saints and scabs

Tuesday was my day off.... from work.  The one where they pay me.   This Tuesday, with my granddaughter attempting to play with the pins, scissors, anything else she could impale herself with, I began a sewing project to help out my neighbor. She had to make a Saint. Yup, Saint….as in Patrick, Francis and Nick. She chose Saint Lucy. Good thing she had a statue of St. Lucy because I personally had never heard of her and honestly, if there was no St. Ethel to go along with her it hardly seemed relevant at all. She had two days for this task although I rather suspect she had sat on the whole ’let’s build a saint’ project far longer. The saints were going to be part of a holiday celebration to impress the holy higher ups. St. Lucy had traditional blue and white robes that looked very much like the ones worn by the manger residents that hung out under my Christmas tree. She carried palm and a tray. The tray held her…. eyes. I never thought to question my neighbor why she chose a saint who carried her eyes in a tray, but I suppose as saints go, they must have had to give up something pretty important to become a saint in the first place. The saint on a stick had to be of normal height. Luckily our St Lucy was an Italian woman who stood maybe five feet. We could use a shorter stick than most.

While I gathered the fabric, eyes and other saint building necessities my neighbor set out to find something to use as a head. It was rather tempting to use the skulls my house is currently adorned with, being Halloween week and all. We opted for Styrofoam. I found canvas work gloves in the basement that need to ‘tan’ up a bit, so I made a pot of strong tea and laid the gloves in them overnight to dye them. (very ‘green’ don’t ya think?) I also left a note for my husband just in case he poured himself a cup of tea without noticing the floating gloves. (it could happen, trust me!) I sewed and stuffed, I glued and pinned and St. Lucy began to take shape. It felt a little sacrilegious as I impaled her with the stick that would serve as her lower half and feet. I asked her forgiveness and them jammed that sucker as far up into the foam body as it could possibly go. Lucy was looking good, headless of course, but her robes were well pleated and adorned with gold piping. The tea infused work gloves left a little too long in the Orange Pekoe and now a little too tan were dry, stuffed and attached. Her right hand held the palm which we had to substitute with some kind of ivy since craft stores just don’t carry fake palm. Her left hand carried the eye tray which was from my granddaughter’s Barbie tea set.   Only something didn’t look right. I had dyed two right hand gloves. Yup, Lucy had two right hands. (hey look, her eyes were in a tray ya know, she could certainly deal with two right hands) I stitched the glove on in a way that hid the fact that Lucy was deformed and so instead of having two right hands, she had one hand with no thumb.  She looked like a muppet.  Who said life is fair? 

My neighbor came with the Styrofoam head, complete with queen size panty hose to give her a skin tone color that did not match her two right hands at all, but at least she wasn’t foam white. A perfect nose protruded out from behind the stocking and her lips were pinned on. Lucy was seriously sporting her ‘hooker red’ lipstick. She had eyes which I had thought were already glued into the Barbie plate but I guess being a saint she was allowed two sets. One to see, and one as an offering or something. Her hair was the remainder of the pantyhose knotted atop her head in a Snooki-do and then cut in strips down the sides. Lucy was looking good. Sort of. Maybe. Ok not so much, but two days to make a life size saint is pushing the envelope…I’d like to see them do that on Project Runway. Lucy done and safely packed away in my neighbors car for the ride to the church, I turned my attentions to the rest of my fun filled day.

It was time to take the dog to the vet to get his allergy shots. The $150 allergy shots that last, at best, two weeks. But in those two weeks his stench ebbs a bit and it makes the cost a little more palatable. My dog, the free adopted mutt that I have had for the past 8 years, has something called doggy seborrhea dermatitis. Basically, dry skin. Having said that, on you and me a nice slathering of Oil of Olay would do the trick, on Stinky, not so much. This trip he was getting a bath, his ears cleaned, a cortisone shot and his nails clipped. I left to pick him up some five hours after being dropped off. I left with a bag of antibiotics for some fungal infection he got from the dermatitis, fish oil tablets he has to take twice a day to keep his skin supple, an astronomical bill and a dog that still stunk….maybe worse. Oh and they shaved him where a dog just shouldn’t be shaved. He looked like he had just escaped from Three Mile Island‘s nuclear site. If someone broke into my house now they would feel so bad for this dog they would crawl back out the window just not to get him in any trouble. I take one pill a day, two if you count the  'over 45'  one-a-day vitamins I take. And I forget. This dog has six pills a day, and I'm the one that has to remember to trick him into taking them. Lord knows how I am gonna do this….maybe I should just pray to Saint Lucy.  She owes me!

apples, and pumpkins and bees......oh my!

Ahhh Fall….a time to enjoy the fall foliage, the brisk weather, packing away the flip flops and of course the dreaded  apple picking with the grandkids.

The plan was simple….our families would all drive to New Jersey enjoying the aforementioned foliage, to an orchard where we would pick the apples right off the vine, umm I mean tree. Take 200 pictures of the kids climbing in the trees that are clearly marked NO CLIMBING and arrive home to start slicing and baking. The reality is that Route 9 has no foliage, Fall or otherwise, and besides isn’t New York called the Big Apple for a reason? And while the intention is always there, most of the hand picked apples remain in a bowl on the dining room table waiting to be transformed into pies as they rot and ferment.

The orchard had rows and rows of trees marked with white, yellow and green tags designating what tree held what apples. Obviously not a fruit connoissuer, I don’t know a Winesap from a Rome, a Delicious from a Granny Smith…what I do know is that yellow-jacks love them all. If I wasn’t stepping on rotten, yellow-jack infested apple, I was picking a rotten yellow-jack infested apple off the trees. Of course I had to taste one from every kind of tree (freebies!) and by the time we had finished ravishing the orchard I never wanted to see, let alone eat another apple. And yes, it is true…apples are definitely a diuretic! I peed six times in two hours. Although the trees were smaller than any tree in Brooklyn, the best apples (of course) were way on top, I am supposing where the yellow-jacks are afraid to fly. We rented a pole. An apple picking pole…which looked more like a bag on a stick, than the bag on a stick it actually was. By the time you got the apple positioned above the bag, pulled back the pole to knock the apple off its branch, you whacked two people behind you and the apple fell mindlessly to the ground where it was immediately covered with…yup, yellow-jacks! We took more pictures in the trees, in front of the trees, group shots, family shots, and me sitting in various places trying to rest my bad knee. I sat on a felled branch, inside a Winesap tree, and my personal favorite the inverted apple bucket. My knee well rested, my ass numb from the bucket handle, we moved on to pumpkins. With an upcoming family pumpkin carving contest, that has taken on a life of it’s own complete with voting rules and a trophy, we needed to get big pumpkins. The buckets filled with what felt like a ton of apples didn’t leave much strength for carrying pumpkins. Large pumpkins. Pumpkin carving pumpkins. Trophy winning large pumpkin carving pumpkins. So we shifted things around in a wagon someone had the insight to bring and loaded it up like a pack mule navigating the Grand Canyon. We carefully chose the ones we wanted, good shape, no rot, strong stem…however I had my own criteria….not more than 3 feet from where I stood and if I bent to pick it up I was taking it home. Luckily I chose well and my pumpkin was perfect.

