Posts
I used to read Cosmopolitan magazine. I even had a subscription for a few years, and had that perfume scented, glossy paged, advertisement filled thing delivered right to my door. Since my memory is not what it used to be, I can't seem to quite pinpoint exactly when it was that I stopped reading it, but I know now that it must have been many years ago.
Last week I tossed a copy onto the belt at the check out counter. Maybe it was for old time's sake. Well, or maybe it was because the cover screamed "TOTAL BODY SEX (these bed-shaking techniques will have any man quivering with pleasure from head to toe)" on one side, and "YOUR ORGASM FACE (and what he's thinking when he sees it)" on the other. It also touted something called "The Trick that attracts Hot Guys like Crazy" and "The Naked Quiz." Whew.
First of all I'm not looking to attract hot guys like crazy, thank you very much. Secondly, the first few flips of the pages revealed that its been a hell of a lot longer than I thought since I had that old subscription. The hot guys they're referring to are 23 years old. I know this because they've given their ages along with a little caption. "Tyler, age 22, is a marketing analyst who enjoys salsa dancing, wind surfing, and ornithology." Uh huh. And yes, I read the article just for informational purposes. Mrs. Robinson has long since retired.
The "Naked Quiz" is a riot. After all sorts of questions about lighting and stages of undress, etc., etc., my favorite is this one..."A friend takes you to a party that's straight out of The Hills - everyone looks like a supermodel. What do you do?" Good lord, what a dumb question. I check out the house and everyone in it, drink the expensive champagne and devour the gourmet food. Okay...so I'll lick my fingers. I seem to remember reading somewhere that men find that sexy. Who makes up these quizzes?
As for "Total Body Sex?" C'mon folks...there ain't nothin' new there. Ho hum, been there, done that, know that. Tell this not-quite- over-the-hill-lady something not already on my dance card. And the "Orgasm Face" article? All I can say is that Cosmopolitan's readers are just thinking too damn much...or the writers of these articles believe everyone should be ruminating all sorts of things around in their brains at all times. "Lets see...is this right? wrong? unappealing?" Even youthful enthusiasm's quest for enlightenment needs to skip this one.
Like I said, its been a long time. Some of the fashion spreads could pass for pages from the early days of Playboy when it was mostly enticing suggestion. "Hot" "Smokey" and "Sizzling" are the buzz words everywhere. In a truly interactive world, the whole publication might be on the verge of flaming up and turning to ash in your hands.
My old Cosmo, with its truly interesting articles and feminist beginnings has morphed unrecognizably. Apparently somewhere along the way, Helen Gurley Brown met Hugh Hefner.
What sealed my opinion that I will probably not invest the somewhat strange newsstand sum of $4.29 to peruse Cosmo again was when I found an article titled "TV's Most Bedable Dads." What a shock to realize that, not only did I have no clue who they were...but that I have a mortgage, a daughter, and a couple of sweaters older than all of them.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Here come the leaves...oh my
We are in the middle of what I call the Bazooka Leaf Blower Wars. Since the invention of those dreadful mechanically propelled gale force wind machines, autumn has never been the same. Oh, people have been obsessive about leaves on their lawns since the late 70's when one person decided no leaf shall toucheth thy blades of grass...and he told two people...and they told two people...and suddenly all the suburbs were knee deep in raking. Over the last decades, it has escalated into a full force frenzy, sounding like a war zone on your own street, with distant artillery thundering in the bordering neighborhoods.
Homeowners blow "their" leaves out of their zone into the street and into someone else's zone. Arguments have erupted over whose leaves are whose at the curb when they don't get picked up fast enough by whatever authority is supposed to do so, and drift back onto a oh-my-goodness-don't-let-a-leaf-mar-my-lawn-crabass' property. Along with the enemy leaves, those industrial strength blowers send dirt and stones...hey, look how neat and clean our sidewalks can be...into the storm drains, onto the windshields of parked cars, and into the eyes of anyone within 25 yards.
Raking leaves used to be a out-doorsy relaxing thing to do in crispy fall weather. The only sound was the rasp of the rake (metal or bamboo) being pulled over the grass and the crinkly dry leaves falling on each other as you moved them along. Until it was outlawed, we burned leaves. Okay, a little dangerous and not good for the environment, but the unique smell of burning leaves meant Halloween and Christmas around the corner to generations of kids. People would take a break, lean on their rakes and talk to each other. There was no need to wildly signal slashing your throat to get the guy next door to cut off the power on his backpack so you can tell him the noise just sent his cat up a tree and the UPS man is on his porch trying to get his attention.
I don't think my children ever raked up huge piles of leaves and then jumped in them just for the heck of it. Poor things. The kids in my neighborhood could spend a whole afternoon going from one yard to the next, raking and jumping into mounds of red and gold and orange until there was nothing left but pulverized bits that were dragged to the curb on old blankets and plastic shower curtains to be burned by our respective parents. Sometimes, if the leaves were dry enough, there would be nothing but dust at the end of the day.
Apparently those repeated, cushioned, heavy landings by multiple children did not kill the lawn as often as the much dreaded fallen leaves are believed to do now. Maybe the grass was hardier then. Maybe we weren't as neat and liked our neighbors too much to care if nature sent some fleeting drops of color our way. Maybe we really did have peace and forgot to notice.
We are in the middle of what I call the Bazooka Leaf Blower Wars. Since the invention of those dreadful mechanically propelled gale force wind machines, autumn has never been the same. Oh, people have been obsessive about leaves on their lawns since the late 70's when one person decided no leaf shall toucheth thy blades of grass...and he told two people...and they told two people...and suddenly all the suburbs were knee deep in raking. Over the last decades, it has escalated into a full force frenzy, sounding like a war zone on your own street, with distant artillery thundering in the bordering neighborhoods.
Homeowners blow "their" leaves out of their zone into the street and into someone else's zone. Arguments have erupted over whose leaves are whose at the curb when they don't get picked up fast enough by whatever authority is supposed to do so, and drift back onto a oh-my-goodness-don't-let-a-leaf-mar-my-lawn-crabass' property. Along with the enemy leaves, those industrial strength blowers send dirt and stones...hey, look how neat and clean our sidewalks can be...into the storm drains, onto the windshields of parked cars, and into the eyes of anyone within 25 yards.
Raking leaves used to be a out-doorsy relaxing thing to do in crispy fall weather. The only sound was the rasp of the rake (metal or bamboo) being pulled over the grass and the crinkly dry leaves falling on each other as you moved them along. Until it was outlawed, we burned leaves. Okay, a little dangerous and not good for the environment, but the unique smell of burning leaves meant Halloween and Christmas around the corner to generations of kids. People would take a break, lean on their rakes and talk to each other. There was no need to wildly signal slashing your throat to get the guy next door to cut off the power on his backpack so you can tell him the noise just sent his cat up a tree and the UPS man is on his porch trying to get his attention.
I don't think my children ever raked up huge piles of leaves and then jumped in them just for the heck of it. Poor things. The kids in my neighborhood could spend a whole afternoon going from one yard to the next, raking and jumping into mounds of red and gold and orange until there was nothing left but pulverized bits that were dragged to the curb on old blankets and plastic shower curtains to be burned by our respective parents. Sometimes, if the leaves were dry enough, there would be nothing but dust at the end of the day.
Apparently those repeated, cushioned, heavy landings by multiple children did not kill the lawn as often as the much dreaded fallen leaves are believed to do now. Maybe the grass was hardier then. Maybe we weren't as neat and liked our neighbors too much to care if nature sent some fleeting drops of color our way. Maybe we really did have peace and forgot to notice.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
A Grown Daughter's First Thanksgiving
(In loving memory of all the Moms and holiday cooks whose chairs are empty at our tables)
For many years my mother and aunts hosted all the holiday dinners. We gathered on a more or less rotating basis at the table of whoever was cooking, my young cousins and I never giving it much thought except to agree that the day was always delicious.
Somewhere along a not very clearly drawn line, the torch was passed and my generation became the dinner doers. The graying and slightly fragile women took a well deserved backseat to the hubbub, appearing with a baked offering and memories to be shared from a comfortable seat out of the kitchen. I accepted my torch willingly and held the holiday Olympics at my table for 20 years or so.
Last year, my daughter married and moved into her new home. She reminded my mother that she had long ago promised her Great Grandma’s dining room furniture. Moving day found it in her dining room with my daughter excitedly promising that the next holiday, Thanksgiving, would be at her house. I held my breath a little. Could the next relay of the torch be commencing?
In early November, the discussions began. “Mom, you are going to bring the stuffed mushrooms?” my daughter asked. “You know they’re my favorite and nobody makes them like you do.”
“Of course,” I told her. How easy, I thought. Just make the mushrooms. I’ll finally get to watch the parade on Thanksgiving morning. I could see myself lounging on the sofa, sipping coffee and watching the balloons float past Macys.
“How about making the stuffing?” My daughter asked a few days later. “You make the best stuffing, “ she went on, “It’s the only kind we like.” Well okay, mushrooms and stuffing. Still pretty easy. I can do it the night before and still relax all morning. “No problem,” I agreed.
