstein died. She was the munchkin-like character actor from Poltergeist…she was the psychic called in to rid the house of demons. Tall feat for someone who only stood 4 foot 3. On the same page as the Death Notices was an article that upset me more than the sleeping airport security guard. A man was convicted of murder and will serve life in prison for watching his girlfriend beat her 3 year old child to death. The girlfriend only got 20 years. She pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter. Did I miss something? Plea bargaining in the death of a child should not be allowed.

I made it to the sports section a little battered but still intact. But then I read that Johnny Damon officially is out. No Yankee pinstripes for the once caveman looking Red Sock. Whether it was his ego holding out for a better contract or his agent’s game playing, the Yankees opted to use their (according to some) unlimited cash flow to sign Randy Winn, who other than his catchy name means nothing to me. In fact I have never heard of him but read he was with the Giants. Johnny, I will miss you even if Brian Cashman will not. I am not a huge football fan, other than on Super Bowl Sunday and that is mostly for the little frozen hor devours and hot wings. There are only 20 days left before the Yankee pitchers and catchers report for spring training. I can feel the air warming already.

some enchanted evening.....

On Tuesday night we went to see South Pacific at Lincoln Center. The tickets were a Christmas gift from me to my husband…(I ain’t stupid, who the hell else is he gonna take??) We wanted to eat dinner in the city before the play which started at 7, so leaving at 5 seemed to make sense. It didn’t. We usually eat at Katz’s deli when we go to a play….he likes the ridiculously overpriced, overstuffed pastrami sandwiches and I like the fact that When Harry Met Sally was filmed there and I always insist we sit at the table where Meg Ryan did her famous faked orgasm scene. I am always tempted to recreate it…but I don’t, a coward at heart. Maybe if I looked like Meg Ryan I would. This time though we went up the west side so we decided to find a restaurant near Lincoln Center.

     Quite surprisingly we found parking right away. Not so surprising was the fact that we were about ten blocks from Lincoln Center. I hate my husband’s lets-find-a-spot-instead-of-putting-it-in-a-lot logic. Cheap bastard. Since we still had to find somewhere to eat we walked up Broadway looking for something that looked interesting. We found the Midtown Deli….which turned out to be take out only, we found Raw Bar which only serves seafood…..raw….duh!….we found Food Emporium which was an overpriced supermarket and then we found that we only had 30 minutes to eat and get back to the theatre that we had passed some 8 blocks ago. Desperate now, we saw Ollies Noodle and Rice Bar (or something like that). It was a take-out, dine-in Chinese restaurant. Everything in the restaurant was huge, except for the waitresses who all of them combined probably weighed less than me. The menus were huge, the plates were huge, the silverware huge, even the art on the walls were huge, and unfortunately the prices were equally massive. We slurped our soup and dipped our dumplings as a 30 foot painting of Confucius stared down at us.  My fortune cookie, which my doctor will be proud I did not eat, said that I was about to receive good news from abroad. My husband thought that it meant that I was going to hear the news from a woman….a broad….good god! After I explained, we paid our bill tipped the teeny waitress and left Ollies and began our trek.

     Lincoln Center was under construction. The entrance we had made our way to was closed and so we had to zig zag back (uphill of course) to the entrance on Amsterdam Avenue. We walked thru temporary gates, up temporary ramps, with temporary lighting…it was confusing and dirty and….well, hopefully temporary. Once inside we walked up stairs, only to have to go back downstairs and then finally to the theatre entrance. Up another flight and we were thankfully at our seats which were amazing. After we stopped panting and the palpitations subsided I realized we had just made it. I ballpark estimated that we had just walked 16 blocks, one avenue and three flights of stairs. (There goes my exercise for January and part of February.)

The play was good….not the best I have seen, but then again I have seen many. The songs were all familiar, but not toe-tappers or sing-a-longs by any means. The scenery was well done and the gratuitous naked behinds of a few sailors was a nice added touch. At intermission we discussed what we thought so far and compared opinions, but when my husband said he liked that "he caressed her because the boyfriend died”......I died.  Laughing.   Caressed?  Did he just say caressed?  I guess it must be the magic of Lincoln Center that brought out his sensitive side….that or the MSG in his won tons.