The lines to pay for the apples/pumpkins looked as if they were giving them away….ten deep with people struggling to carry their apples and pumpkins, swatting yellow-jacks and screaming at their now tired and cranky kids. Not us of course, our kids were perfect. After we got our produce to the cars we decided to meet up at the store conveniently located on the way out of the orchard. Their claim to fame was their hot apple cider donuts which was evident in the line snaking around the store. Not a donut in the world could get me on that line, if Mr. Dunkin’ himself was serving me….but as I went in the store, my son in law got on the line for a bag of the coveted donuts. The store was absolutely packed…apples were cheaper than they were in the orchard which led me to believe we had just paid for the pleasure of yellow-jack swatting and our photo op sessions. They had apple flavored everything which made sense and chocolate covered everything which made less sense but got my vote. I bought a cup of much needed coffee and forgot to get one for my husband, I bought an apple muffin and forgot to buy one for my husband. (see a pattern here) I gave up both when we met up outside because I am an amazing wife….that and the fact that I had a bag full of chocolate covered things I was not prepared to share. Having not moved an inch on the cider donut line my son in law threw in the towel and settled for something apple flavored that my daughter bought him. Our cars were all loaded with the apples designed to become pies but destined to be left in a bowl on the dining room table as proof that we went apple picking. That and the 200 pictures.

burgandy...and I don't mean wine

I am an impromptu shopper.   If I see what I want I buy it. I don’t plan any part of a purchase because the few times I did, disaster. Example…It was time to get a dog. My beloved Sasha had to be put to sleep and my husband and I were ridiculously upset.  I didn't want to make a rush decision since the commitment to owning a dog is a lifetime....at least that of the dog's.  I made a list of things I wanted in a dog including getting her through a private adoption. My list included,  female, really big breed, and not a lot of shedding. I got a male (with balls that I eventually had loped off), smaller than pretty much any dog I have ever had since I was 5, and the hairiest, sheddiest dog in the world. The only thing on my list was that we adopted him from a private breeder who but for the grace of God still walks the earth. I was told that his mother was a German Shephard and the father was a Chocolate Lab. We conveniently couldn’t see the parents because they would be ‘upset’ seeing their pup being taken away. (OK what was I thinking?)  Liar!  The vet said there is no Lab in him at all and wasn’t even sure about the Shephard part. He has an inherited skin condition that requires more attention than a leper, but we love him even though he sheds and stinks….not necessarily in that order.   So much for planning.

I bring up the disaster that is my dog, because yet again I chose to make a decision based on planning rather than spontaneous logic. I need a new couch. I have needed a new couch for about 4 years. I bought my current couch many years ago in Levitz. I paid a small fortune for a couch, three tables and this huge club chair which the dog, yes the same one from the lying adoptee, ate three weeks after getting it delivered. He was a puppy back then and still cute and not yet stinky so I forgave him and threw out the chair….I did however have him fixed shortly after that….revenge is sweet! He never chewed another thing in the house!

The couch which was what I perceived to be a regal shade of Burgandy was recently described to me by my grandson as being….purple. Purple???? Not gonna make that mistake again…..first on the list, no Burgandy! I bought a fabric that seemed like it would wear well and repel stains….not so much when you have a husband that sits on the couch with clothes he has just changed the car oil in. We tried the whole ‘cover it with a sheet’ routine but that faded fast and I simply gave up. Purple Burgandy hides a lot and is the only reason it wasn’t out in the garbage shortly after the club chair….(and besides he wouldn’t have sat still for that whole revenge thing like the dog did) Fabric choice made it to the list….leather could work well and clean up easily too.

One Father’s Day a few years ago we bought my husband a big, comfortable, leather swiveling recliner. (yup, in….Burgandy) He never sat in it. Finally he admitted that the swiveling feature wasn’t his favorite and he creatively placed wooden blocks into the mechanics to stop the swivel. Unfortunately it also stopped the recline. Oh well, another piece of useless furniture in the living room. Looks good, just not functional. One Mother’s Day my kids bought me a chaise lounge (need I tell you what color?) which is in the room as well. It sits beneath my picture window so in case I decide to make a cup of tea, grab a book and sit by the window with sunlight streaming on my face as I relax…..ok I’ll stop lying….no one is allowed to sit on it except maybe the baby since I don’t want yet another piece of furniture screwed up by our fat, Jiffy Lube asses. Add to the list….nothing that rocks, reclines or swivels.

The tables that came with the set were perfect. Light wood with glass inserts and table tops. The middle glass on the three panel coffee table broke and we replaced it with Plexiglas which was fine until it got scratched moving a centerpiece back and forth out of the line of the remote. It has been replaced many times since the original breakage and probably cost more in plexi than it would have been to buy a new table. The glass tops were also not such a great idea once the grandkids came.  So....no glass!

I went shopping…list in hand. (it was actually in my head, I am not that big a geek) The first store they had nothing in all leather…it was ‘leather where you touch’….what the hell? What if I wanted to ‘touch' the back of the couch?   The second and third store had salesmen that knew very little about the furniture and had to ‘check’ on everything I asked. “Does this come in black?” Let me check “How long is the couch?” Let me check. “Can I get this delivered before the end of the month?”   Let me check. By the time they came back I had checked...out! I re-visited the first store contemplating the crazy leather scenario, left again and finally found a store I hadn’t previously explored. The salesman, a handsome man with a clipboard followed me around the store just far enough away so as not to annoy me, close enough to not lose me to another salesperson.  I walked around the store, possibly more times than I needed to, fantasizing that the handsome salesman following me was trying to work up the nerve to ask me to meet him for a drink and not simply stalking me for a commissioned sale, and suddenly I found the perfect couch.  It was leather (even the back), it had no moving parts, the tables (cleverly called ottomans) had no glass and it most definitely was not purple burgundy. It was Ivory.   Ivory???   See what I mean?   I planned.   I listed. And I still went and bought a friggin’ white couch.

windstorms and footlongs

I had to take my state insurance test on Tuesday. I printed out the directions from the test center’s website and then I mapquested them, I also googled the address and printed that as well. I am anal. It didn’t help that my husband kept telling me to leave myself an hour and a half travel time…for a half hour drive…just in case there is traffic. He is the grand poobah of anal-ness. The letter that came with the registration receipt said that we had to be there a half hour before the test (which began at 10) or we wouldn’t be allowed to take the test and forfeit our test fee. I studied the night before more than I should have since I was totally burned out by the time I went to bed. I had dreams of floods and windstorms and every other peril I had just studied. And in my dreams I settled each and every claim before the next disaster struck or I woke up to pee.

After sucking down the last of a second cup of coffee I went through a mental checklist…2 pieces of ID, check….a #2 pencil, check….tissues in case I sneeze, check….cough drops in case I cough, check….2 Aleve in case I have a headache, check….all six printouts of the directions to the test site, check….and last but not least, my travel mug filled with coffee number three. The belt parkway was oddly empty and I knew this had to be a bad sign. It is never, ever empty at 8:30 am. When I got to my exit I turned on the radio. 1010 wins…needed a little news…didn’t want to over stimulate my already over stimulated brain with Lady Gaga this morning. An accident (which I am sure I could have settled expeditiously with my new found knowledge) on a parkway….three parkways away had caused a major back up all the way back to…you guessed it, my parkway. And there it was.   Bumper to bumper traffic as far as the eye could see.   I so hate it when my husband is right!

 

I finally arrived at my turnoff and needed to look for 80th street. 86th, 85th, 84th, 83rd, 77th…what the %&$!  Since I couldn’t U-turn I kept going and in my perplexed state still located 80th Street even though it wasn’t in numeric order…(what is it with Queens??) and the complex that housed the test site.