Then the matter of the old oven in her new house and its unreliability surfaced. They were going to try to replace it after the holiday, my daughter explained. It wasn’t working quite right. I envisioned a half-cooked turkey or dinner eaten at midnight after waiting hours for the bird to brown. “Since I’m already making the stuffing, why don’t I just cook the turkey at my house and bring it over?” I said. “Fine, “ she said. “Oh, and could you make the gravy? Mine never tastes as good as yours.”
“Well, I guess I’ll make it at your house while you’re getting everything else together,” I told her, making a mental note to add the necessary ingredients to my shopping list.
My son asked if I would please make the candied yams. “I don’t think Lorraine know how to make them,” he said, frowning at the thought of his favorite part of the meal tasting any different. “And you’re making the pumpkin pie, right? Yours is the best.” I nodded and added it all to the list.
I bought the ingredients and located the baking dish for the green bean casserole before I was asked.
Wednesday afternoon the aromas in my house teased of the next day’s feast. All requests were finally completed and stowed in the refrigerator sometime after midnight. I roused myself at 3 a.m. to get the 20 pound turkey stuffed and in the oven, having calculated extra cooling, wrapping and transporting time into the usual minutes per pound rule. This of course was after my earlier nightgown clad run to the backyard trash can to retrieve the turkey wrapper that stated exactly how Tom weighed in.
Later that morning I packed up the hot turkey and it’s trimmings. On the fifth or sixth trip to the car I caught a glimpse of the Macy’s Parade Santa as the credits rolled, continuing my personal 20 year tradition. Heaven knows that I’d hardly recognize him without the words scrolling over his beard and button nose.
My daughter was setting the table and opening cans of olives when we arrived. Hunks of cheese and marinated mushrooms straight from the jar gave off a lovely aroma from the wedding gift serving dishes being used for the first time. “I made a chocolate pie,” she told me. “You know, instant pudding in a graham cracker crust.” “Uh huh,” I said as I handed her two pumpkin pies and the apple pie I knew my brother liked.
I heated and stirred and concocted the gravy from my arsenal of mobile ingredients. She boiled potatoes so I could mash them but I was relieved of that task when she accidentally dumped them down the drain.
We finally gathered around Great Grandma’s table sparkling with the new china and crystal on it’s maiden voyage. Satisfied looks and groans assured that dinner was just as expected. As always, food and conversation were savored far into the evening.
Much later when the dishes were done and the leftover packed up for journey home with their perspective takers, I eased myself into the corner of the sofa and relaxed. My middle-aged muscles ached and I gave into the overwhelming urge to close my eyes. I was just drifting off comfortably when my daughter plopped down beside me. Leaning against me she exhaled a long sigh.
“I’m exhausted,” she exclaimed. “This sure was a lot of work.” She paused and I felt her nodding her head with conviction. “I think we should have Thanksgiving at your house next year,” she said firmly.
I pretended to be asleep.
Linda Radice 2003
(Note: This article was previously published in the Westfield Leader Newspaper, November 17,2003.)
For many years my mother and aunts hosted all the holiday dinners. We gathered on a more or less rotating basis at the table of whoever was cooking, my young cousins and I never giving it much thought except to agree that the day was always delicious.
Somewhere along a not very clearly drawn line, the torch was passed and my generation became the dinner doers. The graying and slightly fragile women took a well deserved backseat to the hubbub, appearing with a baked offering and memories to be shared from a comfortable seat out of the kitchen. I accepted my torch willingly and held the holiday Olympics at my table for 20 years or so.
Last year, my daughter married and moved into her new home. She reminded my mother that she had long ago promised her Great Grandma’s dining room furniture. Moving day found it in her dining room with my daughter excitedly promising that the next holiday, Thanksgiving, would be at her house. I held my breath a little. Could the next relay of the torch be commencing?
In early November, the discussions began. “Mom, you are going to bring the stuffed mushrooms?” my daughter asked. “You know they’re my favorite and nobody makes them like you do.”
“Of course,” I told her. How easy, I thought. Just make the mushrooms. I’ll finally get to watch the parade on Thanksgiving morning. I could see myself lounging on the sofa, sipping coffee and watching the balloons float past Macys.
“How about making the stuffing?” My daughter asked a few days later. “You make the best stuffing, “ she went on, “It’s the only kind we like.” Well okay, mushrooms and stuffing. Still pretty easy. I can do it the night before and still relax all morning. “No problem,” I agreed.
Then the matter of the old oven in her new house and its unreliability surfaced. They were going to try to replace it after the holiday, my daughter explained. It wasn’t working quite right. I envisioned a half-cooked turkey or dinner eaten at midnight after waiting hours for the bird to brown. “Since I’m already making the stuffing, why don’t I just cook the turkey at my house and bring it over?” I said. “Fine, “ she said. “Oh, and could you make the gravy? Mine never tastes as good as yours.”
“Well, I guess I’ll make it at your house while you’re getting everything else together,” I told her, making a mental note to add the necessary ingredients to my shopping list.
My son asked if I would please make the candied yams. “I don’t think Lorraine know how to make them,” he said, frowning at the thought of his favorite part of the meal tasting any different. “And you’re making the pumpkin pie, right? Yours is the best.” I nodded and added it all to the list.
I bought the ingredients and located the baking dish for the green bean casserole before I was asked.
Wednesday afternoon the aromas in my house teased of the next day’s feast. All requests were finally completed and stowed in the refrigerator sometime after midnight. I roused myself at 3 a.m. to get the 20 pound turkey stuffed and in the oven, having calculated extra cooling, wrapping and transporting time into the usual minutes per pound rule. This of course was after my earlier nightgown clad run to the backyard trash can to retrieve the turkey wrapper that stated exactly how Tom weighed in.
Later that morning I packed up the hot turkey and it’s trimmings. On the fifth or sixth trip to the car I caught a glimpse of the Macy’s Parade Santa as the credits rolled, continuing my personal 20 year tradition. Heaven knows that I’d hardly recognize him without the words scrolling over his beard and button nose.
My daughter was setting the table and opening cans of olives when we arrived. Hunks of cheese and marinated mushrooms straight from the jar gave off a lovely aroma from the wedding gift serving dishes being used for the first time. “I made a chocolate pie,” she told me. “You know, instant pudding in a graham cracker crust.” “Uh huh,” I said as I handed her two pumpkin pies and the apple pie I knew my brother liked.
I heated and stirred and concocted the gravy from my arsenal of mobile ingredients. She boiled potatoes so I could mash them but I was relieved of that task when she accidentally dumped them down the drain.
We finally gathered around Great Grandma’s table sparkling with the new china and crystal on it’s maiden voyage. Satisfied looks and groans assured that dinner was just as expected. As always, food and conversation were savored far into the evening.
Much later when the dishes were done and the leftover packed up for journey home with their perspective takers, I eased myself into the corner of the sofa and relaxed. My middle-aged muscles ached and I gave into the overwhelming urge to close my eyes. I was just drifting off comfortably when my daughter plopped down beside me. Leaning against me she exhaled a long sigh.
“I’m exhausted,” she exclaimed. “This sure was a lot of work.” She paused and I felt her nodding her head with conviction. “I think we should have Thanksgiving at your house next year,” she said firmly.
I pretended to be asleep.
Linda Radice 2003
(Note: This article was previously published in the Westfield Leader Newspaper, November 17,2003.)
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Episode 3, 1-800-ITS-HELL
Amazing as it sounds, Dell has one telephone number that works. No employee knows any other number. Last night I asked, very calmly, just where the main office, where Mother Dell makes the rules, is located. Nobody knows. I had done a little research earlier on the net and found a number of locations in the US, all with telephone numbers. I tried all of them. The ones that were not a constant busy signal (really) instructed me to put in an extension number with the caveat that if I did not have one I would be disconnected. I was.
I don't know if Dell started out that way or if it was only after Dell Hell was created, but the big cats and the main Kahuna are obviously avoiding everyone except their investment advisers. According to my nightly phone friends, they have no idea whose in charge or where they are.
It occurred to me that I could take a little leap in an attempt to sound like I knew what I was talking about. Hey they've been doing that to me for a week. I figured now it was my turn. I told the first representative I was passed to that since I was doing business with Dell and purchasing a product from them, I was entitled know what state they were incorporated in so that I can check to see whether or not they are a business in good standing. Suddenly I was passed onto another guy who quickly supplied an address which actually turned out to be just a mail stop mailing address. I think I made him a little nervous though, because he kept telling me that was all he was "allowed" to give out. He also reaffirmed that there is only one phone number in the entire universe for Dell.
I suppose in our age of cell phone communications, the families of Dell employees don't have to be supplied with an office telephone number. Maybe they do get one but must memorize it and are not allowed to write it down anywhere. Then again, it could work like the CIA and no one will disclose that a family member is employed there. Come to think of it, I've never known anyone who worked for Dell. My salesman's name was John Brown. I'd spoken to representatives, natives of a country halfway around the world, that gave their names as Bill Clark, Pat Jones and Bob Lane. The devil takes many disguises...
