Salty the surfer dude.......

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

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

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

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

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

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

DINER 101

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

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

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

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

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

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

punky pink and the pits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yadhtrib yppah

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

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

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

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

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

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

snip snip snip

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

kiss me Kate...

     On April 29th along with the Royals, it was my daughter’s anniversary.  Eleven years.  Boy how time flies, seems just like yesterday I was trying to sell a kidney to pay for her wedding. I had seen Diana (Di to us in the loop...)and Charles’ wedding all those years ago….set the alarm, woke ridiculously early and watched it with my young daughters who could care less about weddings or even boys at that point. We laid on the bed and watched a small black and white TV and marveled at how long (and wrinkled) her train was. I remember attempting to explain to them that the back of the dress was called a ‘train’ as they voiced concern that a locomotive would be following her down the aisle. Fast forward to April 29th 2011...I DVR’d it, got up at a normal hour, pressed play and watched the wedding of Kate and William alone. The little girls who had joined me last time are all grown up with children of their own and I can assure you, none of them would mistake a ‘train’ for….well, a train!  Children have gotten way smarter!

The TV I watched it on has 52 inches of high definition color where zoomed shots were probably taken from two blocks away. A quick sighting of Prince Charles, father of the groom, and I thought wow he looks good…his marriage to Camilla must be a good thing….kept him young looking and he certainly has more hair than his son. William that is, Harry has hair like a poodle…must take after his moms side. The wedding under way, the car pulled up and the bride emerged…her face obscured by her veil. As she pulled and tugged at her train to free it from the car, along came several valets and bridesmaids to help her with the 25 foot wrinkled mess. And I thought…it must be some British tradition. To have a wrinkled wedding dress. Diana had it too. And the Queen, she looked pretty good as well…and then it dawned on me. I was watching a recap of the Charles and Diana wedding from 1981. (I though my high def was looking a little grainy) While Diana dragged herself down the aisle I went and made a cup of coffee. By the time I returned, like Dorothy stepping out of her Kansas doorway into Oz, the high def-I-can-see-every-blemish-and facial-hair-you-have…..was back…and so was Kate and William….and a much older Queen….and the father of the groom was suddenly an old man.

Kate’s dress was beautiful and not at all wrinkled. An Alexander McQueen fashion house design. Even after a successful suicide last year, McQueen is making money. Her sister/bridesmaid wore a simple and elegant skin tight painted on white dress with about a hundred buttons down the back. Good thing she was as slim as her sister or that could have been one button popping disaster waiting to happen. I bet that would have kept the Royals hopping! William, though sporting the friar tuck balding pattern looked handsome in his pajamas dress uniform. (do the Brits not believe in tuxedos, vests, cummerbunds??) I wore a hat to my wedding. So did my bridal party. Ok they looked more like bonnets, but they were hats….I like to think I was way ahead of my time. At Kate and William’s everyone wore a hat. Some quite stylish and some frighteningly reminiscent of a side show I once saw in Coney Island. All the newspapers were heralding the hats as the best part of the British tradition. Then someone in the editorial department surely missed the one that looked like a bow or was it a pretzel? Sarah Ferguson (Fergie to us in the loop…) didn’t get an invite so it was up to her two daughters to embarrass the family a tad more and they did her proud with that hideous headgear.

They showed people singing, people pretending to sing and those that just held the song book in case the camera panned around to them. They showed Elton John singing. His partner next to him. Who was watching the newly adopted baby I wondered? The men all wore very colorful military uniforms that I have never seen on any battlefield in any country. (have to admit I haven’t been to many battlefields lately though) The Queen wore canary yellow. With a matching hat of course. And held onto her pocketbook like she was in a Brooklyn mall.

The bride and groom looked both radiant and nervous. I left them reciting there vows and William nervously trying to get a too small ring onto Kates finger, to make another cup of coffee and some toast. This whole British wedding thing was making me hungry for tea and crumpets or even scones….but I had to settle for two pieces of pumpernickel bread and a second cup of coffee.

I put on the TV in real time. I got to see them kiss. Well…peck. The crowd went wild. They pecked again. Again the crowd went wild. And for some reason all I could think of was when the newly chosen Pope came out on the balcony of the Vatican, his ring got more lip action from his bishops then Kate got from William. (Wills to us in the loop…)

I turned off the TV. I had had enough of the Royals for one day….and besides my pumpernickel toast was ready and my coffee getting cold.

me and julio.....