The instructions clearly stated to pull into the parking garage, park and take the elevator to the 3rd floor and continue on to the test room. I pulled into the parking garage which was empty. Not a few cars empty, I mean empty empty…Omega Man empty….(for those of you too young to relate to the Omega Man movie, think I Am Legend with Will Smith....empty). I didn’t see any elevator on the first floor so I circled around to the second floor all the while bending my head down since it felt as if the low garage ceilings were going to behead me. The second floor was just as empty and no elevator there either. I went to the third and last floor of the garage…nothing! No elevator, no cars, no test site. I checked that my doors were locked and looked on the forms to see if there was a phone number. Again, nothing. I drove back down to the first floor still ducking but more confident that I wasn’t going to be decapitated and back up to the third floor where I saw a parked car that wasn’t there a few minutes ago and parked next to it.  Right next to it.  As close as I could, next to it.  As I got out of the car I looked around to see if there was anyone lurking, skulking, hiding….you get the picture. I was alone. The instructions also said to look for a sign that said Test Site. No sign. I saw some doors. Locked. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a security guard and just like that he was gone…through a set of doors that said ‘employees only’. Not a soul around. I positioned my keys between my fingers the way I had been taught years ago in case I had to fight off an attacker. I could jab him in the eye and temporarily blind him giving me time to get away.  Who was I kidding? With my short stubby arms the guy would have to be under 5ft for me to even reach his eyes and besides, I am sure I would be running and screaming….not jabbing and tai kwon do-ing. Another set of doors opened up into a mall. I felt like Dorothy landing in Oz. The garage, so grey in all its cement-ness and here was this super modern mall with amazing lighting and marble stairs. I was on the third floor and from where I stood could see clear down to level one. Not a soul. Malls obviously don’t open before 9. I called out a feeble unanswered ‘hello’. That’s it, test be damned, I’m outta here and I returned to Kansas and my car. Before I got in my car the elusive security guard came out of nowhere again only this time I was able to get his attention before he wafted out of sight again. I explained my predicament and he pointed me in the direction of a staircase I had previously avoided out of fear (ok maybe I just didn’t feel like walking up the steps). I went up those stairs, down a long outdoor corridor, around an inordinate number of overgrown planters and into a courtyard with stores, and office building and a Subways. Not the train stop, the home of the footlong!

The office building of course was my destination (although I did make a stop in Subways after the test) and I proceeded to the floor listed on the directions. It had to be the most humid day of the year and between the garage walking and the stairs and the corridors and the planters I was sweating like a pig. The elevator alone had to be over 90 degrees. I hadn‘t, until this point, seen a soul other than the shadowy security guard and a Chinese man behind the counter in the Subways but as the elevator doors opened there were all kinds of people walking back in forth in and out of offices all ignoring the sweaty fat chick that just got off the elevator. I started down the hallway and saw a ladies room which considering how much coffee I gulped down this morning seemed like a good idea. Locked. I passed a room with its doors open and lots of people crowding in…must be the test room….nope, Weight Watchers meeting. I continued down the hallways checking my watch (ok no watch, it was my cell phone), sweating and cursing until I finally found the room. It was 9:15...early with 15 minutes to spare! The sign on the door said it wasn’t opening until 9:45 with the test beginning at 10. Cutting it kinda close aren’t they? There was nowhere to sit. It was hot. I was early. There was no one else there yet. I had to pee. I walked down to the Weight Watcher room figuring to ask for the bathroom key, but as I neared the door I realized they might be thinking…‘hey where you going sweetie, get your ass on the scale”…so I got back on the elevator and went down and outside. It was raining.  I thought about going into the Subways (I hear they have amazing breakfasts) but I had eaten at home and I already needed to be upstairs on that scale…so I passed. I sat on a wet metal chair grateful what little breeze there was. At least when I got back to the test site they would think I was rained on instead of just clammy with sweat. At 9:45 I went upstairs on the suffocating elevator, passed the locked bathroom and the Weight Watchers scale, down the corridor and to the test room. I tried the door, still locked and still no one waiting like me. Still nowhere to sit, I considered sitting on the floor but knew how long it would take for me to get up so I just leaned on the wall shifting my weight from one bad knee to the other. Finally a man came and jiggled the door, then another and still another. Then two girls. It was now 9:50. It had been an hour since I parked in the portentous garage. A woman sauntered up to the door, Subways bag in hand, opened it with a key, propped it open with a door stop and welcomed us. An hour later I was in Subways ordering a 6” Jared’s ‘healthy special’ on Garlic Parmesan bread. Oh, and I passed my test!

policies and painted toes

Why can’t I go anywhere and just have it be a normal experience?? I was asked to get my insurance license. I was asked to take 40 hours of insurance instruction to work 16 hours a week….go figure?! I got to the class and immediately chose a seat in the front like the teachers pet I had always wanted to be in grammar school but never got the chance because a girl named Cindy who was always so cute and so smiley and brown-nosing…..oh, sorry.. lost control there.  A very nice girl sat next to me, I mean RIGHT next to me which I found a bit odd since there were at least 30 empty seats in the room. But she was soft spoken, well dressed and looked sweet. She removed her bottled water from a bag and turned to me and said…”Don’t touch that.” I laughed thinking for sure she was kidding, and she proclaimed again, “I’m not kidding, don’t touch that.” No problem. I opened my books and got my pen and highlighter out of my bag. “We were supposed to bring a highlighter?” she asked me not even looking up from the bag she was rummaging around in. “No, I just brought one in case.” I answered her but really wanted to knock her precious bottled water off the desk. “Can I have yours?” OK is this chick kidding now or what? I started looking around for some hidden camera, some Punk’d personnel but instead I simply said, “No, sorry, I only have one.” I should have left it at that, but me always having to make a joke added, “Trade you for your water…!” With that she picked up her books and water and moved to the furthest seat away from mine. Guess she can’t take a joke. As we waited for the teacher to set up the dry erase board which he abandoned after three futile attempts, I began to wonder what the hell was in that bottle. I imagined it to be some high priced imported vodka, or some illegal propellant she was going to ignite and turn this tiny conference room into a fire bomb…and then I saw her drink from it. That ruled out the propellant at least.

I turned my attentions to the well dressed, handsome man that sat in the seat ‘water girl’ had abandoned. He smiled, I smiled, he smiled again, ditto ditto ditto….What the hell?! If he was Asian (which he wasn’t) I would have bet we would have still been bowing to each other rather than getting around to karate chopping each other. I wondered where all this smiling was going to lead us. The water girl raised her hand and asked where the bathroom was. The teacher who had finally accomplished arranging his books and was beginning the class told her where it was and she got up taking her coveted water bottle with her. She never returned. Was it something I said?

As the teacher asked us to read along with him I looked down at my feet to see if I had room to stretch my rotten, stiff, left knee out straight before I ended up in traction. I wished I hadn’t. The man in water girl’s seat wore flip flops and toenail polish. Five toes, five colors. Big toe, blue. Little toe, green. And a rainbow in between. Suddenly the stiffness in my knee didn‘t matter as the pain would have been a welcomed reminder that I was indeed still awake and had not fallen asleep during the boring insurance rhetoric. I attempted to read along with the instructor as I repeatedly glanced down at his toes. His right foot had one color at least, white, but they had letters on them and it infuriated me that I was not in a position to read what they said. I dropped my highlighter. Ooops. I bent down and saw that the letter on his big toe was an I but that was all I could see. I was getting distracted and the instructor was way ahead of me at this point and I was lost. I re-read from the book what I missed while reading toes and surprisingly was even able to answer a question he threw at me unexpectedly.

We broke for lunch. The little Spanish girl I met when we first got there leaned over and asked if I wanted to go to the diner with her. I was starving and thrilled to be with someone who as far as I could tell, had nothing painted on her toes and no bottled water. As we walked to the diner I told her about the water girl and the flip flop man. She said she saw water girl in the bathroom even before the class started and she was talking on a cell phone about how bad the weather was in New York. It was sunny, clear and mid 70’s.