But again I was calm and kept myself busy with other things while they "checked the details" and "were very sorry for your problem." I threw a bag of popcorn into the microwave and flipped through a couple of magazines while I waited to be connected, re-connected, and in between repeating my tale of woe. I calculate that even with their cheapo 800 number deal, I must be costing them something with my nightly calls. I've spent more than 15 hours on the phone on their bill, and every person I spoke to has logged the call into the system. Sooner or later someone might figure out that eventually I'll cost them more in phone calls than the price of the monitor they can't seem to find. If not, at the very least my nightly calls have forced me to relax, re-direct my thoughts, ponder some the great questions of the universe. Why is it that there are always a few infernal kernels of corn that just won't pop?
And on it goes...
I don't know if Dell started out that way or if it was only after Dell Hell was created, but the big cats and the main Kahuna are obviously avoiding everyone except their investment advisers. According to my nightly phone friends, they have no idea whose in charge or where they are.
It occurred to me that I could take a little leap in an attempt to sound like I knew what I was talking about. Hey they've been doing that to me for a week. I figured now it was my turn. I told the first representative I was passed to that since I was doing business with Dell and purchasing a product from them, I was entitled know what state they were incorporated in so that I can check to see whether or not they are a business in good standing. Suddenly I was passed onto another guy who quickly supplied an address which actually turned out to be just a mail stop mailing address. I think I made him a little nervous though, because he kept telling me that was all he was "allowed" to give out. He also reaffirmed that there is only one phone number in the entire universe for Dell.
I suppose in our age of cell phone communications, the families of Dell employees don't have to be supplied with an office telephone number. Maybe they do get one but must memorize it and are not allowed to write it down anywhere. Then again, it could work like the CIA and no one will disclose that a family member is employed there. Come to think of it, I've never known anyone who worked for Dell. My salesman's name was John Brown. I'd spoken to representatives, natives of a country halfway around the world, that gave their names as Bill Clark, Pat Jones and Bob Lane. The devil takes many disguises...
But again I was calm and kept myself busy with other things while they "checked the details" and "were very sorry for your problem." I threw a bag of popcorn into the microwave and flipped through a couple of magazines while I waited to be connected, re-connected, and in between repeating my tale of woe. I calculate that even with their cheapo 800 number deal, I must be costing them something with my nightly calls. I've spent more than 15 hours on the phone on their bill, and every person I spoke to has logged the call into the system. Sooner or later someone might figure out that eventually I'll cost them more in phone calls than the price of the monitor they can't seem to find. If not, at the very least my nightly calls have forced me to relax, re-direct my thoughts, ponder some the great questions of the universe. Why is it that there are always a few infernal kernels of corn that just won't pop?
And on it goes...
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Missing Monitor, Episode 2
(The saga continues.)
It is possible that the devil might be a little overburdened lately. What with Bin Laden still missing and, uh, so many Republicans, he apparently had no choice but to cut back and outsource an entire division of Hell.
I must have done something heinous in a past life, because Dell Hell has a spot with my name on it. It is somewhere between the automated phone system and the last person I spoke to at the end of a three hour telephone marathon with no finish line in sight. Of the fourteen people I conversed with in an attempt to locate the missing monitor, " we are very sorry for your problem" was the one thing spoken clearly and emphatically by each one. Other than that, nobody has a solution or any information.
In the course of three hours, I was disconnected four times and had to begin the entire process again. Automated menu, order number, choose a dept, get an alleged "customer care representative," and begin the tale, complete with reading off order numbers again and verifying my identity. Half say the monitor was never shipped. The other half thinks the monitor may have been shipped but they can't track it because there is no tracking number. I admit I never took Shipping 101, nor do I have an MSS (Master of Shipping Shit) degree, but I would think that if there is no freaking tracking number folks, you damn well never put it in a box with my name on it and sent it out the door.
I called them first on Monday to say that the monitor had not been received. They told me I had to call back in 24 hours in order to allow enough time to "track it." I gave them 72 hours before calling back. Now they tell me to call back in another 24 to 48 hours because their "tracking records" have not been updated. Obviously, a sub-section of Dell Hell is Tracking Hell.
Today I called the salesman I bought the damn thing with. He had given me his phone number and direct extension which he has no idea how he will live to regret. He graciously offered to help after listening to my story...and promptly connected me back to the same "customer care" (and to the wrong department) which was only ascertained after I went through my entire routine. I was then transferred to another "I'm very sorry for your problem" woman. I finally told her that I was sending everything back because the ordeal was making me sick and I just figured out that the antidote will be a MacIntosh. "Oh you shouldn't do that," she said, "because you won't get properly credited." This they understand how to do. So now they'll hold me hostage with my credit card whether I have the all the pieces or not.
The interesting part is that I noticed on my shipping bill that although I was having the thing shipped to my office, they had the billing address (my home address) incorrect and called to tell them so. They "customer-cared" me immediately. One phone call. One person. Two minutes.
When last seen, Miss Missing Monitor was tied to the railroad tracks with a steam engine bearing down upon her...
It is possible that the devil might be a little overburdened lately. What with Bin Laden still missing and, uh, so many Republicans, he apparently had no choice but to cut back and outsource an entire division of Hell.
I must have done something heinous in a past life, because Dell Hell has a spot with my name on it. It is somewhere between the automated phone system and the last person I spoke to at the end of a three hour telephone marathon with no finish line in sight. Of the fourteen people I conversed with in an attempt to locate the missing monitor, " we are very sorry for your problem" was the one thing spoken clearly and emphatically by each one. Other than that, nobody has a solution or any information.
In the course of three hours, I was disconnected four times and had to begin the entire process again. Automated menu, order number, choose a dept, get an alleged "customer care representative," and begin the tale, complete with reading off order numbers again and verifying my identity. Half say the monitor was never shipped. The other half thinks the monitor may have been shipped but they can't track it because there is no tracking number. I admit I never took Shipping 101, nor do I have an MSS (Master of Shipping Shit) degree, but I would think that if there is no freaking tracking number folks, you damn well never put it in a box with my name on it and sent it out the door.
I called them first on Monday to say that the monitor had not been received. They told me I had to call back in 24 hours in order to allow enough time to "track it." I gave them 72 hours before calling back. Now they tell me to call back in another 24 to 48 hours because their "tracking records" have not been updated. Obviously, a sub-section of Dell Hell is Tracking Hell.
Today I called the salesman I bought the damn thing with. He had given me his phone number and direct extension which he has no idea how he will live to regret. He graciously offered to help after listening to my story...and promptly connected me back to the same "customer care" (and to the wrong department) which was only ascertained after I went through my entire routine. I was then transferred to another "I'm very sorry for your problem" woman. I finally told her that I was sending everything back because the ordeal was making me sick and I just figured out that the antidote will be a MacIntosh. "Oh you shouldn't do that," she said, "because you won't get properly credited." This they understand how to do. So now they'll hold me hostage with my credit card whether I have the all the pieces or not.
The interesting part is that I noticed on my shipping bill that although I was having the thing shipped to my office, they had the billing address (my home address) incorrect and called to tell them so. They "customer-cared" me immediately. One phone call. One person. Two minutes.
When last seen, Miss Missing Monitor was tied to the railroad tracks with a steam engine bearing down upon her...
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
A Little Bit Longer...
(This is the first installment of the saga written a couple of years ago when I replaced my computer. It was cathartic in the writing as, in such situations, I have to laugh. Enjoy and stay tuned.)
I keep praying that my computer is not going to crash before I receive all the parts to put together the new one. My old friend is short of breath and often cannot flex its tired electronic muscles from one task to the next. I'm nursing it gently and not asking too much of it at one time. It blinks back at me like an elderly person with a confused smile as it struggles to remember the answer to my mouse-clicking questions. Each time I have to re-boot in the middle of a function, I feel like the administrator of an electro shock therapy jolt to its befuddled brain. And then I hope that I've zapped the right spot and not caused an internal sizzle that puts an end to it all. So far my buddy keeps coming back to me each time I have to click again to restore its settings and cancel some odd pop up boxes that I don't recognize and scream "Warning" in red letters. I keep mumbling, "Come on honey just hold on a little while longer," every time I sit down and turn it on. This is partly because I am sentimental, but also because I am pathetically disorganized and hereby confess to never having backed up much of anything it has stored for me.
Not to mention any names...but DELL...has not completed its piecemeal delivery of the new kid. First they sent the printer. That came two weeks ago. Then a day or two later they sent the surge protector all by itself in a huge box. I got a big cushioned envelope with the data transfer thing-y in it a couple of days after that. A week or so went by and I received the new design hybrid little red computer tower itself and a couple of assorted cables and discs. They had said it would take a week to "build" so I figured that was pretty well right on target. The only thing I didn't get is the monitor, and as of now I am well past my "outside ship date."
Two phone calls later to the outsourced location, which may be great for technical support but the stuff is being shipped from the U.S. for pity sake, and they keep telling me that they cannot trace the status BUT the monitor hasn't been shipped yet anyway. They know it hasn't been shipped but they don't know why, and they can't trace it because they have no idea what location it’s being shipped from.