I went to the mall Saturday to buy my nephew a gift. I know, I know…we’ve been through this before…never ends good. But since an eBay seller I originally ordered his gift from screwed me up at the last minute and I knew exactly what I wanted at the mall I attempted it prepared to fight the good fight and make it out unscathed.

I won’t bother to mention the store I went to since that would be giving them undue publicity and they recently “regrettably” informed me that they would not be renewing my credit card. (Seems I didn’t use it enough or pay on time…or both). I found a shirt for my son that looked interesting but it was hung way higher than I could possibly reach and the only people around were two Mexicans who made me look like I wore stilts. I made my way over to the cashier counter and asked an extremely tall kid who was busy texting even as he struggled to keep a bag full of hangers contained with his one free hand. I told him of my plight and he said he would be right over. As I stood there I watched him, still texting, drag the hanger bag in the opposite direction at a speed that defied logic. Any slower and he would have been asleep. He glanced once over his shoulder at me standing like the fool I felt under the sky high rack. Out of desperation I used a hanger and knocked the shirt down.

As I continued shopping I noticed that the line was relatively short and I thought to myself that the curse has finally been broken, my horrific mall experiences have come to an end. I found exactly what I wanted relatively fast and made my way to the cashier. The line suddenly was twenty deep. I sucked it up and got on the end of the line. Anticipating a longer wait than I expected I reached for my cell phone to catch up on some phone calls and to distract me from the fact that I was the only English speaking person within a 30 foot radius. Of course, as luck would have it I left my cell phone in the car. So I stood there as patient as I could possibly muster….waiting my turn. A lovely Spanish family with a twin stroller got on the line behind me. We exchanged several smiles (the universal language) as little Julio reached from his stroller to yank on my pocketbook. More smiles as he repeatedly and purposely kicked me in leg. And even more smiles as he threw his bottle filled with an odd green substance. I killed three minutes just trying to figure out what the hell poor little Julio had in his bottle and was it the reason I now had an urge to whack the little Hispanic rug rat. Thankfully little Juanita in the other stroller seat was asleep. The two slug-like cashiers got even slower. It was now 7 minutes on line with no movement. None. The Russian man in front of me started to loudly mumble in his native tongue. Since I am fluent in nothing but English, and can glimmer only a tiny bit of Spanish and Italian…I had no idea what Igor was saying but I am guessing it was something along the lines of…’what the hell is taking these slug-like cashiers so long….! I shifted the clothes from one hand to the next as the hangers imbedded themselves into my flesh. I shifted from one leg to the other hoping to distribute my weight so that my ‘good’ knee didn’t join my ‘bad’ knee in the throbbing that was now starting.

Oh goody….little Juanita woke up! She made Julio look like a choirboy. She cried and yelled and pinched her brother making him cry and yell and mom and dad still smiling those universal smiles started to sing to them. Yes, sing. In the store….on the line behind me. You have not lived until you have heard a Justin Beiber tune sung thirteen times….with a Spanish accent. Oh Babeeee Babeeee…jeez, kill me now! I was now the tenth person on line and saw that they added another cashier. Yay! or not. She wasn’t ‘another’ cashier, she was a ‘replacement’ cashier. So in the time it took for them to exchange the money drawers, sign out, sign in and organize the work space I could have brought about world peace. Igor was clearly agitated now and as he yelled into his cell phone I could tell he was planning to go back to his mother country and instigate a mall bombing. (that or he was just as pissed as me that we both thought it a wise idea to brave the mall on a Saturday afternoon).

As the concert behind me continued, Julio and his demon sister cried, and Igor stood huffing, I saw that I was now only 6 people from the register. The anticipation was maddening. After almost a fifteen minute wait, I noticed that the size on one of the items I bought was wrong. Since I had to go back and get the right size I needed to ask someone to save my spot in line. I turned to the singing couple and asked if they could save my spot since I picked up the wrong size. They smiled those blank smiles back at me and I wasn’t sure if they understood or not. OK? I asked. Nothing, just smiles. I tapped Igor on the shoulder and told him the same thing hoping for a clearer response and got a mouthful of words that meant nothing to me as I am sure mine meant to him. I got off the line anyway. I ran as fast as my now atrophied knees would allow, got the right size and went huffing back to the line. Nothing had changed. No one had moved. As I inserted myself back into the line I wondered if anyone even knew where I had gone. Or why.