On the way back from the diner water girl was outside the classroom still clutching her water bottle. She leered at the two of us and just as I thought we were far enough past her to avoid a confrontation she throws the water bottle at us. It didn’t hit us and it didn’t even open but my little Spanish friend flew into a rage. Suddenly she was yelling and gesturing at water girl who looked calm and quite frankly bored. I took her arm and told her to calm down, that the girl was obviously a kook, and the class was gonna start. Back in our seats we waited for flip flop man to return from lunch as she positioned herself so that as soon as he opened the door she could read his feet. Foot. He came in and sat down beside me again and did his I smile, You smile, I smile, You smile routine. I looked over my shoulder to see if she had been able to see what this guy painstakingly painted on his toes but she shook her head side to side and I knew it was up to me now. I put my bag on the floor between our chairs so that I had reason to bend down several times and attempt a reading. I managed to get another two letters….X an X….maybe this was just some design and not a word after all?? I caught up to the instructor again and decided to concentrate on insurance rather than worry about what design this guy had on his toes. When the class was over my friend reminded me that water girl could be outside waiting for us. We assured each other we had each other’s backs (I felt so…ghetto!) and walked to the parking lot. Thankfully she wasn’t there since me and my posse of one would have been taken down in a heartbeat by water girl. Can’t wait for class tomorrow!

....calling Dr. Bates

It’s official, I limp. My leg, the one that I already had fixed a few years ago, is killing me again. Not the same behind the knee pain, not the pain that the doctor swore would go away if I lost weight, and definitely not the pain that two Aleve’s every six hours was gonna remedy. This pain is different. It starts in my cheek. To be blunt, my left ass cheek. Runs down the back of my thigh, gets to the knee then magically rotates to the front of my leg causing my shin to feel like I just ran the New York marathon. Or the Boston marathon. Or even just walked up a flight of stairs at this point. I complained to everyone, everyone that wouldn’t tell me to lose weight. Everyone says it sounds like sciatica. So I googled it. (while we’re on the subject, what do you get when you google, GOOGLE?) Sciatica is a condition caused by the sciatic nerve becoming inflamed…what inflames it, it doesn’t really say. Could be this, could be that, might be the other thing….so googling wasn’t the answer.

At the suggestion of another friend (who did hint at weight loss) I called the local chiropractor. He has been in business since the 70’s and is a character and a half. He lives above his office with his ‘Ma’.  ‘Ma’ has never been seen so I am usually thinking 'Norman Bates' when I am on his table and if he ever starts a taxidermy collection I will find another doctor, pronto. The last time I was there which was for migraine headaches….he put his hands on both sides of my head and like a killer ninja twisted my neck around so fast that I thought I was destined to die within minutes. Instead the headaches went away immediately. Of course I had a stiff neck for like a month, but the headaches were gone and never came back. He was my hero back then, so I had no trepidations in calling him for an appointment. I got his machine and started to leave a message when he picked up mid message….chewing. Not his secretary, not a service, just him in full oral mastication. I explained who I was, what was wrong and that I would like to come in as soon as possible. In between chews he said “YES”. Just “yes”. After several more questions to ascertain when he wanted me to come in he told me his ‘Ma’ died. I am not even sure how he snuck that in to the conversation but it was out there now and I had to deal with it. After telling me that she had been ill for months, and telling me that she was in a better place, and describing how his world crumbled when she died and how he was sure he couldn’t live without her, I realized that he hadn’t told me when she passed on. So I asked. Bad move! Wednesday….this was Thursday! So ‘Ma’ died yesterday and two days before he wanted to see me. The man that doesn’t want to live without his ‘Ma’ was gonna massage my left ass cheek and potentially cripple me. I just know it! The pain in my leg was subsiding or was it mind over matter?!   I told him I would be away for a few days and that I would call him when I got back, extended my condolences again, hung up and googled ‘chiropractors’.  Dr. Bates would have to heal a bit more mentally before I let him manipulate, knead or twist any body parts.

I went back on the computer and looked up everything that included the words pain and leg and came up empty. I did find a website for sciatic pain exercises. Since my printer decided to fail at this crucial moment I drew small pictures of what I was supposed to look like when I got into the positions the website deemed miracles for sciatica. I got down on all fours only to immediately have the dog bound over thinking it was playtime. After distracting him with a chew toy (and threatening to cut off his already cut off balls) I began to arrange my legs into the positions I had drawn. Now the problem with my stick figure drawings is that I am not, I repeat...not, a stick figure. So when the bad leg has to cross underneath the good leg I had to wonder, where does my stomach go? I pushed the bad leg as far as it would go, heard something snap….waited, felt no pain…..so I continued. The pulling sensation on my left ass cheek told me that I was doing the exercise right and if the website was right, after a few times I should be good as new. Like bothering a bad tooth, it both hurt and felt good at the same time. I was ready to move on to the next poorly drawn exercise which involved pulling the balls of my feet toward my body while practically laying face down on the floor. Don’t bother trying to picture it, you can’t do it. Well I guess it can be done, but not by me and certainly not by anyone who has breasts or a stomach and an inflamed ass cheek from dreaded sciatic nerve disorder that I have come to self diagnose.

I attempted to go back to the first exercise that I had mastered only this time when I heard the snap….something snapped. The pain radiated down my leg, up my back, across my ass and then everything went numb. As the tears welled up, believing that I had just made myself a card carrying member of the Christopher Reeves fan club, my dog came over and licked my face. This is significant for two reasons…in his eight years he has never licked anything other than his own ass and for the first time I didn’t care that he stinks. I accepted his compassion until thankfully the numbness gave way to great big waves of pain which at least told me that my exercise program had not crippled me. I managed to get back onto my feet and walked limped into the kitchen to find my Aleve.

I am calling Dr. Bates in the morning.

....walnuts and prunes

Sunday we pruned the black walnut tree in my yard. It was long overdue to be pruned, technically long overdue to be killed. It created shade where I did not want shade, it randomly threw walnuts at me, and worse than that it grew at such an alarming rate that I feared being ravaged by the branches with every windstorm. (ok so maybe ravaged is a bit strong, but allow me literary license here) I bought a tree pruner some years ago,  giddy with anticipation of this day. It is basically a saw attached to a stick and a rope. You pull the rope the saw….saws. When my son pruned little trees around the yard it cut effortlessly. When my son in law used it to trim branches near his pool….effective and effortless. But of course when we tried to use it, nothing was effortless or effective. In fairness, the branch was much bigger than we should have been cutting with my little pruner. A chain saw would have been a better choice, but we had dug the pruner out of the shed and my husband was still game to give it a go. And if you know my husband, when he is primed and ready to go….you go….or it’s gone! And this applies to many aspects of our…..ok never mind! As the little pruner saw-teeth dug into the bark and then into the flesh of the tree I could almost hear it laughing at us, mocking our feeble attempt at such a large branch with such a small tool. I stood on the deck directing as my husband sawed from the ground. Not much progress. He ventured into the new shed with the old shit and came out with a ladder. He leaned the ladder on the side of the tree, climbed several rungs and began sawing with a hack saw. (which to me, is just a stickless pruner) Again, little to no progress. He climbed higher on the ladder as I remained vigilant at my post on the deck, ready to declare when the branch was ready to fall. I felt that leaning the ladder on the very tree you are hacking at is a lot like the dentist asking you to hold the spit tray while he yanks your tooth out. But my husband didn’t think that the fence would hold both him and the leaning ladder so the tree will just have to hold the spit tray.