Perhaps I'm walking on the organizational practical side...an uncommon little trip for me...but I would have thought that the monitor would have been one of those simple early parts to ship. I'll try calling them again today. My friend on the other continent told me I have to wait 24 hours to try for information on alleged missing parts. Like reporting an adult missing person who might just have run away and doesn't want to be found. I think maybe they are hoping it will call and let them know what bus station it’s holed up in.
Meanwhile, my computer is hanging in there, an ongoing time capsule with mostly everything I've ever written stored inside. I'm hoping it shares the rapport I feel for it and will keep it all safe just a little bit longer. Stay tuned and keep your fingers crossed.
I keep praying that my computer is not going to crash before I receive all the parts to put together the new one. My old friend is short of breath and often cannot flex its tired electronic muscles from one task to the next. I'm nursing it gently and not asking too much of it at one time. It blinks back at me like an elderly person with a confused smile as it struggles to remember the answer to my mouse-clicking questions. Each time I have to re-boot in the middle of a function, I feel like the administrator of an electro shock therapy jolt to its befuddled brain. And then I hope that I've zapped the right spot and not caused an internal sizzle that puts an end to it all. So far my buddy keeps coming back to me each time I have to click again to restore its settings and cancel some odd pop up boxes that I don't recognize and scream "Warning" in red letters. I keep mumbling, "Come on honey just hold on a little while longer," every time I sit down and turn it on. This is partly because I am sentimental, but also because I am pathetically disorganized and hereby confess to never having backed up much of anything it has stored for me.
Not to mention any names...but DELL...has not completed its piecemeal delivery of the new kid. First they sent the printer. That came two weeks ago. Then a day or two later they sent the surge protector all by itself in a huge box. I got a big cushioned envelope with the data transfer thing-y in it a couple of days after that. A week or so went by and I received the new design hybrid little red computer tower itself and a couple of assorted cables and discs. They had said it would take a week to "build" so I figured that was pretty well right on target. The only thing I didn't get is the monitor, and as of now I am well past my "outside ship date."
Two phone calls later to the outsourced location, which may be great for technical support but the stuff is being shipped from the U.S. for pity sake, and they keep telling me that they cannot trace the status BUT the monitor hasn't been shipped yet anyway. They know it hasn't been shipped but they don't know why, and they can't trace it because they have no idea what location it’s being shipped from.
Perhaps I'm walking on the organizational practical side...an uncommon little trip for me...but I would have thought that the monitor would have been one of those simple early parts to ship. I'll try calling them again today. My friend on the other continent told me I have to wait 24 hours to try for information on alleged missing parts. Like reporting an adult missing person who might just have run away and doesn't want to be found. I think maybe they are hoping it will call and let them know what bus station it’s holed up in.
Meanwhile, my computer is hanging in there, an ongoing time capsule with mostly everything I've ever written stored inside. I'm hoping it shares the rapport I feel for it and will keep it all safe just a little bit longer. Stay tuned and keep your fingers crossed.
Monday, October 25, 2010
What Is In Your Closet?
I'm in the middle of clearing out years of stuff from my house. I'm finding things I haven't seen in years, buried deep in closets and every place else I've put things for storage. I keep asking myself why I ever bought most of it in the first place. I'm not talking about the two cases of light bulbs, a carton of tile trivets, and outdated greeting cards left over from my son's Cub Scout fund raiser days. I know why I bought them. That was an act of charity predicated on not wanting to accompany an eight year old door to door and impose upon all our relatives. Everyone always bought the candy, but the hard goods didn't move much.
I found my Suzanne Sommers Thigh Master that I attempted once and should have returned under the money back guarantee. I found the contraption with a pulley that got hooked to a door knob and rubbery ropes that attached to the wrists and ankles. I actually followed the directions on that one, got down on the floor and hooked myself up to exercise. The pulley flew off the doorknob and whacked me in the head. I believe that is what happened before I threw it in the closet, but the resulting mini concussion may have wiped the exact circumstances from my memory. I found a second set of ankle weights. Why I have enough for four ankles, I don't know. However, I do make excellent use of the first set set because the box they are still sealed in makes a perfect doorstop. There are curtain rods in unopened packages, shelving I never put up, and a couple of Christmas gifts I hid when the kids were little and forgot where I put them. There are bags of clothing that I was certain would come back into style. Most of it has, three or four times without ever leaving the bag. I have warranties from appliances and gadgets I barely remember owning.
I have saved bank statements and insurance policies from companies that went out of business a decade ago. I have a copy of every income tax return I ever filed. I keep these things because I'm always worried that I'll have to prove something. I'm certain that as soon as I throw out those canceled checks from 1972, someone will knock on my door and demand to see proof that I paid the insurance premium on my ex-husband's car or want a copy the check for the bassinet we bought for my now 38 year old daughter before she was born. There are paid bills from credit cards I cut up 20 years ago. I keep thinking maybe one of them will send me a notice that they have no record of the bill being paid, that interest and late payments have continued to accrue, and I now owe them four hundred thousand dollars. I want to be able to pull the hard copy check with the big red bank stamp on it and say, "Ah hah!!"
The truth is that I've never had to prove anything. No one has ever asked for a canceled check or a bill stamped 'paid in full.'
Once the IRS sent me a letter stating in their frightening official way that I hadn't filed a return for a certain year. I thought I finally would have vindication for taking up the entire back of the closet from floor to ceiling with boxes of my saved paperwork. I could victoriously say, "So there!" to my friends who laugh about my belief that I will one day be called to substantiate my innocence with a crumbling piece of paper. I called the telephone number on the letter as the IRS asked me to. I explained that I had filed a return for that year and would be happy to send them a copy. I also told them that they had even sent me a refund for that year and I could send them a copy of that bank deposit as further proof. The woman asked for my social security number, checked in her computer, and then said that it was their mistake. THEY had gotten a number wrong. I asked where to send my proof that I had filed. She proceeded to tell me that it wasn't necessary and I could just ignore the letter. She apologized for the error. Not only did I not have to use documentation from my obsessively saved stash, the Internal Revenue Service told me to ignore something. And they were nice about it.
Everything else is being tossed, but I'm thinking maybe I just should let all my "proofs" remain snoozing, dusty and yellowing, like some old good luck charm in the back of my closet.
I found my Suzanne Sommers Thigh Master that I attempted once and should have returned under the money back guarantee. I found the contraption with a pulley that got hooked to a door knob and rubbery ropes that attached to the wrists and ankles. I actually followed the directions on that one, got down on the floor and hooked myself up to exercise. The pulley flew off the doorknob and whacked me in the head. I believe that is what happened before I threw it in the closet, but the resulting mini concussion may have wiped the exact circumstances from my memory. I found a second set of ankle weights. Why I have enough for four ankles, I don't know. However, I do make excellent use of the first set set because the box they are still sealed in makes a perfect doorstop. There are curtain rods in unopened packages, shelving I never put up, and a couple of Christmas gifts I hid when the kids were little and forgot where I put them. There are bags of clothing that I was certain would come back into style. Most of it has, three or four times without ever leaving the bag. I have warranties from appliances and gadgets I barely remember owning.
I have saved bank statements and insurance policies from companies that went out of business a decade ago. I have a copy of every income tax return I ever filed. I keep these things because I'm always worried that I'll have to prove something. I'm certain that as soon as I throw out those canceled checks from 1972, someone will knock on my door and demand to see proof that I paid the insurance premium on my ex-husband's car or want a copy the check for the bassinet we bought for my now 38 year old daughter before she was born. There are paid bills from credit cards I cut up 20 years ago. I keep thinking maybe one of them will send me a notice that they have no record of the bill being paid, that interest and late payments have continued to accrue, and I now owe them four hundred thousand dollars. I want to be able to pull the hard copy check with the big red bank stamp on it and say, "Ah hah!!"
The truth is that I've never had to prove anything. No one has ever asked for a canceled check or a bill stamped 'paid in full.'
Once the IRS sent me a letter stating in their frightening official way that I hadn't filed a return for a certain year. I thought I finally would have vindication for taking up the entire back of the closet from floor to ceiling with boxes of my saved paperwork. I could victoriously say, "So there!" to my friends who laugh about my belief that I will one day be called to substantiate my innocence with a crumbling piece of paper. I called the telephone number on the letter as the IRS asked me to. I explained that I had filed a return for that year and would be happy to send them a copy. I also told them that they had even sent me a refund for that year and I could send them a copy of that bank deposit as further proof. The woman asked for my social security number, checked in her computer, and then said that it was their mistake. THEY had gotten a number wrong. I asked where to send my proof that I had filed. She proceeded to tell me that it wasn't necessary and I could just ignore the letter. She apologized for the error. Not only did I not have to use documentation from my obsessively saved stash, the Internal Revenue Service told me to ignore something. And they were nice about it.
Everything else is being tossed, but I'm thinking maybe I just should let all my "proofs" remain snoozing, dusty and yellowing, like some old good luck charm in the back of my closet.