 

Three people to go and Igor left. (Sorry Igor, was it something I said?) A woman with a ridiculous amount of clothes slung across her arm was at the register. As the cashier finished taking her cash she started the daunting task of folding each item before bagging them. She wasted spent 8 minutes folding and piling the clothes before jamming them into a bag too small for so many items. I knew this took 8 minutes, not because I had a watch or a cell phone to look at, but because I counted to 60...8 times. There was little else to do. I finally made it to the cashier, spent another minute telling her that I did not want to sign up for the charge card that I already had and somehow lost, paid and left. I had been in the store for 67 minutes….37 of them on line. I love my nephew!

Ooohh Oogoo!

For years I was a smoker and wouldn’t even consider leaving the house without my little 5 inch pack of comfort. I quit years ago and in addition to kicking the nicotine habit, I needed to replace my crutch with another little 5 inch square of comfort….a cell phone was my drug of choice. Considering there is hardly a human being alive that doesn’t have a cell phone that might not seem like such a big deal, but I have tried to quit cold turkey….and the fact that it is harder to leave my phone home than it is to beat an addiction is a little upsetting to say the least.

Consider this: We have always found ways to communicate with each other. It started long ago when cavemen chiseled messages to each other in the cave walls, (a precursor to graffiti) alerting each other of danger, location of food sources and how to get Oogoo the cave slut to lose the loincloth. Since rock etching was time consuming, just plain nasty on the hands and Vaseline hadn’t been invented yet, a new form of communication had to be invented…..and as time marched on it was.

Smoke signals. Chiefs and squaws alike first had to learn how to make fire. After stealing Sacagawea’s blanket to extinguish the dinner fire, they fortuitously discovered that it made puffs of smoke rise high into the air where neighboring tribes could see. Puff puff puff…beware of white man selling beads. Puff puff puff….juicy buffalo nearing the watering hole. Puff puff puff….Oogoo the Indian slut likes warm Wigwams. Same story different medium! The tribesman could hardly breathe after one ‘conversation’ at the campfire so a new form of communication had to be invented….and as time marched on it was.

The telegraph….a series of dots and dashes that translated into words. The problem with the telegraph was that there were just too many wires and most people didn’t have one….therefore dot dot dot, dash dash dash and no one was listening. When Marconi finally invented the wireless telegraph it made communicating much easier. Dot dot dot….the ship is sinking. Dash dash dash….looks like we’re having shark for dinner! Dot dash dot….check out the humongous dots on Oogoo the seafaring slut. With so many dot and dash combinations to memorize it was just a matter of time before a new form of communication was invented…and as time marched on it was.

Sign Language. A series of hand gestures that convey a message without words. (Needless to say some ‘gestures’ are universal and used more often than others) Finger-hand-hand….wash hands before leaving rest room… Hand-finger-hand…..Betty Sue is serving finger sandwiches….Finger-finger-finger….Oogoo the deaf slut likes it LOUD! With all that gesturing, long conversations were exhausting so a new form of communication had to be invented….and as time marched on it was.

Telephones. First a crank, then a rotary, then a push button model that had glow in numbers. They came in several colors including beige, white and black. Cords, longer cords and then finally for us people that couldn’t possibly stand that close to the phone base for the length of a conversation, the cordless. Dial dial dial….Global warming is real. Dial dial dial….Key Food has a sale on canned goods. Dial dial dial….Oogoo the phone sex slut overcharges at $2.99 a minute.

And then finally they invented the cell phone. A variety of shapes and sizes, flip, no flip, touch screen, GPS, internet, wi-fi, sci-fi, hi-fi. Whatever one you have, it has become part of you. An extension of your hand….of your ear. Don’t try to deny it. Try leaving home without it. Go ahead, leave it on the kitchen counter, in the car…the ‘other’ coat pocket……Aside from feeling like you’ve abandoned your best friend…you’ll never know when you’ll need to dial 911, or directions to the great new Italian restaurant…or most importantly what Oogoo the bluetooth slut is doing on Saturday night.

#$%&!