With the humidity soaring the mosquitoes began devouring my arms and legs even as I stood inches away from a citronella plant.  How they didn’t just drown in my sweat is beyond me. My husband sawed, rested, sawed and sawed some more. I watched, sweated and swatted. For two hours we (ha) worked on the tree until I came up with a great idea. Gravity! If I could get a rope around the branch of the tree and tug on it as he sawed, gravity would help pull the branch away from its trunk. (See why he married me?) I looked everywhere for a rope and the best I could find was bakery string, purple wool and lots of colorful loops. (The ones you used to make pot holders with when you were in camp) I went back out to a resting husband with the bad news. He said to use the hose. After flinging the hose and not even coming close to getting it around the branch, hitting myself in the face twice with the nozzle I thought it best we moved onto plan B. I found a stick that helped me pull the branch low enough so that I was able to hang on it. I held on and hoped that when the branch snapped it didn’t come down splattering my over-taxed brains all over the backyard.  The walnut tree would have loved that!

I hung, he sawed and the branch finally seemed to give way. I could hear the snapping of the walnut wood which gave me a sick pleasure that I am sure I should check out with a therapist. The branch began a slow decent. I announced from my perch that it was indeed on its way down and warned my husband to come down off the ladder in case it doubled back. Of course my husband was not only off the ladder already, but half way down the driveway. I’m here hanging on the damn branch and he is bracing for an avalanche. My euphoria was short lived. The huge branch and its many branch-lets (?) fell straight into the lilac bush that had grown into a lilac tree. And just like that we were at a standstill. The tree was winning. I saw it smile. The bark curled up into a grin, I am sure.  Or maybe I was just delirious from the 10,000 mosquito bites I had welting up. So the branch, now not quite hacked off, not quite attached was laying across my yard, over my deck and imbedded into the lilac bush tree. My husband, not quite exhausted, not quite so primed and ready anymore was laying in a beach chair pondering our next move. Me, I was just scratching and cursing.

I am a giver-upper. I know when I am beaten. I know how to throw in the towel. If it had been up to me I would have called our ridiculously overpriced gardener and paid to have the tree removed in the first place. But now it was principle. A friggin’ tree was beating me. Us. Two against one and we were still losing. My husband finally decided to get out of the beach chair and come upstairs to the deck where I hung precariously from the branch just moments earlier and help me get the branch out of the bush. He pulled and I pulled and yes, I think the tree pulled back. But in the long run that branch that housed rodent squirrels and gave shelter to pigeon coop escapees….went down. Feeling very vindicated (and sweaty and itchy) I opted to leave the branch sprawled across the back yard allowing the rest of the tree to suffer the indignation of its loss. Instead, as my husband cut the branch into manageable pieces, I came in to take a shower and maybe call a therapist.

stay! Nay!

Some moron came up with a word for having no plans to go away on your week off of work….STAYCATION! A clever combination of staying home and going on vacation. And then there are the morons like me who, because they gave it a catchy name, thought it would make sense to stay home on my one and only paid week off of work. It didn’t.

Counting the Friday I don’t normally work in the first place, and both weekends I haven’t been back at work for 10 days. Ten. One week and two weekends. Guess what I did with those 10 days. Laid by a pool sipping Mai Tai’s? Nope. Frolicked at the beach while getting sun kissed? Not so much. Strolled on the boardwalk with my husband in the cooling night breeze? OK let’s not get stupid now! Here are my ten days off, and if you are jealous, god help you.

Friday - My dog needed to go to the vet because he has allergies that make him stink and scratch and apparently deaf. (yeah, him and my husband…good God!) I had to cover the car seats with towels, lift his stinky ass into the car and waste most of Friday sitting in the vet’s office waiting room waiting for stinky to get washed, shaved (don’t ask) and medicated. $364 later I leave with a wet and shaved (I told you don’t ask) dog who refuses to get back into the car. After much coaxing (ahem!) he gets back into the car and immediately pukes just missing the towels. After cleaning the car in the 92 degree heat I needed a nap. When I awoke it was time to start frying. I had my niece’s block party the next day and offered to make a chicken dish that basically involves cutting, egging, breading and frying. I cut, egged, breaded and fried til my feet fell asleep and my knees went numb standing in front of the stove.

Saturday - I had planned to start the renovations on my bedroom that have been in the planning stages for weeks. Unfortunately I got up later then I wanted to and by the time I had coffee, read the paper and showered all I had time to do was vacuum the living room since the stinky dog’s bath had caused most of his shedding hair to….shed. I threw a load of laundry in, emptied the dishwasher, unclogged the toilet, set my DVR and off I went to my niece’s. After circling the block thirteen times, finally finding a spot only a block and a half away I realize I do not have the chicken. Back home with only a whisper of hope that the spot would still be there when I returned. Silly me! I parked, walked and finally planted myself in a beach chair and attempted to get shit faced on homemade sangria slurpees. Didn’t happen but it was great fun trying!

Sunday- Did nothing and was mind-numbingly bored. I watched two DVD’s both comedies, both stunk! Anytime an adult actor attempts to play a child in a movie, break the DVD! As the day progressed and the boredom took over, I was able to find more and more things my husband did to annoy me. Not a major feat mind you, but I was definitely on a roll.

Monday - Made a list. Put all the things I wanted to accomplish that day so that I could cross them out one by one and feel somewhat productive. I threw away the list when I started adding things like refill hand soap dispenser and check if the lone tomato I was able to grow on my Topsy Turvy was ripe yet. (it wasn’t ripe, it was gone….the squirrels had struck again) I went to the dry cleaner, the bank and the post office. I topped off this rousing day of festivities by going grocery shopping. By Monday night I was exhausted from all the day’s activities so I stayed in and watched DVR’d TV.

Tuesday - After Monday’s dismal showing and babysitting in the morning, I vowed to do something exciting. It was 92 and I wanted desperately to be on a beach. Everyone was either working, busy with other plans or hadn’t worn a bathing suit since 1974. Although I will do a lot of things alone, laying on the beach isn’t one of them so I began the bedroom renovations. I made one of my famous lists. That, unfortunately, took more time than I actually devoted to the room itself. I pulled off two pieces of paper that were already jumping ship and took a mirror and painting off the wall. Ok enough for today, this was boring and not what I wanted to be doing on my STAYCATION! (I hung the mirror and picture back up when I couldn’t figure out what to do with them.)

Wednesday - My daughter and I decided to go to the Staten Island Museum. Me, her and the four grandkids. We arrived to find the kids were afraid to cut across the grass since they had found and tormented a snake the last time they were there. I suppose they were afraid it was payback time, so we took the longer route on the brick path. (ok so it was only like 25 extra feet but hey it was hot out) The museum was wonderful and almost air conditioned. It was hard to avoid the 25 little girls with pink camp shirts and big attitudes. If one more pink chick knocked my granddaughter down they would have had to eject me. If one more counselor pretended they didn’t see their commie campers knocking down the dominoes my grandkids carefully set up to knock down themselves, I would have been in cuffs. We carefully navigated the rest of the museum so that at no time were we and the disrespectful cretins in the same exhibit room.

Thursday - I have no idea what I did today. I can assure you it didn’t involve the sun or sand or UV rays. I probably had my ass on the couch in the A/C . Oh wait, I do remember downloading two songs to my ipod and a book to my Kindle. Yee ha! Look out, livin’ on the edge now! And yes, if my memory serves me correct, I made 75 lollipops for a friend’s engagement party.