    When we left the theatre we followed the crowd who obviously knew where they were going and guess what….no temporary lights or gates or even ramps….just a beautiful lighted fountain and endless pool and the front of Lincoln Center in all its glory.  It was a good night.  Caressed???

the 70'sssssssssssssssssssssssssss

I stayed in tonight (like I really had somewhere to go…) and watched movies with my husband. Ok let me rephrase that….I watched the movies and he slept on the couch next to me. There is nothing as exciting as trying to watch a movie with whispered dialogue while there is a bear sniffling and snorting next to you. Thankfully with the DVR I pause or rewind and hear what I missed. Actually him falling asleep was probably a blessing since prior to him nodding off he felt the need to point out some actor I have never heard of, some little known (or cared about) fact about the movie location or asked too many questions that I just didn’t have answers to. For example, we started watching 2012 a movie about the end of the world. The opening credits had just finished rolling when he asked…”why is the world gonna end?” I told him I knew as much as he did at that point and told him to watch and see. The first few minutes explained that there was some solar flares bigger than usual. “what does that have to do with the earth?” “I don’t know, let’s watch and see,” I told him with a snarky tone and with that he was out like a light. He woke up about half way thru the movie which is non stop action with buildings falling, things blowing up, and planes crashing tried focusing his eyes and then asks if he smells popcorn. I said yes you do, paused the movie and made him a bag of popcorn. I un-paused the movie and before long he was talking to the dog telling him he can’t have any of his popcorn because his mother (the dog’s, not his) would get mad. I assume I am considered the dog mother. I paused the movie til he finished his conversation with the dog. Somewhere between the popcorn and the ending credits he was asleep again snoring and snorting. I put the TV as loud as I could bear and finished watching the movie. He woke up sporadically, asked why the TV was so loud and nodded off again. In the end the movie sucked anyway, I think.

He went and made himself a cup of tea, put in honey from his little honey bear dispenser that I so want to throw out, and came back to his spot on the couch. The conversation went like this…

“What are we watching?” he asks as Barry Manilow is singing his heart out on some PBS station.

“Guess” I answered, “ but if you fall asleep and snore I am gonna blast this so that the neighbors can hear.”

“No, I’m awake.” “What are we gonna watch?” PAUSE

“We’re watching it, Barry sings his 70’s hits.”

“He only had 70 hits? PAUSE

“70’sssssss…as in the decade. Can I hear this now please?” In my best shut-up-or-I’ll-kill-you voice.

“Yeah just don’t put it too loud, you’ll hurt the dog’s ears.” PAUSE

“Rich, go to bed.”

“No, for some reason I’m not tired”

“Yeah because you slept and snored through most of 2012.”

“Did I, sorry. What happened anyway?” PAUSE

“I’ll tell you tomorrow, I want to hear Barry.”

“Oh, sorry. Is this a telethon?” PAUSE

“What makes you think this is a telethon?”

“Just seems like it, maybe to raise money for Haiti. Go ahead, watch it, I’m going up anway.”

“OK goodnight.”

But he never left his spot on the couch and stayed quiet til Barry sang his last note. After Barry I started watching the end of some creepy movie about ghosts.

“What are we watching now?

“Is there something you’d rather watch?”

“No I’m going up”.

The movie was a bit too creepy with dead people coming back burnt and broken. Or so it seemed. Turns out there were no burnt broken ghosts, just some loon they let out of her straightjacket too soon. I thought it odd that my husband actually watched without commenting, conversing with the dog or making a snack request.  I looked over....he was asleep.

I put Saturday Night Live on. Some skit with Sigourney Weaver about the disco era (which wasn’t funny at all) was on when he woke up.

“This is still on?” He thought it was still the Barry Manilow show. “That looks like the Aliens girl, what’s her name?”
“You mean Sigourney Weaver?”
“Yeah, I didn’t know she sang with Manilow?”
“Oh yeah, she was his back up singer for years”

“Didn’t know that…ok I’m going up.”    (Where have I heard that before.)