Time passing
I know I have no concept of the passage of time. I'll say something like "I just bought that stove" to one of my kids, and they'll look at me exasperated, "Mom, you bought that 12 years ago." I also can't recall when they adopted that annoying eye-rolling thing they do either.
Yesterday I was trying to remember when we painted the living room. I know we painted it the same color twice, but I can't recall the last time and the old trick of using events as a measure isn't working. Was that after we put the new tile floor in the bathroom? The year we got the dog? I know we painted it after we got the new light fixture in the dining room. That was the time we painted everything because before the new chandelier went in we painted the ceiling...which made the dining room walls look dingy so we painted them...which made the living room and sun porch look dingy...so we painted them too. I spent months cleaning rash-like paint spots off the hardwood floors and refer to that episode as the Great Painting Epidemic. When did we buy the chandelier? I could ask the kids, but I'm just not up to it.
This quirk runs in my family. One day my brother was visiting and noticed a broken electrical socket that needed to be replaced. We weren't using it, had covered it with a electrical tape, and it was in a corner hidden behind a chair. My brother, who was an electrician, said he would come by in a few days and replace it because he didn't want "the baby" to possibly touch it and get a shock. I suppose it wasn't all that long ago that he thinks he promised to return with a new socket and he had mentioned that he hadn't forgotten on several occasions. Some time has gone by. No one has touched the socket, the chair in the corner has been replaced twice, and "the baby" will be 32 years old in December.
One of my uncles used to write the date he painted a room on the wall in an inconspicuous spot. He was one of those meticulous organized men, with every screw and nail sorted and separated by size and type in jars. I can still see my aunt pointing to the scribble and justifying her pleas for new color, "See, you haven't painted this room in 15 years!" He couldn't deny it. Then he would have to get out the drop cloths and brushes instead of playing golf or going fishing.
Not being able to remember and leaving something tangible to hold you accountable is probably mostly a good thing. But since I'm not looking forward to the whole ordeal, I think I'll pour another cup of coffee and spend a little more time ruminating around in the luxury of forgetfulness.
Yesterday I was trying to remember when we painted the living room. I know we painted it the same color twice, but I can't recall the last time and the old trick of using events as a measure isn't working. Was that after we put the new tile floor in the bathroom? The year we got the dog? I know we painted it after we got the new light fixture in the dining room. That was the time we painted everything because before the new chandelier went in we painted the ceiling...which made the dining room walls look dingy so we painted them...which made the living room and sun porch look dingy...so we painted them too. I spent months cleaning rash-like paint spots off the hardwood floors and refer to that episode as the Great Painting Epidemic. When did we buy the chandelier? I could ask the kids, but I'm just not up to it.
This quirk runs in my family. One day my brother was visiting and noticed a broken electrical socket that needed to be replaced. We weren't using it, had covered it with a electrical tape, and it was in a corner hidden behind a chair. My brother, who was an electrician, said he would come by in a few days and replace it because he didn't want "the baby" to possibly touch it and get a shock. I suppose it wasn't all that long ago that he thinks he promised to return with a new socket and he had mentioned that he hadn't forgotten on several occasions. Some time has gone by. No one has touched the socket, the chair in the corner has been replaced twice, and "the baby" will be 32 years old in December.
One of my uncles used to write the date he painted a room on the wall in an inconspicuous spot. He was one of those meticulous organized men, with every screw and nail sorted and separated by size and type in jars. I can still see my aunt pointing to the scribble and justifying her pleas for new color, "See, you haven't painted this room in 15 years!" He couldn't deny it. Then he would have to get out the drop cloths and brushes instead of playing golf or going fishing.
Not being able to remember and leaving something tangible to hold you accountable is probably mostly a good thing. But since I'm not looking forward to the whole ordeal, I think I'll pour another cup of coffee and spend a little more time ruminating around in the luxury of forgetfulness.
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Boardwalk Argument
(I'm back at the Coney Island boardwalk again with a memory and a smile. For everyone who knew our friend Steve, you'll appreciate how much he loved this and his laughter)
Late in the afternoon after one of the Mermaid Parades, we were walking on the boardwalk and found ourselves behind a woman with a little dog on a leash. It was hard not to notice her. She was statuesque, dark haired, and wearing loose gauzy white pants and a long top that caught the wind, alternately billowing out and then wrapping around her frame. The dog was a fluffy white little number in a red jeweled collar who kept disappearing into the legs of its mistresses’ pants when the wind blew in that direction.
The woman looked back and then strode faster ahead of us. A few moments later, a short, chubby man came abreast of us obviously trying to catch up with her. He stopped, dramatically put his hands out to his sides and leaned back, palms up as if he was ready to belt out an aria. "Sheila!.....Sheeeiiillllaaaaa!" She didn't stop. "Shheeeilllaaaa!" he bellowed again to her, to the heavens, and to the crowd. She walked faster.
We then learned that apparently his name was Dickhead. "Dickhead!" she yelled back at him over her shoulder without losing her long-legged pace. He ran faster. "Shheeeiillaa!," his arms still outstretched. "Dickhead!!" she screamed back. It continued back and forth between them with everyone watching the ambulating argument as it passed by. She'd stop. He'd stop. The dog would stop and try to lay down for a rest. He'd croon, "Sheeiilla?"and she'd tug the dog up and shout back over her shoulder, "Dickhead!" with her arms waving like white sails.
She stopped for lemonade. He got on line next to her and moaned, "Sheila." She took her paper cup and hissed "Dickhead." She took off again. He persisted, stamping his feet. "Sheila??" She walked backwards for a moment jabbing her lemonade in his direction and enunciating the two syllables screeching-ly succinct. “Dick..Head!" He dropped to one knee, his hand on his chest. She glared and turned her back. They were oblivious.
I can't tell you how long the Coney Island boardwalk is by yards, but we walked the length of it absorbed in this argument consisting of two names by two passionate characters in an unwitting performance. When they reached the steps to walk down to the street, he put his arms out once more. "Sheila?" She stopped. "Dickhead." Suddenly, it was over with no other words spoken. We watched them step down to the sidewalk and disappear around the corner, arm in arm, the dog trotting next to them.
For years afterward, and most importantly after Steve became so sick, I could always make him laugh by saying, "I wonder whatever happened to Sheila and Dickhead?" I hope they catch the good thoughts I send them now and then, thanking them for making the memory that enabled me to laugh with my friend just a few more times.
Late in the afternoon after one of the Mermaid Parades, we were walking on the boardwalk and found ourselves behind a woman with a little dog on a leash. It was hard not to notice her. She was statuesque, dark haired, and wearing loose gauzy white pants and a long top that caught the wind, alternately billowing out and then wrapping around her frame. The dog was a fluffy white little number in a red jeweled collar who kept disappearing into the legs of its mistresses’ pants when the wind blew in that direction.
The woman looked back and then strode faster ahead of us. A few moments later, a short, chubby man came abreast of us obviously trying to catch up with her. He stopped, dramatically put his hands out to his sides and leaned back, palms up as if he was ready to belt out an aria. "Sheila!.....Sheeeiiillllaaaaa!" She didn't stop. "Shheeeilllaaaa!" he bellowed again to her, to the heavens, and to the crowd. She walked faster.
We then learned that apparently his name was Dickhead. "Dickhead!" she yelled back at him over her shoulder without losing her long-legged pace. He ran faster. "Shheeeiillaa!," his arms still outstretched. "Dickhead!!" she screamed back. It continued back and forth between them with everyone watching the ambulating argument as it passed by. She'd stop. He'd stop. The dog would stop and try to lay down for a rest. He'd croon, "Sheeiilla?"and she'd tug the dog up and shout back over her shoulder, "Dickhead!" with her arms waving like white sails.
She stopped for lemonade. He got on line next to her and moaned, "Sheila." She took her paper cup and hissed "Dickhead." She took off again. He persisted, stamping his feet. "Sheila??" She walked backwards for a moment jabbing her lemonade in his direction and enunciating the two syllables screeching-ly succinct. “Dick..Head!" He dropped to one knee, his hand on his chest. She glared and turned her back. They were oblivious.
I can't tell you how long the Coney Island boardwalk is by yards, but we walked the length of it absorbed in this argument consisting of two names by two passionate characters in an unwitting performance. When they reached the steps to walk down to the street, he put his arms out once more. "Sheila?" She stopped. "Dickhead." Suddenly, it was over with no other words spoken. We watched them step down to the sidewalk and disappear around the corner, arm in arm, the dog trotting next to them.
For years afterward, and most importantly after Steve became so sick, I could always make him laugh by saying, "I wonder whatever happened to Sheila and Dickhead?" I hope they catch the good thoughts I send them now and then, thanking them for making the memory that enabled me to laugh with my friend just a few more times.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Water Rising
I'm watching the news coverage on upcoming tropical storms and thinking about my own experience a few years ago with hurricane Floyd. That morning I went to work in my office up in the mountains where the heavy downpour all day didn't seem threatening. It was my own fault that I stayed too long. We flood down here in the valley, and I know that the main highway (Rt. 22) gets impassable and shut down for much less than what Floyd was dumping. I was busy and loyal and foolish enough to want " finish just one more thing" before heading home.