I gave up cursing for Lent. I don’t do it often, but when I let loose I am worse than a drunken sailor. (I don’t actually know any sailors but I have met a few drunks in my day) It was that or gum which I didn’t feel was very sacrificial….or playing Lotto like my co-worker did, or Facebook like my neice. (ok, so that ain’t happenin’) Thought about abstaining from chocolate but I already gave that up when my son got engaged and set the wedding date a mere year away. (at a pound a week I could be 52 pounds lighter….ok so maybe I can convince him to wait 6 more months…maybe 9.…a year tops!) I considered giving up texting which I think would actually be therapeutic but again, not something God is sitting up there saying…’Wow save her a spot, she put away her QWERTY keyboard for a whole 40 days’…..

I started off good. I didn’t curse or even think of cursing as the ashes were put on my forehead. I didn’t curse or even think of cursing as my dog decided it would be a good time to chew the insoles out of my sneakers while I was getting ashed. I didn’t curse or even think of cursing the next night when I walked 2 blocks in the pouring rain to see La Cage on Broadway (because my husband finds it necessary to street park, facing downtown or west…I don’t ask, I just drive and park) I didn’t curse or even think of cursing (ok that’s a lie right there, I didn’t but sure as hell wanted to) when the usher took us to our seats only to find out they added little bistro tables in front of us making our front row orchestra seats….2nd row I-cant-see-a-damn-thing-over-the-peoples-head seats.  I said nothing as one by one men came out dressed like woman and had better legs than me.  I smiled and clapped curse free as the woman in front of me tilted her head back and forth like some bobble-headed car ornament and as I did the same to see the stage,  I am sure the guys behind me were cursing at me. And speaking of the guys behind me, as they held hands and nuzzled, they laughed hysterically and way too loudly as the men/women came out with their tucked up ‘jewels’ and yet not one curse came to my lips.

Today however brought a new series of circumstances I will ill-prepared for.  I was driving on a service road and needed to merge into traffic.  No one was letting me in. I guess all the rain had soggied their brain and now with the sun shining they were determined not to let another living sole in front of them, even if there was a red light up ahead.  I put my blinker on. I nudged my bumper into the lane, and as cars honked frantically to let me know they were NOT going to let me in THEIR lane I felt an ever so slight curse bubbling up to my lips. I swallowed hard and continued to merge.  I made it in front of a man who had decided that if he honked at me long enough I would simply pull out of his lane and let him get back in front of me.  What the *&$!?   When I got to the corner he zipped around me and open window to open window he let me have it.   Both barrels. Names I haven’t been called in…well, ever! And here it was, the beginning of the end. My Lenten promise not only broken but destroyed. I started calling him names that would have had the gay guys from last night blushing.  That the dancing men/women on stage would have giggled at.   But Mr. My Lane wasn’t laughing. I added adjectives to every curse and verbs to every adjective.  I told him what to do with what body parts and with who. (or is it whom?) And then just when I thought I couldn’t have sunk any lower, I wished him dead. During lent……I am going to hell.

I recovered from that debacle vowing to regroup and remain curse free for the remainder of the Lenten season.  38 more days, not counting Sundays.  I could do it!  I went to Key Food. The lot was empty.  I parked, went inside for less than 15 minutes and came out to find a car parked three inches from my driver’s door.  The lot was still empty.  30 spots and this one needed to park on top of me. (was this I test I thought to myself?)  I kept my cool, looked at the make and model of the car and went to ask the manager to request the owner move the car. I went back out to wait for the owner.  I had to pee.  A woman came out talking on her cell phone, her keys and groceries in hand and walked over to her car.  Before she got in I said, ‘you really didn’t need to park so close to me, look at all these spots….I couldn’t get in my car’........What I wanted to say was “you are so damn lucky that I didn’t just slam my door up against yours and squeeze my fat ass in-between leaving a nice fresh dent on your pretty little Nissan.”  I refrained…God is watching I thought….it’s a test…it’s a test! Without blinking an eye she turned to me and accused me of taking up two spots, which I clearly was not…especially since there were 28 other spots for her to pick from.  “Are you kidding me?”  I said. (I know, I know… lousy come back, but when your hands are tied by this whole Lenten thing you are limited!) She got in her car and backed out, still talking on her cell phone, almost hitting my car and me….and then smiled!  That was it…I failed the test. Hell, even God would have to understand this one.  I let loose with a string of curses I didn’t even know I knew. I started off slow, calling her a jerk, an ass, a whore. Standing alone in the parking lot, I moved onto more descriptive words and just as I was whipped into a frenzy that even I was amazed at…..it started to rain. God’s way of marking my test paper…F!