Friday - I shopped for the food I would cook later for my block party tomorrow. I had everything but the eggs delivered. The delivery guy is rough with the bags and this time I bought jumbo eggs for my special deviled eggs. (technically are made by my friend but since I took them from raw to hard boiled, I took the credit) I dropped the eggs. Twelve jumbo eggs on the kitchen floor. I salvaged what I could and asked her to do the same with the ones I could boil. I sliced eggplant, breaded eggplant and fried eggplant. I cut chicken, breaded chicken and fried chicken. If I never see another drop of oil it will be too soon. (Unless I am slathering it on my body in anticipation of baking in the sun.) Another feet numbing fry-fest….I was shot.

Saturday - Happy Block Party! From 9am until 9pm we sat and drank, talked and drank, laughed, ate and drank with the neighbors….most of whom I never met in the 24 years I have lived here. We wrapped each other in toilet paper, threw water balloons at our children, dodged bikes and scooters and skateboards. We climbed, slid, and bounced as men with three teeth apiece made us snow and cotton candy cones. We danced and listened to the DJ Nazi who announced that he had to leave at 9pm sharp and literally unplugged mid song! The cooler empty, the uneaten food that hadn’t gone rancid in the sun divided amongst the guests, and my feet were ready to revolt and simply not function anymore. I all but walked on my knees to my house. Refusing to wash a dish or do anything that resembled cleaning I planted my exhausted self on the couch. Thanks to my daughter and son in law, the block party was a huge success.

Sunday - Recovery. Slow, slow morning, coffee with a friend and the realization that my son (yes, the one that moved to Queens..sniff, sniff) had left a duffle bag here which I whole heartedly offered to bring to him. I sludged around for most of the day until it was time to leave for my son’s. Directions in hand, I got lost….found my way and thoroughly enjoyed an hour or so with my son in his still curtain-less apartment. (good thing they are on the 2nd floor )

I never got to my renovation project, never basked in the sun and did nothing that necessitated a post card….but I did go back to work today and truthfully I already miss my couch.

...gotta a marshmallow?

I have decided it is time to re-do my bedroom. My daughter bought me a beautiful bedroom set almost two years ago and as it sits in the corner looking sad as it peeks out of it zippered bag I wondered why I hadn’t used it yet. But I knew. It was because it would have been a sin to put such a beautiful set in such a crappy room. Many years ago I ‘decorated’ the bedroom. I sponge painted the eight wall-length closet doors to resemble a marbled effect. This was long before it was called ‘faux finishing’ and before Youtube had step by step instructions on how to accomplish it. It was also long before places like Home Depot held classes that no one attends on how to pull off this technique. So my closets look more like a sad mottled mess than the marbleized look I was going for. The walls were painted a light grey and I hung a border of pink and grey flowers. The curtains matched the border. It was a cross between Little House on the Prairie and My Secret Garden. Two pieces of border have started to show signs of mutiny as they hang on with ancient glue. The rug, before my dog added his little accent color, was grey on grey. How’s that for exciting??

Years ago we removed an air conditioner from the wall. The outside was covered easy enough by the new siding, but inside the bedroom was a void that I simply filled with crumpled newspapers and then plastered over. I think I saw that on This Old House, or maybe it was This House is Old…either way, it worked and I didn’t have to wait for or fight with Mr. Wonderful to get around to it. It wasn’t the best plaster job to begin with, but it got even worse when I wallpapered over the bumpiness. My solution, hang a mirror over the whole mess. And that worked too. Til now. The mirror with its, you guessed it…pink and grey flowers has to come down.

The ceiling fan that has been up pretty much since we bought the house 24 years ago has about 12 years of dust on it. (and they were worried about the air quality at ground zero…) I thought about taking down the fan and putting up some fun, sexy lighting…but then I thought who the hell has fun or sex in the…never mind.

I haven’t decided on a color yet. I thought maybe an accent wall, a nice bold green. Or burgundy. I went to Home Depot and saw colors like pistachio, mango madness and cappucino. It made me hungry. I avoided the section called Fall Colors since I assume come winter I will need to repaint. I found an entire section dedicated to Feng Shui and since I am pretty sure my Feng has no Shui left in it, I passed that up as well. There was the Zen section which is basically the equivalent of sitting around a campfire singing “Kumbaya my Lord” and making S’mores. Calm, tranquil, peaceful. I am not a very Zen-like person…for me it would end up looking the equivalent of finding out there are no more marshmallows and a bear has taken up residence in my sleeping bag. I found a wall of paint chips which were in the shape of Mickey Mouse ears. I took four of every color for my grandkids but saw nothing that worked for me. Paint shopping a bust, I came home to take another look at the room and considered wallpapering. Considered and then banished from thought as a momentary memory lapse allowed me to forget the bathroom wallpaper disaster.

My bedroom also needs corners…..there are no corners in my bedroom, at least none that aren’t filled with ‘stuff’. We have my husband’s valet that he bought because it had a pants presser feature. There has never been a pair of pants pressed or even remotely hung on that valet in 10 years. They sit puddled across the top. I would throw it out but then my husband would puddle his pants on the floor where the valet had stood. Trust me on this one. The other corner has a box containing a 20 foot Spongebob blowup, another of my husband’s idiotic eBay acquisitions. It has a hole so it sits in a box, in my room, in a corner, covered by a tablecloth, adorned with a vase. Spongebob is going down! (or maybe up…. into the attic) In another corner is a dress form which I bought years ago to facilitate my sewing projects. Since in order for a dress form to be useful, it needs to be adjusted to your exact measurements. I cried for over a week and then banished the portly dummy to the corner like some sick Time Out for being fat. There it has sat for over three years and other than scaring the hell out of my husband in the dark has few redeeming qualities.

The furniture will stay. It is still ghetto fabulous and besides all the drawers still work. I will need some artwork, some shelves and of course curtains. I am considering making the curtains since I do not need the assistance of my chubby assistant. Once I pick a color I will pick a fabric. Of course then I will need to decide curtains or drapes….single rod or grommet…swag or scarf….sheers or drapes….French or accordian pleats….or anything that doesn’t have little pink and grey flowers.

......leukemia and pig babies

My mother in law was in the hospital….again. We blamed the pacemaker. We blamed an ulcer. We thought it could be depression. Stress. High blood pressure. Low blood sugar. You name it we guessed it. Better to be safe then sorry….off to the ER.

Six hours and a tuna sandwich later they admitted her for tests. They thought it could be the pacemaker or an ulcer, possibly depression or stress. Her blood pressure too high, her sugar to low…so better to be safe than sorry they admitted her. Gee, I could have told them that.

After a two weeks in the hospital with no definitive diagnosis she was released and told to follow up with her doctors. The orthopedist, the cardiologist, the gastroenterologist and now, a new one…..a hematology oncologist. She called it her ‘blood doctor’ but I knew better. Apparently so did she since she asked everyone she knew if she had leukemia.  I assured her she didn't although I was just being optimistic and asked her if she had a health proxy.  She said, just let me die.  We both laughed.

We drove to the doctor who’s office was across the street from the same hospital she checks in and out of pretty regularly these days. There is never any parking, legal or illegal so we agreed I would just park in the lot. I pulled in and pressed the button and waited for the machine to spit out a ticket that in due time would be exchanged for somewhere upwards of $12. No ticket. Press. No ticket. Press. Nothing. I opened my window and motioned to the indifferent woman in the booth. She asked me to back up and use the other lane. The other lane wouldn’t give me a ticket either, and so, as if it was my fault she got out of her air conditioned booth and gave me a ticket and an attitude. I was on my best behavior for my mother in law, so miss attitude caught a break instead of my fist. We parked, took the elevator up to the ground floor and a second elevator bank. The doctor’s business card had no room or floor on it so I called the office. The exact conversation:

“Doctor’s office.”