Rt 22 had already been closed for hours and I had to take back roads. A mile or so later, my car stalled from water for the first time but I was able to get it started and switch over to a higher road. The higher roads ran out pretty soon, and each new attempt at finding another that was passable eventually brought me to a point where the water was too high to drive through. Five hours later…for what usually is a twenty minute drive...I got about three blocks from home. The entire time my cell phone would not work even though it was fully charged, and I couldn't call to let anyone know where I was or what was happening.
It is scary to see water rising in front of you, but truly terrifying to see it quickly blocking the path behind you and being trapped in between. The water was suddenly creeping up the sides, and then in what seemed like seconds, over the hood and heading towards the windshield. The pressure against the door made it impossible to push open from the inside, and the water rushed in from the little crack I managed to achieve. The car had electric windows that were all tightly shut and inoperable. I was trapped and the car was slowing filling.
Someone was watching out for me because I stalled right in front of some young men who were watching from higher ground. They ran over and were able to pull the door open and me out, and held onto me as we walked out of the waist deep water. None of the three spoke English, but it is easy to communicate concern for another human being. They insisted I use their cell phone (which worked) to call home, and even went over and floated my car out of the deepest water. I wound up on one side of the overflowing brook and a bridge that separated me from home. I was able to wade over the bridge and walk one street over where my family came to meet me and take me the remaining two blocks.
Later on people asked why I didn't just find some high ground and sit in the car and wait. Of course that would have been the reasonable thing to do. It is hard to explain the pull that makes you want to just get home when you are in such a precarious situation. I didn't care about losing the car, all I wanted was to see my house and the faces in it. I wanted my dry pajamas and slippers. I wanted a cup of coffee at my kitchen table. I thought I could find a way to get there.
When I watch the people who say they won't evacuate in the face of an oncoming storm, I can understand how home can trump water rising. I could have drowned had it not been for those men whose names I never learned. They waived my thanks away and watched to make sure I made it over the bridge. My family was worried sick for a few hours. It was a stupid thing on my part. But I look at the faces of those people who insist they are staying put and know that it is not about the structure or the possessions in it.
When you're scared you want to go home…and you want to stay there.
Rt 22 had already been closed for hours and I had to take back roads. A mile or so later, my car stalled from water for the first time but I was able to get it started and switch over to a higher road. The higher roads ran out pretty soon, and each new attempt at finding another that was passable eventually brought me to a point where the water was too high to drive through. Five hours later…for what usually is a twenty minute drive...I got about three blocks from home. The entire time my cell phone would not work even though it was fully charged, and I couldn't call to let anyone know where I was or what was happening.
It is scary to see water rising in front of you, but truly terrifying to see it quickly blocking the path behind you and being trapped in between. The water was suddenly creeping up the sides, and then in what seemed like seconds, over the hood and heading towards the windshield. The pressure against the door made it impossible to push open from the inside, and the water rushed in from the little crack I managed to achieve. The car had electric windows that were all tightly shut and inoperable. I was trapped and the car was slowing filling.
Someone was watching out for me because I stalled right in front of some young men who were watching from higher ground. They ran over and were able to pull the door open and me out, and held onto me as we walked out of the waist deep water. None of the three spoke English, but it is easy to communicate concern for another human being. They insisted I use their cell phone (which worked) to call home, and even went over and floated my car out of the deepest water. I wound up on one side of the overflowing brook and a bridge that separated me from home. I was able to wade over the bridge and walk one street over where my family came to meet me and take me the remaining two blocks.
Later on people asked why I didn't just find some high ground and sit in the car and wait. Of course that would have been the reasonable thing to do. It is hard to explain the pull that makes you want to just get home when you are in such a precarious situation. I didn't care about losing the car, all I wanted was to see my house and the faces in it. I wanted my dry pajamas and slippers. I wanted a cup of coffee at my kitchen table. I thought I could find a way to get there.
When I watch the people who say they won't evacuate in the face of an oncoming storm, I can understand how home can trump water rising. I could have drowned had it not been for those men whose names I never learned. They waived my thanks away and watched to make sure I made it over the bridge. My family was worried sick for a few hours. It was a stupid thing on my part. But I look at the faces of those people who insist they are staying put and know that it is not about the structure or the possessions in it.
When you're scared you want to go home…and you want to stay there.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
A LIttle Bit About Fate
People find each other for a reason. I guess that’s fate. We all wander around bumping into and bouncing off each other. We get the answers as to why in bits and pieces, not in a Technicolor full screen version with a back story and a director's interview.
My friend Steve and I used to joke about it. We grew up two towns apart and still lived in the same place. Despite the fact that we went to lots of the same places as kids, teen-agers and adults and even knew some of the same people, we never met until we were over 50.
After he was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma he asked if I would be his health care advocate in the event he became incapable of making his own decisions. We did it legally with all the properly executed paperwork. We talked about the things he wanted and how he felt about death and dying and we got all of that straight. What we didn't anticipate was how sick he would become and that his hospitalization would stretch to almost a year. After a couple of months he began telling the doctors and nurses to "ask Linda" whenever something needed to be discussed. I couldn't blame him, it was enough just to hang on, to deal with the sometimes daily dialysis, the pain in his back, and the very understandable depression.
Four months in, he went into the Intensive Care Unit for the first time and my schedule became daily trips to the hospital and remained so for the duration. I had to agree and sign for every procedure, bags and bags of blood and platelets, surgeries, intubations. There were so many specialists I started a list just to keep their names straight.
The important thing was that my friend was waiting each day for me to come. The ICU nurses would tell me that he would ask them throughout the day what time it was and when I would be arriving. Sometimes if he was confused from the medication, he told them that he heard my voice and that I was standing right outside his door. When his vocal chords were damaged by the intubation tubes and he was unable to talk, he would take my hand and kiss it and mouth "thank you," over and over.
There were horrible bad times when he raged and hated everyone, including me. It was so hard not to view my dear friend as hateful and hurtful, and I confess to sometimes losing that battle with myself. "Why am I doing this?" I would wonder, “the rest of my life is on hold while I take care of this person who says such mean things.” Articulate Steve knew how to say beautiful words, and could sting so very thoroughly with them as well.
But in the end there was such a peacefulness. The last time I saw him he was drowsy and smiling. “I’m sleepy,” he said, “Go home. Thank you. I love you. “
I've never regretted any of it. I would do it all over again for my friend.
This brings me back to that fate thing and why we got to know each other in the first place. He used to say to me, "I know my mother sent you." Maybe she had a hand in it. There are many things that my sweet friend did for me that made his place in my life a gift from somewhere as well, but I question nothing. Why else would we have finally crossed paths, for such a short number of years, and at just the right time?
My friend Steve and I used to joke about it. We grew up two towns apart and still lived in the same place. Despite the fact that we went to lots of the same places as kids, teen-agers and adults and even knew some of the same people, we never met until we were over 50.
After he was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma he asked if I would be his health care advocate in the event he became incapable of making his own decisions. We did it legally with all the properly executed paperwork. We talked about the things he wanted and how he felt about death and dying and we got all of that straight. What we didn't anticipate was how sick he would become and that his hospitalization would stretch to almost a year. After a couple of months he began telling the doctors and nurses to "ask Linda" whenever something needed to be discussed. I couldn't blame him, it was enough just to hang on, to deal with the sometimes daily dialysis, the pain in his back, and the very understandable depression.
Four months in, he went into the Intensive Care Unit for the first time and my schedule became daily trips to the hospital and remained so for the duration. I had to agree and sign for every procedure, bags and bags of blood and platelets, surgeries, intubations. There were so many specialists I started a list just to keep their names straight.
The important thing was that my friend was waiting each day for me to come. The ICU nurses would tell me that he would ask them throughout the day what time it was and when I would be arriving. Sometimes if he was confused from the medication, he told them that he heard my voice and that I was standing right outside his door. When his vocal chords were damaged by the intubation tubes and he was unable to talk, he would take my hand and kiss it and mouth "thank you," over and over.
There were horrible bad times when he raged and hated everyone, including me. It was so hard not to view my dear friend as hateful and hurtful, and I confess to sometimes losing that battle with myself. "Why am I doing this?" I would wonder, “the rest of my life is on hold while I take care of this person who says such mean things.” Articulate Steve knew how to say beautiful words, and could sting so very thoroughly with them as well.
But in the end there was such a peacefulness. The last time I saw him he was drowsy and smiling. “I’m sleepy,” he said, “Go home. Thank you. I love you. “
I've never regretted any of it. I would do it all over again for my friend.
This brings me back to that fate thing and why we got to know each other in the first place. He used to say to me, "I know my mother sent you." Maybe she had a hand in it. There are many things that my sweet friend did for me that made his place in my life a gift from somewhere as well, but I question nothing. Why else would we have finally crossed paths, for such a short number of years, and at just the right time?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
All of Us Veggies
If one more person asks, upon learning that I'm a vegetarian, "but what do you eat?" I'm going to drop a tub of tofu on them...which I don't eat anyway because I don't care what you do to it, it still tastes like the sponge I wash my dishes with.