He put his cup in the sink, put away his damn little honey bear dispenser, said good night to the dog, kissed me goodnight and began his ascent upstairs. Before he got to the top I heard him talking to himself….’I didn’t know she sang with Manilow’……….

uh oh....

It's the New Year, a very Sci-Fi sounding 2010, and of course it is time to assess one's life and health.  I have always known that diabetes ran in my family...both Mom and Dad got it in their early 50's so I was not totally shocked when I began to feel symptomatic.  I was so thirsty all the time that I literally stood by the sink pouring glass after glass of water down my throat, lapping at it like some rabid poodle.  I just couldn't get enough water in me fast enough.  Of course that created another symptom, constant peeing.  In the day it was managable, but at night I would look at the clock and made note that it was about every 2 hours at which time I downed another glass of water.  Not smart, but thirst is one sensation that has to be quelled immediately.  The constant drinking and up all night peeing caused another symptom....fatigue.  I was tired all the time.  No energy other than to drink and pee.  And of course for me, to eat.  Then I noticed that when I awoke for my bathroom runs that my mouth was so dry my lips would stick together.  So of course I drank even more water.  The excess water I was drinking, too much to pee out in any one given day, caused me to have leg cramps.  You know the ones where your calf turns into stone and you cry out for your mommy as you try in vain to walk it off!   I googled diabetes to look at the symptoms.  I had them all....except one.  Weight loss.....figures!  It was time to call the doctor.

My doctor, a 6'2" skinny ass cardiologist was a nit picker about weight. !  His wife was a nutritionist who I am sure never had to lose more than 5 pounds of baby weight.  After going over what my typical menu for the week would be she tried valiently to counsel me on how to make different choices to eat better.  She wanted me to eat turkey sausage.  TURKEY SAUSAGE.  I am Italian....I repeat, she wanted me to eat TURKEY sausages.   I may have to cut out the sausage completely, but switch to turkey...sorry that ain't happening.  She asked me if I drank milk to which I explained that the only milk I drank was what little I put in my coffee.  She told me try to drink my coffee black.  Was she really trying to say that the 4 tablespoons of milk I had during the course of the day was making me fat?   She told me to switch to smart foods.  Smart butter....no taste. Smart  mayo....tasted bad.  Smart cheese....tasted worse.  I was given books, magazines and recipes.  I considered them then I threw them out.  They blamed everything that was ever wrong with me on my weight.  Sinus infection....lose weight.  Sore muscle....lose weight.    Pink eye....lose weight.  I got the message loud and clear...and if I could have, I would have.  So I did the next best thing.  I switched doctors.  To one that was overweight and could relate. 

They asked me what I had eaten so far that day, took two vials of blood and handed me a cup for a urine sample.  I peed in the cup (and on my hand), then dropped the cup into the toilet.  I considered fishing it out but then if the dip stick turned blue it could be because of the Ty-D-Bowl.  I confessed my clumsiness and was handed another cup to fill at home.  I left still thirsty, still having to pee, dry mouthed and tired.  But at least, I told myself I was on top of it full well believeing that I was going to be told that I had just overdosed on carbs over the holidays and I would be fine once I stopped over indulging them.  Wrong.  The next day, I brought a new cup of urine to the doctor, got chastised by the nasty nurse for placing it on the counter (it was in a plastic bag) and headed off to work.  I got a call from the doctors office about an hour later.  Their was sugar in the urine and worse the preliminary blood results showed a high sugar level.  And then I heard him utter the words I knew were coming....lose weight. 