I am giving up gum for Lent. God will understand.

Buckle up!

After attempting three times to go to Macys to return something I got for Christmas that was too small (surprise, surprise), I finally made it there today. With two of my grandsons. Going to Macy’s which is nestled inside the Kings Plaza shopping center is an adventure all in itself. Going with two kids under ten is another. Before heading off to the mall we feasted (and I use the term loosely) on Papa John pizza. My husband saw a sign for $5 pick up only pies. So pick up only…he did! And he had a $15 gift card which meant he has over $4 credit still left on the card. Yee Ha! Made his day, free pizza and cash back…life is good! The grandson that weighs less than a hummingbird ate most of one pie…crust and all. My other grandson spent most of the time pulling most of the cheese off since he doesn’t like cheese or the crust. He made my dog very happy, my husband a little disconcerted and the starving children in Ethiopia more than envious.

We left for the mall with all good expectations of returning an item, possibly buying a bigger item and of course, the Cookie House. I asked them to buckle up, check the buckle and were they sure they were buckled up until they both said “you asked us already, Grandma”. Which was the polite equivalent of “shut the hell up you neurotic old woman.“ We pulled into the mall’s outdoor parking lot which a lot of people don’t know exists. It is called the roof. Still costs you $3 to park there, but you don’t risk being slaughtered for your fake but oh-so-realistic Coach bag. As we pulled into a parking spot a car pulled in along side of us. Now let me just preface this with the fact that I know I am paranoid nut when it comes to my grandkids, and as a true New Yorker, I watch who is next to me and behind me…tenfold when I have my grandkids with me. The car that pulled in next to me pulled in too close, too fast and well, too in synch with my car. (paranoid, remember?) I looked over to find that sitting in the passenger seat was a woman who looked exactly like the scary old woman in House on Haunted Hill. (For those of you who have never seen the original version, see it, worth the watch) My grandkids were instructed not to open the car doors until the Hill House woman was long into the mall.  My hand kept locking and re-locking the doors just in case this woman who was probably just some sad ugly little woman having a bad hair day….turned into a psycho killer.

Clear of dangerous car parking patrons we entered the mall through the Sears entrance. The kids immediately ran to a Sesame Street display which goes to show that Elmo and Big Bird, like Mickey Mouse will never go out of style. They had fun playing with the figures as I kept a guarded eye out for any pedophiles, child snatchers and the Hill House lady who clearly must be  lurking nearby.  All no shows, we were good to move on through the exercise equipment and TV screens to the escalators. One time many years ago my husband and I saw a little girl get her sneaker lace caught in the escalator teeth. He knew where the off switch was, switched it off and went on his merry way allowing the parents to comfort their child after thanking him profusely. Like Superman turning back into Clark Kent.  My hero……sort of!  Anyway, ever since then no matter where we are, or with whom….he recalls that story and several others about kids getting their toes chewed off by escalators.  It is for that reason if I had been any stronger I would have physically carried them on the escalator much to their embarrassment. Instead, I repeated ad nauseum (do you have your seatbelts on?) make sure your laces are tied (tricky when your sneakers have Velcro closures) you stand in the middle of the step, and don’t let your pants drag….and amazingly we made it to the third floor where we exited Sears and entered the mall. Phew!

Macy’s is on the exact opposite side of the mall from Sears. I planned our route giving the kids the option of which stores they would like to pass. They could care less. We passed a toy store where they ran to the display of wrestling figures. I offered to buy them. They politely refused. We passed a baseball cap store where my grandson immediately tried on a Mets cap. I offered to buy it for him. He politely refused. We went into Hallmark where their Easter display included a Donald Duck dressed as a rabbit that danced and quaked. Adorable. I asked if we should buy it for Easter…..they refused. What the hell is wrong with these kids?? I will speak to their mother later.