People seem to think that taking away meat and poultry leaves Ethiopia. They forget that there is a whole realm of food out there that did not start out mooing or clucking, and since I'm not heroin chic emaciated, I must have found it. There are plenty of choices that make me have to work hard at keeping my jeans fitting the way I want them to.
Not long ago I was at a wedding where you were asked to choose what entree you preferred. When the waiter came to me, I made the mistake of telling him that I was a vegetarian and just to bring me whatever vegetables they were serving without the meat. "Oh no," he said, "I'll have the chef make you something special." He eyed me like a handicapped relative and patted my shoulder sympathetically. When we were served he set my plate in front of me and said, "Now there you go, just for you," and stopped short of, "you poor thing." There was a yellow squash sliced in half length ways, surrounded by carrots and broccoli. The "chief" must have whisked the squash past a pot of steaming water or turned a hairdryer on it (with the diffuser in place and set on low), because it was barely room temperature and still "thunked" when tapped on the table. The broccoli and carrots were raw. Everyone else had tiny browned potatoes and string beans almondine, all fully cooked to perfection.
I sometimes wonder if its some sort of weird subconscious punishment for the non-conforming, non-carnivores. "Here, eat this anemic looking squash, that’s what you get for not eating this nice filet mignon, what the heck is wrong with you?" They are also the "enhanced flavor Nazis" too. "No Seasonings for YOU!! Move to the back of the line."
I've been offered things like carrots on a bed of lettuce at a dinner party "because I know you're a vegetarian," when everyone else is enjoying a plethora of nicely cooked veggies along with their meat, or some sort of pasta. I'm always tempted to reply, "Oh no, I don't want to be a bother. I'll just go out and graze in the back yard, I noticed some nice looking dandelion leaves on my way in."
I'm not a vegan, I never met an egg or a piece of cheese I didn't like. I put milk in my coffee. I eat some fish. That puts me in a technical "Pescetarian" sub category, I suppose. I still love the smell of steaks cooking on a charcoal grill, but I just don't want to eat them. Pizza and lots of Chinese food is still meatless, along with a zillion other things. I don't get freaked if meat touches my food. And when I was in Italy I tasted the salami and prosciutto in four different regions. I'm a vegetarian, not an idiot.
At that wedding of my cousin the beautiful bride and the uncooked squash, I shrewdly ate enough calamari and roasted peppers at the cocktail hour so that the "squash that thumped," was a laugh for our table. When the wedding cake was served the waiter looked at me and hesitated, holding the plate with my slice in his hand until I reached over and took it from him. Yeah right, are you kidding me?
People seem to think that taking away meat and poultry leaves Ethiopia. They forget that there is a whole realm of food out there that did not start out mooing or clucking, and since I'm not heroin chic emaciated, I must have found it. There are plenty of choices that make me have to work hard at keeping my jeans fitting the way I want them to.
Not long ago I was at a wedding where you were asked to choose what entree you preferred. When the waiter came to me, I made the mistake of telling him that I was a vegetarian and just to bring me whatever vegetables they were serving without the meat. "Oh no," he said, "I'll have the chef make you something special." He eyed me like a handicapped relative and patted my shoulder sympathetically. When we were served he set my plate in front of me and said, "Now there you go, just for you," and stopped short of, "you poor thing." There was a yellow squash sliced in half length ways, surrounded by carrots and broccoli. The "chief" must have whisked the squash past a pot of steaming water or turned a hairdryer on it (with the diffuser in place and set on low), because it was barely room temperature and still "thunked" when tapped on the table. The broccoli and carrots were raw. Everyone else had tiny browned potatoes and string beans almondine, all fully cooked to perfection.
I sometimes wonder if its some sort of weird subconscious punishment for the non-conforming, non-carnivores. "Here, eat this anemic looking squash, that’s what you get for not eating this nice filet mignon, what the heck is wrong with you?" They are also the "enhanced flavor Nazis" too. "No Seasonings for YOU!! Move to the back of the line."
I've been offered things like carrots on a bed of lettuce at a dinner party "because I know you're a vegetarian," when everyone else is enjoying a plethora of nicely cooked veggies along with their meat, or some sort of pasta. I'm always tempted to reply, "Oh no, I don't want to be a bother. I'll just go out and graze in the back yard, I noticed some nice looking dandelion leaves on my way in."
I'm not a vegan, I never met an egg or a piece of cheese I didn't like. I put milk in my coffee. I eat some fish. That puts me in a technical "Pescetarian" sub category, I suppose. I still love the smell of steaks cooking on a charcoal grill, but I just don't want to eat them. Pizza and lots of Chinese food is still meatless, along with a zillion other things. I don't get freaked if meat touches my food. And when I was in Italy I tasted the salami and prosciutto in four different regions. I'm a vegetarian, not an idiot.
At that wedding of my cousin the beautiful bride and the uncooked squash, I shrewdly ate enough calamari and roasted peppers at the cocktail hour so that the "squash that thumped," was a laugh for our table. When the wedding cake was served the waiter looked at me and hesitated, holding the plate with my slice in his hand until I reached over and took it from him. Yeah right, are you kidding me?
Monday, August 23, 2010
Steve's Summer Solstice
(Since this daily writing is in part due to the promise I made to Steve, this one is a about an experience I would never have had if I hadn't known him.)
The "Mermaid Parade" takes place every year, on the weekend closest to the summer solstice on the Coney Island boardwalk. It is a celebration of the beginning of summer, usually led by some mid-level celebrity as Grand Marshal, and anyone can be in it.
It is an amazing sight. The spectators number in the thousands to watch hundreds of costumed mermaids march or glide on intricate floats along with their under-the-sea male counterparts, accompanied by bands and musical groups of every kind. There are cover girl mermaids, elderly mermaids, cross-dressing mermaids, mommy mermaids with baby mermaids, and some mostly naked mermaids spray painted gold or silver.. People drape themselves in netting and necklaces of shells, hats adorned with starfish, and there are sequins and sparkles enough to gratify any gypsy soul, including my own.
After the parade, the celebration continues long into the night. There is music on the boardwalk and you can work your way down dancing to rock, hip hop, salsa, listen to steel drums, and toss coins into the instrument cases of some pretty damn good street musicians. Don't bother waiting on the never-ending line at Nathan's, there are a ton of ethnic foods to choose from, and inhale.
We took the subway all the way out, it stops a few hundred yards from the boardwalk, and is elevated and sunny once you get a little further along. The first few stops were pretty routine, but then mermaids started hopping on. Every shape and size, decked from the simple bottom of the sea creature to the most elaborate showgirl type. Each stop drew a few more, and suddenly the car became a traveling pre-celebration party, with everyone laughing and comparing costumes, a virtual sea of summer solstice strangers engaging the moments. I've ridden the subway back from Shea with a car full of Mets fans after they won (really), but even they were not as much fun as that bunch of mermaids-for-a-day we rode with.
Maybe the solstice has some scientific magnetic force that beefs up our endorphins, or plays on those receptors in the brain that make us happy. I'm not interested in that would be explanation. I think it was the sparkles and the music and nobody giving a damn if they looked foolish (they didn't) or silly. We welcomed the summer dancing barefoot with mermaids. How much better can it get?
The "Mermaid Parade" takes place every year, on the weekend closest to the summer solstice on the Coney Island boardwalk. It is a celebration of the beginning of summer, usually led by some mid-level celebrity as Grand Marshal, and anyone can be in it.
It is an amazing sight. The spectators number in the thousands to watch hundreds of costumed mermaids march or glide on intricate floats along with their under-the-sea male counterparts, accompanied by bands and musical groups of every kind. There are cover girl mermaids, elderly mermaids, cross-dressing mermaids, mommy mermaids with baby mermaids, and some mostly naked mermaids spray painted gold or silver.. People drape themselves in netting and necklaces of shells, hats adorned with starfish, and there are sequins and sparkles enough to gratify any gypsy soul, including my own.
After the parade, the celebration continues long into the night. There is music on the boardwalk and you can work your way down dancing to rock, hip hop, salsa, listen to steel drums, and toss coins into the instrument cases of some pretty damn good street musicians. Don't bother waiting on the never-ending line at Nathan's, there are a ton of ethnic foods to choose from, and inhale.
We took the subway all the way out, it stops a few hundred yards from the boardwalk, and is elevated and sunny once you get a little further along. The first few stops were pretty routine, but then mermaids started hopping on. Every shape and size, decked from the simple bottom of the sea creature to the most elaborate showgirl type. Each stop drew a few more, and suddenly the car became a traveling pre-celebration party, with everyone laughing and comparing costumes, a virtual sea of summer solstice strangers engaging the moments. I've ridden the subway back from Shea with a car full of Mets fans after they won (really), but even they were not as much fun as that bunch of mermaids-for-a-day we rode with.