The doctor put me on pills, which he said will make my stomach hurt, probably make me nauseous and could give me palpitations.  They more than likely give me diarehea and a headache.  So I wondered, tell me again why the hell I am taking this medicine?  I am awaiting a monitor from GHI that will allow me to prick my fingertip, draw blood and test the sugar level.  Far easier and more sanitary than peeing on a stick.  I am not looking forward to its arrival since my virgin fingertips have not be touched in years due to my long nails and I think maybe this is gonna hurt. I am on the pills 4 days now.  I have had small whispers of these symptoms but nothing like I anticipated.  My stomach rumbles and I am queasy at times but the rest I have dodged.  I am dieting again, unfortunately with a 'been there, done that' attitude.  I am learning to like green leafy foods and even broiled fish.  I have learned where the Produce section in the supermarket is.   I will not however eat TURKEY sausage! 

birthdays and big lots.........

My husband and I went to an old friends birthday party today. I don’t mean old as in…Happy 60th, I mean old as in we know her almost 40 years. It was at a Japanese Seafood and Sushi Buffet in Long Island. I was a little hesitant about the food because I don’t eat seafood let alone raw seafood, but as we all know the Japanese are also famous for their teriyaki sauces which I love. I would eat my sneaker if there was enough teriyaki on it. I opted for the teriyaki chicken, beef & pork, and even tried the mystery meat. All delicious. (I think the mystery meat might have indeed been my sneaker) The buffet had an enormous sushi bar with every imaginable fish and every imaginable vegetable wrapped in delicious sticky rice. What is it about that rice that makes it stick together so well? The cooking process? Some mysterious Japanese ingredient? Oh no no, I don’t want to think about that, must just be the rice cooker. I thought about peeling the rice off the sushi rolls, but the thought of having to explain fishy smelling fingers stopped me.

The adjoining party room had a birthday party as well, but for a Japanese woman. The guests were all….well, Japanese. So were our waitresses. As the guests from the Japanese party streamed through our party to get to the buffet (which they didn’t have to) they were constantly being stopped by our guests requesting water, chopsticks or napkins. The Japanese partiers didn’t understand English, so they bowed politely and walked on. You could hear people asking why the wait staff was so bad, or took so long to bring an item. I am sure had we asked an actual waitress for something we would have gotten it. After a while we all figured out that the restaurant staff wore all black, so when Mei Tai in her red kimono passed by, we knew not to ask her for tea.

My husband did his best to put the buffet out of business, but even he couldn’t make a dent in the enormous amount of selections which could only be rivaled by the dessert buffet. Melon slices, orange and red jello cubes, fresh orange wedges, itty bitty cakes of every kind from strawberry shortcake to banana nut. And cream puffs. My favorite. Teriyaki and cream puffs….heaven! Oh and they had an ice cream stand. It was soft serve, white and green. I somehow started a rumor that it was seaweed flavored and the entire other party went up to get ice cream. It was in fact, green tea flavored which to me was no better, but a total disappointment to the others.

After snapping a few pictures of the birthday girl and her cake, (most of us trying to hide a chin, a stomach or a bald spot) we sang happy birthday off tune but heartfelt, collected our souvenir fortune cookies and chopsticks and said our goodbyes. Now without sounding like a horrible friend, the entire time I was there all I could think about was the fact that there was a Big Lots in the shopping plaza across the street and a huge 99cent store as well……the combination almost as good as the teriyaki and cream puffs. Regardless of the fact that it took like 40 minutes to get out of one lot, across the street and into the other lot I had a wallet full of ones, a dollar store in my path and a grin on my face. (or was that the teriyaki repeating….)

Big Lots….big disappointment! Half price Christmas shit was in fact shit. The one thing I did find priced $5.00 and then 50% off that was a Christmas Santa in a Mets shirt of which I instantly grabbed two…one for my grandson and one for my niece. Just to make a point…the Yankees Santas, of course were all sold out at full price. I’m just sayin’……! My husband and I cruised the aisles finding nothing but regular priced stuff that we had no need for but would have bought if it was cheap. I did get my dog two types of doggie treats that came in a Santa boot….half price….two outfits for my granddaughter….full price…..discounted Gillette shower gel.…and one roll of half priced wrapping paper. Crap. To add insult to injury, as I am putting the Mets Santas on the counter I see that they are Nets Santas. Grrrr! Big Lots a bust I lost my appetite for the dollar store and headed for the highway.