We arrive at Macy’s un-accosted and even  survived the escalator ride with toes intact. Although the line was rather long the kids entertained themselves looking at a Macys display that changed pictures depending on where you stood. Back and forth in front of the display for the entire time it took Shalimarinka (I kid you not!) to do the return.   Cards bought and returns done all that stood between us and the Cookie House was a final escalator ride and a possible encounter with the Hill House lady. We walked out of Macy’s and towards the Cookie House passed the kiosks that sold everything from jewelry to t-shirts and cell phones to CHICKEN LITTLE hats! That’s right, crocheted hats that looked like every character including Spongebob, Elmo and Chicken Little. The man selling the hats saw our interest and immediately came over and put hats on both of my grandkids as I protested apparently not loud enough. These hats, adorable as they may be, have probably been deposited on every passing head with reckless disregard for sanitary conditions of any kind. I envisioned little critters lurking in the woolen caps crawling out onto my unsuspecting grandsons heads not to mention the $30 price tag.   I abruptly pulled off the hats without explaining my urgency and let them just chalk it up to grandma the neurotic. (I can live with that, I’m used to it!)

Finally the Cookie House! A banana-strawberry smoothie, bottle of water and half a pound of chocolate chip cookies $13.50 plus tax….now I know why they didn’t want the wrester, ball cap or duck! As they happily munched on cookies and slurped the smoothies we made our way back to Sears, up the escalator and to the roof.  Hill House lady was never sighted and her car was gone when we got to mine.   Put your seatbelts on.   Are they on?  You sure?

As Seen On TV

Sooooo I have been sick for over a week. Flu, head cold, virus…whatever! Doctor basically had no idea and treated it as such. I took Tylenol for the pounding headache (because I couldn’t reach the Aleve), a Walgreen’s brand cold pill for the congestion (because I am cheap and believe that you really pay for the brand name), sugar free cough lozenges for the hacking sleep robbing cough and I drank more orange juice than a diabetic should. And I still suffered with a cough, headache and congestion for over a week. So maybe I could have saved my self some money and a diabetic coma….next time I am doing it cold turkey.

While I suffered through the symptoms of what ever the hell I had, I watched TV. I watched shows that not only had I never watched before but never knew they were on. There isn’t a lot to do once you drop the remote and can’t move a muscle to retrieve it. You watch what is on next. And next. And next….. until you fall asleep or someone comes to your rescue. No one did. They were leaving me alone. So I could sleep. Which I did. More sleep than I have had in the last two months.

As I watched TV through my drug induced, fever blurring, weakened state I began to take on a new life‘s goal. I wanted to donate everything I own to Marlo Thomas for the kids with cancer, I wanted to rent power tools and build something like a bookcase or basically anything that used a piano hinge like the TV guy that has a woodworking shop in his garage, I wanted to redo, revamp, or rearrange every room in my house like Nate Berkus, (an Oprah show spinoff) and I even wanted to learn how to play poker late late at night for high stakes with pseudo-celebrities. I wanted to be a Victoria Secrets model or at least make the cover Sports Illustrated. (drug-induced, remember?)

I was forced to watch commercials. Did you know that your average half hour show is really 26 minutes of commercials and 4 minutes of actual show? Ok that may be an exaggeration but it is pretty damn close. And the later the show is on, the more commercials there are. And the more commercials there are the more stuff they sell. And the more stuff they sell the shittier the stuff. And the shittier the stuff the more I wanted to buy it. I think their target market is the drug induced, fever laden, remote droppers. Gotta be, I bought two As Seen On TV items the minute I could reach the phone and my credit card. Shit I don’t need or necessarily want, but they said I should need it and I should want it, so I do. In my weakened state I caved.

I read the credits. I know the producer, co-producer, and executive producer. I know who the creative producer is although I am not sure what any of them do individually. I know the names of all the cameramen, soundmen and set designers. I know where they filmed, who they thanked for letting them film there, and who died and got the show dedicated to them. The scrolling words lulled me in and out of sleep. That, the Nyquil and the six pills I was now taking.

By day four I was upright but not mobile. My head no longer felt like I got hit by a bat. It no longer felt like I was swallowing razor blades, and my ears stopped ringing. But try to stand up and the room spun. I sat upright on the couch. The chair. The floor. But no matter where I planted myself, my head instinctively chose to flop over. It was easier to lay down than to prop my head up with pillows. I basically slept for two more days. By day six I was able to stand up although now my ears were closed and I could hear about as good as my husband.