“Hi, can you tell me what suite you are in?”

“Hold please.” almost 2 minutes later...

“Doctor’s office”

“Hi, I am downstairs, can you tell me what floor and room you are in?”

Silence. Dial tone.

“Doctor’s office”

“Hi, please, we got disconnected please just tell me what suite you are in?”

“I told you 4G ma‘am, I am busy here.” Click. Best behavior…best behavior.

The elevator door opened and we were hit with a blast of hot air. I flashed back on every fire safety lesson I have ever had as a child as I thought for sure there was a fire somewhere. I knew between my mother in law and myself, stop, drop and roll wasn’t gonna work as neither of us would ever be able to get up again and simply perish on the dirty carpeting in the hallway of the 4th floor. I peered down the hallway and saw no flames even though the heat was intense. We made our way to 4G which turned out to be a supply closet, but 4B had her doctor’s name on it so we entered.  (So much for the busy little receptionist with the thick accent and lousy attitude)

The office had a small waiting room where there were 4 people already seated and waiting. A knitter, a snorer and I assume her husband and a woman reading a book called How Successful People Speak, and then proceeded to belch out loud.  She's gonna need more than the book! As I filled out the new patient forms and sweat poured from my forehead, it was apparently clear what the heat was from….the air conditioning on this side of the building was not working. My mother in law who talks until you want to stick a metal rod in your ear and who is in denial about her hearing loss wanted to know why it was so ‘damn’ hot in there. After repeatedly explaining about the broken A/C, she turned to a me and said, ”I don’t think the air conditioning is working.”  Best behavior…best behavior.

After over a hour of fanning myself with a mammogram brochure and being told by the knitter that I was exhausting more energy fanning myself and therefore making myself hotter, I was ready to scream.  Thanks but no thanks for your unsolicited advice....go back to knitting your booties or blanket and let me sweat and fan in peace.  Listening to my mother in law's stories about life as a kid, complete with the one about the lady who got scared by a pig while she was pregnant and had a pig baby, prompted me to ask the receptionist from hell if she knew how much longer it would be. I found it rather suspicious that no one had been called, and all too soon found out that the doctor wasn’t even there yet.  Engineering showed up with a fan which would have actually helped except when they plugged it in it sparked and they whisked it away leaving us dripping and fanning ourselves once again.  (Well, I fanned... the knitter, knitted.) My mother in law who decided to talk to her captive audience about how many times a night she pees asked what happened to the fan.  I jokingly told her the air was fixed and she heartily agreed that it was feeling cooler already.  We were finally called to the rear office where we remained for another 40 minutes before the doctor came in.  This was an outing for my mother in law, a day away from her house....for me it was supposed to be my day off.  She rambled and I listened to her stories as intently as I could considering I hadn't eaten since 7am and my blood sugar was probably 12 and my body could no longer even produce a bead of sweat. 

The ‘blood doctor’ was about 4 foot 10 and looked disturbingly like the munchkin coroner from OZ.  He was Phillipine, looked Mexican, had a German name and spoke with an Italian accent.  Man I'd hate to see his family tree.  And it got worse. When he spoke it sounded like he had just inhaled a helium balloon, and as he continued to talk I continued to look for a hidden camera, Ashton and the Punk’d crew. He asked her in his shrill, high pitched Italian articulation how she was feeling. I wanted to scream HOT! But I didn’t, best behavior.  Best behavior. He gave her a clean bill of health, no blood disorders, no leukemia, nothing to warrant going to an oncologist, and no reason to make a follow up appointment. (ok I decided there was no reason for the follow up appt)  As I hurried my mother in law out of the office before she began to tell yet another ''life in the hills of Illinois" story I realized this had actually been a good day.  She was healthy, I had lost 6 pounds in the sauna office, I now knew not to expend energy by fanning myself and lunch was on her!   Hmmm, too bad I don't like lobster!

i'm melting, melting..........

I wasn’t born with the calm, cool or collected gene. I never said I was unshakeable, unflappable, or unexcitable. So it doesn’t surprise me in the least that it has taken me 4 days to even recount our Sunday outing to Madame Tussauds wax museum in Manhattan to see the Wizard of Oz 4D experience via the NYC subway system.

I think it was my idea. Maybe it was my daughter, the one that had the coupons. At this point I am willing to take the blame, err... I mean credit for this wonderful summer day in the city. (Midtown. Times Square. 96 degrees…..just a few points to consider)

I didn’t sleep the night before. I had nightmare after nightmare but nothing related directly to our decision to take the train in. Nothing related to the fact that the weatherman was calling for hot sticky humid mid 90’s. And nothing related to the fact that the last time I was on a train was 7 years ago and 22 years before that. Seven years ago we ventured into the city for a friends 50th and proceeded to meander around the city via urine soaked subway cars and menacing dank train platforms. And while the birthday weekend was a huge success, it was then that I swore off subways, trains, railroads, railways and basically anything I needed a metro card for. (I did however score a really cool subway line t-shirt as a reward for my fortitude, or perhaps it was to shut me up.) This time there were eleven of us, including my four grandchildren and the birthday girl herself. This time no t-shirt in the world was gonna help.

With no sleep, I showered and ate breakfast like I was gonna walk the green mile. Not exactly a fitting way to start a fun-packed Sunday with the family. We agreed to leave at 10 and meet at the subway station…which would have been fine if my husband hadn’t insisted my son in law take a parking spot that was 2 blocks away.   90 degrees

We all met in front of the train station to buy our metro cards. Only the birthday girl had one already.  Hmmmm?? Insert the bill, it comes out. Insert it again, nothing. Insert it upside down we get the screen to chose which card we would like to purchase. We chose, it can’t make enough change. We chose again and we finally have our metro card and the angry crowd building behind us is relieved. One by one we proceed to swine and enter. Swipe and enter. Swipe and….swipe and….swipe and nothing. Our metro card is not working and before my husband got locked up for defacing MTA property, birthday girl swiped her card and we entered. We opened the gate for the carriage setting off an ear-piercing yet unanswered alarm. So much for post 9/11 security. We climbed the stairs, which while still dank and foul smelling did not seem so menacing in the light of day. After a quick assessment of who had who’s hand and where each grandchild specifically stood, I took my first breath since the metro card purchase. And we waited for the train. When did they make the platforms so damn narrow? I think maybe, possibly someone said something to me, but I was vigilant at my post to protect my grandkids from becoming a horrible news headline….CHILD PULLED FROM TRACKS BY VIGILANT GRANDMA….. 91 degrees

It dawned on me that there was a possibility that the subway car would not be air conditioned but since standing on that platform any longer than necessary was not an option, no A/C and we were still getting on. Lucky us, air and seats. Not together, but do-able. My grandsons were further away from me than I would have liked when the entertainment entered the car. A homeless, drug addict magician who had metal rings that he attached himself to the poles with. Yay! Give the guy a buck and let him move on. My husband, who to this point was trying to look nonchalant with the whole experience (other than the metro card fiasco back in Brooklyn) was mesmerized by the digital map that counted off the stops we would be making. He stared up at it for most of the ride, announcing the stops much to the enjoyment of the other riders although it is doubtful that any of them spoke English. We were the only ’Americans’ and yet the only people who looked like tourists. Except maybe the birthday girl who remained just far enough away to feign anonymity. I blew her cover by taking her picture along with the grandkids, their parents and the magician. My husband announced our stop was next and I mentally prepared for the exodus and the hands that needed holding. Birthday girl was on her own. We made it up two flights of stairs, each one had exactly 13 steps. I counted. It kept me from screaming. The daylight and exhilaration of the 42nd street crowds made me smile. That and the fact that the museum was only a scant half block away.  93 degrees

For the price of the wax museum we could have gone to an all inclusive Punta Cana resort for the weekend, and that was with the coupons. The museum was packed with everyone from everywhere. Times Square is truly the crossroads of the world. Not a road I am too comfortable on, but I have bigger things to worry about…..like the trip home. Floor after floor we photographed the kids and ourselves hugging and yes at times grabbing our favorites. Birthday girl was disappointed that Rod Stewart had not made the waxing process yet and my husband admired Lady Di way too long. (if he told me once more about how he met her I was gonna shove him into her waxy figure)  The 4D OZ experience was wonderful perhaps because I am a huge OZ fan or perhaps because we were sitting in air conditioning and for the first time in hours I wasn't dripping from any body parts.

All geared up for the gift shop and the kids didn’t want anything. I wondered why. I found out moments later. We were going to the Toys R Us in Times Square where there are floors of toys to chose from. I made a feeble attempt to buy a $10 bag from a vendor en route but the sweat dripping off my nose stopped me from even considering a transaction out here in the heat. We made it to the world’s biggest toy store, with the world’s biggest indoor ferris wheel and the world’s biggest crowds. As the kids picked their souveniers I once again strategized our trip back to the subway station. Armed with the metro card that didn’t previously work, I swiped, we entered. No one but me was impressed. Following the signs to our train, I held on perhaps a little too tight to my grandson’s hand (I hope he wasn’t planning on playing the piano any time soon) when we realized that my daughter had stopped to use the rest room. THE REST ROOM IN TIMES SQUARE! Had I taught her nothing?! Note to self: administer penicillin    94 degrees

The platform was so packed that people were actually standing within the yellow line. The one they painted so that people would know that they were inches away from being dismembered by a 200 ton speeding piece of metal. The one that my son in law thought would be a good place to walk with the carriage to circumvent the wall to wall people all set to get on the same train as me and my ten pack. The train ride home was as eventful or uneventful as the ride in. My husband playing conductor calling out stops, the birthday girl sitting as far away as possible, and the kids watching the entertainment which this time was a sad rendition of La Bamba. A woman started eating rice and bean out of a Styrofoam container completely oblivious to the reeking subway stench. I silently mocked her only to find my daughter, the one that would be getting the pencillin shot, eating out of a zip lock bag. A snack she had brought presumably for her daughter.  95 degrees

We arrived back at the Brooklyn train station, set off the same alarm, said goodbye to those who found a decent parking spot and made our way to the car with me sweating and swearing and planning our next outing.

sorry fellas.........

On Wednesday evenings we put out the recycling in our neighborhood and other than having my green recycling bin stolen twice, I think it is very theraputic to clean out the old crappy magazines that are clogging up the magazine rack in the bathrooms.

For some reason I get like ten magazines a week. Some I ordered as part of a school ‘make the grandparents feel guilty” fund raiser, others were promotional ‘get one year free if you order NOW’, and others I have no idea where they came from but I am guessing my husband filled out one of those annoying little cards that they embed in the magazines. Mostly they are family type magazines filled with recipes and tips like how to look thinner in photographs. (Gonna take a lot more than standing sideways and bending a knee. At least for me.) Some of the magazines are craft magazines, which of course I ordered with all good intentions of becoming the next bohemian artist to show at a SoHo storefront. So that ain’t happenin’ either. I could have learned how to make a footstool in 10 steps or less a project I will never undertake no matter how few steps it takes. The only person I know that uses a footstool is my 82 year old Aunt Joy Mae from Illinois? A few of the magazines are my husband’s, all filled with Vettes, Lamborghinis and Aston Martins….he drives a Chevy Pick up and I have a Dodge….’nuf said. But my favorite magazine of all is my People, a gift subscription from a friend that I recently renewed. I can catch up on all the people that are getting married, breaking up, going to rehab, losing weight, gaining weight, looking good in a swimsuit, need to invest in a beach cover-up, ranted, raved, used the “N” word and crashed their car….and then when the neighbors and I are finished gossiping about each other I like to find out what the celebrities are doing. Hey, look at that….they are getting married, breaking up, going into rehab, losing weight…….

I found a few missing items at the bottom of the magazine rack. An earring that I swore I lost in a pool, which tells me that I was walking around for a few days with only one earring and no one bothered to tell me. I found an old wheat penny, which my husband collects and insists are worth money….yeah 2 cents. Maybe. And the biggest find was the stylus for my Nintendo DS game (and they say I’m not technologically forward, ha). I use the DS to keep my brain from atrophying by playing Brain Age while my legs and feet go numb from sitting on the bowl too long. (too much info, sorry!) The stylus has been missing forever and I had to use my nail to point and click to find out my true Brain Age. The lower the score the younger the brain. When I scored 39 I was happy…now if I get my true age I am thrilled. The brain has gotten old and tired in the wake of the missing stylus. Oh and I found a french fry. Since as far as I know my husband doesn’t snack in the bathroom I assume it was one of my grandsons.

I bundle the magazines with bakery twine and put them in my newspaper recycling bin. I take pride in the fact that the bin is almost half full already and I have two more bathrooms to do. I anticipate the finds at the bottom of those as well.

The bathroom in the basement which used to be my son’s apartment (she wipes a tear from her eye) has mostly year old magazines with naked women sitting on cars, naked women smoking cigars, naked woman wearing sports equipment, naked women in…well you get the idea. I dust them off and leave them there in the hopes that when next my son visits he will stay a bit longer…hopefully not in the bathroom the whole time.  Note to self: Grandsons cannot use downstairs bathroom.

The bathroom upstairs, I suppose if it were more conveniently located within my bedroom, would be called the Master Bath. But since it is at the top of the stairs it is simply, the upstairs bathroom.  That bathroom had the following:  A Beavis and Butthead sticker book….his not mine, no comment. *SAVE* A book on coin collecting, which while I had it out checked out those wheat pennies he neurotically collects. Yup, 2 cents. One particular year, 3 cents. He lied. *SAVE*  Union Life magazine….. basically a list of  union workers who died that month and how much their widows collected.  Seems a little gruesome to print a list like that, but I guess he just keeps checking to see if his name is in there. (when it is,  he can stop collecting his god damn pennies.) *TRASH * A People magazine from August 2009 with Kate Gosselin, pre-Dancing With The Stars makeover bitching and moaning about Jon and the media. Hellooo…..the media is the reason you are in my bathroom magazine rack in the first place and without Jon there is no little tribe to exploit, *TRASH* A catalogue for sheds…oh no ain’t going there again.  *TRASH* Another catalogue for sheds with things circled. *RIP AND TRASH* Three hard cover books made their way into the rack designed for magazine grade paper….The Life Story of Abbott & Costello, ditto Soupy Sales and TheYankee Years…his, his, mine. *SAVE*, *SAVE* and *SAVE* Two old Law Digest magazines that somehow made their way from the basement to the upstairs bathroom in pristine condition. I am guessing no one is reading them. *TRASH*  Another earring appeared, a Spongebob toothbrush, 3 pennies (none wheat), something that resembled a huge dead bug or a petrified prune but turned out to be something made out of plastic that melted into a blob, sixteen rubber bands and my husband's comb which he has been looking for since April.

The bathroom purging complete I tied the remain bundles and deposit them in the green bucket. Sorry fellas, you’ve used up all your relevance and it’s off to the big salvage yard in the sky. But then I realized it was Thursday and missed my recycling day. Guess they will just have to wait in periodical limbo until next Wednesday.