“Sit up, your ears will drain” he suggested every fifteen friggin' minutes.

“Sit up, it works for me.”

(What part of you are still deaf don’t you get?…sitting up hasn’t helped you and it won’t help me. Leave me alone and hand me the remote….Obviously I get cranky when I am sick.)

Days 7, 8 and 9 are a blur. I had the audacity to leave the house for two hours and completely relapsed. (ok it was cold and raining and not the best choice I have made recently) Back again…the throbbing head, the raw throat, the chest rattling cough….and the TV. This time I hung on to the remote for dear life. I wondered what sick people did before TV. Before radio. I figured it was the reason peopled died so much younger years ago. If I had to lay on the couch or in bed without so much as a radio to distract me, I would have sucked down heart stopping doses of medicine just to pass the time. I loved having the remote. I zipped through the commercials and credits. I raised and lowered the volume just because I could and slowly I started feeling better….again. This time I did not go out and risk another set back.

I am back to normal (ha!) again with little more than a red nose and a lingering cough…..oh and a Slanket (the cheaper version of the Snuggie), the ShamWow economy pack and Easy Feet Shower Slippers.

may the force be with you.....

Like the rest of New York City and pretty much the whole eastern seaboard I have had it with the snow. I don’t have to commute to work, I don’t have babies that need milk nor do I have a husband that works for the much maligned Sanitation Department…but still I hate THIS MUCH snow. I hate it for a myriad of reasons.

Since I was 12 I have never been able to get boots over my calves. Not the stylish ones anyway. Sure the hideous ankle length ones that look like snow tires on the bottom…the ones that leave just enough room for the snow to creep up and over the top and fill the boot with frigid snow and cause frostbitten ankles…those I can get.

The snow has scared the birds away from the feeder that my husband hung outside my kitchen window so that I can watch the cardinals, blue jays and even woodpeckers come and happily peck away. Instead I get to watch the damn rodent squirrels gnaw on the birdhouse so that they can get to the food that is meant for little beaks. I chase them so often that they are no longer alarmed by my idle threats and I think I even saw one of their grey little paws give me the finger!

I have never walked my dog. Well not never, but not often...he goes in the yard. Sad but true. It gives Mr. Wonderful something to do on Saturday mornings. Scoop the Poop. Sweep the Heap. Trap the Crap. No matter what you call it, that’s his job. I feed the dog…we’re even! However, with the snow, my faggy ass dog wont go down the steps to the yard. He pretends that it is his arthritic legs that keep from plotting a course down the snow covered stairs, but when my granddaughter has anything edible his arthritic legs work miraculously well as he chases her around the house waiting for a crumb to drop. Say Halleluiah!! Instead he wants to circle and squat on the deck outside my kitchen. Like the squirrels before him, he has learned that my threats to throw him down the stairs are idle ones. So as he circles, I leave the room so as to give him some privacy. I then throw snow on it. Hey, it works….til my pooper scooper gets home from work.

I look hideous in hats. Ditto ear muffs. Double ditto hoods. Some people look cute in hats, me…not so much!   Ear muffs make me look like Princess Leia and while the 'brothers' can pull off a hoodie and look menacing, I just look like a mess.   Dr. Oz says you lose a lot of body heat through your head…*&%# you Dr. Oz, have you seen me in a hat??

My gloves all have holes in the fingertips from my nails. Besides it is close to impossible to turn a doorknob, tie a shoe or text while gloved. I know they now sell fingerless gloves for that reason, but it seems a little pointless to have warm palms and frozen fingertips. So mainly I go gloveless and risk frozen fingers rather than have someone receive a text from me that looks something like this: hlsm dkeii fjsslklk : )

I have lost three scarves already this winter. I have no idea where I lose them, but I think that I leave them slung over diner chairs where they eventually become a nice gift for the waiter’s wife or they have fallen off the closet hangers into the bottomless pit of my coat closet. They will not be seen again til spring when the winter coats are packed away. Even the knitted one my niece made me, which grew longer and longer each season as it stretched under its own weight….missing! I especially liked that one because it was so long it hung out from under my jacket which for some reason annoyed my anal retentive boss. I wore it often, maybe for that very reason.

With this much snow, even if I dug out my car, even if I was able to navigate the street corners without sliding, even if I could find somewhere to park when I got to said destination….what do I do when I get home to find someone took the parking spot I exhaustingly dug out with frozen ankles, frostbitten fingers and a sub-zero skull? I know you can’t save spots (although I have tried with garbage cans which were moved…grrr) and I know that if I found a spot somewhere else I couldn’t give a rat’s ass who dug it out (ever wonder where that expression came from and what the hell it even means??) but the thought of being faced with that dilemma causes me to stay put. Which leads to another dilemma. I have no excuse not to clean my house. So as I watch the snow fall outside I see all my excuses fall away as well.

 

I have amazing neighbors.  They are super shovelers and although I haven't really tried too hard, I can't seem to get out there before them.   Before the last flake falls, before the weatherman says it is over, our walks are shoveled and salted.  Our steps are cleared and even our WELCOME mats are hung over the railing to dry.  The problem with this wonderful situation is simple...guilt.  As I sit nursing my second cup of coffee they are shoveling and chopping.  As I step from my hot shower they are back revving up the the snow blower for yet another go at it.  I feel so guilty that I am not out there freezing with them, although apparently not guilty enough to don a pair of Princess Leia muffs and a shovel. 

Morgan and me

Some time ago I made a bucket list. A bucket list for those of you who‘ve never heard of one, is a list of things you want to do or accomplish before you die. Before you ‘kick the bucket’. I put things on there that were easily attainable, just so that I didn’t feel like a total failure on my death bed as I reviewed the list and fell miserably short of the accomplishments I had aspired to. I also put things on that list that I know will never come to pass….like climbing the stairs at the Parthenon ruins in Greece. Since I have trouble navigating the nine steps to my front door, that one will probably not have a check mark next to it. The most achievable ones I put first. The harder ones further down, and the ones that quite frankly ain’t gonna happen are last. Again I figured, struggling to read my list as I drooled my last drool….I would be dead by the time I reached the bottom of the list and never realize I missed a few.

 

Some people have New Year resolutions…promises that they will do something to better themselves, their lives or the lives of someone else. My list is totally self serving. It is stuff I want to do, because I want to do it. For me. Only me. Selfish. Nice resolution I have…to be more selfish in 2011.

The obvious ones made the list too, in no particular order. Lose a ton of weight. (…almost literally) I also want to write a book, play the piano, patent something, and skydive. (pity the poor instructor who will be strapped to me as we hurl towards earth) I want tickets for Saturday Night Live, see Venice before it sinks or the rats take over the entire city, share a song with Barry Manilow, a beer with Stephen King and a bed with Keifer Sutherland (in Jack Bauer mode). I want to buy something from an auction house like Sotheby’s or Christie’s, learn to do yoga correctly (without serious injury to myself or others), and I want to donate a million dollars to a deserving charity, which of course is preceded by…I want to win the lottery! Somewhere on the list is the need to learn to dance, the basics….the cha cha, samba, merengue and maybe even the hula. (god knows I’ve got the hips for it) I want to go skiing or at least find a pair of ski boots that will fit over my calves. And speaking of calves, I want to milk a cow and own a pot-bellied pig.

I want to learn to speak Italian, and while my Rosetta Stone DVD is a great learning tool I can still only say “L'uomo con il cappello nero siede sul cavallo marrone” which loosely translated means, ‘the man with the black hat sits on the brown horse”. And while I am quite proud of that accomplishment it will be rather hard to fit into a conversation. I want to start an online business selling something I invented and patented making me a millionaire which in-of-itself would take care of three listed items.  I want to see the pyramids in Eygpt (are there pyramids anywhere else now that I think about it?), Mount Rushmore and Graceland.   Tut, Roosevelt and Elvis....how's that for diversity?  I want to write a  column for a daily newspaper...maybe in Italian? 

There was a movie (aptly named, The Bucket List) with Jack Nicholson and that wonderful black actor I always think is Samuel L Jackson, but it isn’t….ummmm he was in Shawshank Redemption, Se7en, Driving Miss Daisy …..got it, Morgan Freeman. Two men, terminally ill who because of one’s wealth get to live out their bucket lists. Unfortunately I am not wealthy, but fortunately not terminal either. So although my list will be checked off a little slower I am determined to continue to check things off. So far, I got…..nothing.