Maybe the solstice has some scientific magnetic force that beefs up our endorphins, or plays on those receptors in the brain that make us happy. I'm not interested in that would be explanation. I think it was the sparkles and the music and nobody giving a damn if they looked foolish (they didn't) or silly. We welcomed the summer dancing barefoot with mermaids. How much better can it get?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Trees And Other Souls
My office window gives me a minute to minute update of the weather. The view from my seat is the top half of the white building across the street and one slightly pathetic tree whose branches reach to this second floor horizon. I watch the seasons change through it, and on the worst work days I imagine that it waves in my direction reassuring me that there is life outside this workplace. Today I'm watching a torrential rain beating its leaves and the wind bending it side to side. I'm hoping that nothing cracks or breaks off causing someone to decide it is not aesthetic enough to be on the main street of this pretentious burb.
Appearance is what matters here, and I am so out of place... Alice through the looking glass in the form of a middle-aged day-dreamer in my favorite hippie thrift store skirt. It is in the air and in the cafe where they charge even more than Starbucks, and in the window of the elite "doggy store" where a sign in the window advertises "Just Arrived ! Italian Cashmere Sweaters." There are three banks and an investment broker on every block, a town furrier (cold storage on site for ALL your furs, ladies) and the Hummers still take up two parking spaces, gas prices notwithstanding.
Last summer there was a homeless woman who sat in the little park on nice days and took refuge in the train station when it rained. The townsfolk were outraged and sent letters to the editor and complaints to the cops. I walked past her many times, sitting on a bench with a bag at her feet and a winter hat on her short summer hair. If she wasn't taking a little cat nap she'd smile and ask me the time. My answer...1 o'clock, 5 o'clock, 10:30 AM,... always drew the same response, "Oh thank you dear, that's good." People called her “disgraceful' and 'dangerous.” They implied that she kept others from being comfortable in the park and made commuters uneasy in the station, no doubt quaking in their fine leather shoes and designer suits as they waited to hop a train to Wall Street. A few were more bold in their revulsion and said that she just made the town "look bad" and that somebody better do something about it before more of "them" appeared. Apparently they were convinced that the homeless have a hotline to advise each other of where the good benches are.
It was quite the buzz for a month or so, and then the powers that be had her ousted. “Sheriff, this town just ain't big enough for a couple of thousand millionaires and a little old homeless lady.” The little park with its carefully appointed landscape and fake fountain waterfall is perfect once again.
So, I worry about my tree. The sidewalk Gestapo here patrols for "neat" flower boxes, ornamental details and tiny shrubbery trimmed just so. What are its chances if it ends up with some branches stripped or missing a limb with a nasty open wound for all of downtown to see?
I worry about some of these people too. I worry about their souls.
Appearance is what matters here, and I am so out of place... Alice through the looking glass in the form of a middle-aged day-dreamer in my favorite hippie thrift store skirt. It is in the air and in the cafe where they charge even more than Starbucks, and in the window of the elite "doggy store" where a sign in the window advertises "Just Arrived ! Italian Cashmere Sweaters." There are three banks and an investment broker on every block, a town furrier (cold storage on site for ALL your furs, ladies) and the Hummers still take up two parking spaces, gas prices notwithstanding.
Last summer there was a homeless woman who sat in the little park on nice days and took refuge in the train station when it rained. The townsfolk were outraged and sent letters to the editor and complaints to the cops. I walked past her many times, sitting on a bench with a bag at her feet and a winter hat on her short summer hair. If she wasn't taking a little cat nap she'd smile and ask me the time. My answer...1 o'clock, 5 o'clock, 10:30 AM,... always drew the same response, "Oh thank you dear, that's good." People called her “disgraceful' and 'dangerous.” They implied that she kept others from being comfortable in the park and made commuters uneasy in the station, no doubt quaking in their fine leather shoes and designer suits as they waited to hop a train to Wall Street. A few were more bold in their revulsion and said that she just made the town "look bad" and that somebody better do something about it before more of "them" appeared. Apparently they were convinced that the homeless have a hotline to advise each other of where the good benches are.
It was quite the buzz for a month or so, and then the powers that be had her ousted. “Sheriff, this town just ain't big enough for a couple of thousand millionaires and a little old homeless lady.” The little park with its carefully appointed landscape and fake fountain waterfall is perfect once again.
So, I worry about my tree. The sidewalk Gestapo here patrols for "neat" flower boxes, ornamental details and tiny shrubbery trimmed just so. What are its chances if it ends up with some branches stripped or missing a limb with a nasty open wound for all of downtown to see?
I worry about some of these people too. I worry about their souls.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Timmy And The Teasers
(Note: Previously published in "Little Book of Poems and other Writings" 2003)
I stopped to have coffee after work with my dear friend Mike, still dressed in my nine to five persona skirt and heels and looking forward to winding down and sharing a little gossip. His 20-ish nephew was visiting with two friends in tow, using his home as a stopover for the night. They sat with us in the fading evening light, comfortably, youthfully slouched on couches and cushions.
Young men never seem to miss a chance to plunder one of their own. A continuous right of passage I suppose, inflicted on each other as they constantly try to one up even the closest of friends. They pounced unmercifully on Tim, the quietest one who was seated next to me on a small settee. “Yep, Tim doesn’t have a girlfriend.” They started in. “Do you believe that?”
“ Old Timmy, 18 years old and no woman.” Rob jabbed an “18” into the air for emphasis. He continued. “We’re taking him to the city tonight…gonna get him a woman…old Tim’s never…”
As the only woman in the room and assuredly the person he was most embarrassed to be hearing this recital, I broke in. “The weather should be nice tonight for walking around in the city. Are you going into the village?” They were merciless. “Maybe Tim will have better luck in New York, he keeps striking out in Pennsylvania.” Rob shot back.
Because I was old enough to be his mother…but wasn’t…I could see that “old Tim” possessed the on-the-brink good looks that in a few short years would have his taunting friends vying for his young lady overflow.
He acknowledged their ribbing with downcast eyes and gave a swift apologetic glance in my direction with his long lashed, very deep blues. A tiny smile pulled at his sweetly sensuous mouth. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t… I noticed that too.
The other guys pushed on with the attempted humiliation while Mike and I ignored them and talked around it all. A few minutes went by with Tim continuing to be un-responsive to their taunts. I glanced at my seat mate and suddenly noticed that while his head remained down, his eyes were aimed in my direction and fixed on my crossed legs, watching me unconsciously dangling one black high heeled shoe from my toes. He would glance away quickly checking to see if I had noticed, and then again allow his eyes to run down the black stockings, pause at the swaying heel, and slowly back up my leg.
To my knowledge, I hadn’t had my legs checked out by a man his age in quite some time. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t…I un-crossed my legs slowly, inviting his full attention. Lazily I stretched each one straight out, a- la- Mrs. Robinson, before crossing back over. I continued to dangle the high heeled shoe, grateful that my stockings had survived the day without a run, and thankful that the gams are the last to go. His appreciation was palpable and made my own heart light with sweet recollections of men and lovers who were young long ago.
There, before his unsuspecting pals filled with their own bravado, Tim and I shared our little secret, neither of us letting on what we both knew. A few moments when the teasing of his peers was drowned out in his own unexpected stop along the way. I knew this sweet young man would soon realize with delicious surprise that he more then had what it took. I willed him the understanding that, used passionately and lovingly, it would make him a very happy man indeed and that most good things come at just the right time.
I smile when I remember that afternoon and my performance for an unacknowledged audience of one. My gift to a young man from a woman who was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t.
I stopped to have coffee after work with my dear friend Mike, still dressed in my nine to five persona skirt and heels and looking forward to winding down and sharing a little gossip. His 20-ish nephew was visiting with two friends in tow, using his home as a stopover for the night. They sat with us in the fading evening light, comfortably, youthfully slouched on couches and cushions.
Young men never seem to miss a chance to plunder one of their own. A continuous right of passage I suppose, inflicted on each other as they constantly try to one up even the closest of friends. They pounced unmercifully on Tim, the quietest one who was seated next to me on a small settee. “Yep, Tim doesn’t have a girlfriend.” They started in. “Do you believe that?”
“ Old Timmy, 18 years old and no woman.” Rob jabbed an “18” into the air for emphasis. He continued. “We’re taking him to the city tonight…gonna get him a woman…old Tim’s never…”
As the only woman in the room and assuredly the person he was most embarrassed to be hearing this recital, I broke in. “The weather should be nice tonight for walking around in the city. Are you going into the village?” They were merciless. “Maybe Tim will have better luck in New York, he keeps striking out in Pennsylvania.” Rob shot back.
Because I was old enough to be his mother…but wasn’t…I could see that “old Tim” possessed the on-the-brink good looks that in a few short years would have his taunting friends vying for his young lady overflow.
He acknowledged their ribbing with downcast eyes and gave a swift apologetic glance in my direction with his long lashed, very deep blues. A tiny smile pulled at his sweetly sensuous mouth. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t… I noticed that too.
The other guys pushed on with the attempted humiliation while Mike and I ignored them and talked around it all. A few minutes went by with Tim continuing to be un-responsive to their taunts. I glanced at my seat mate and suddenly noticed that while his head remained down, his eyes were aimed in my direction and fixed on my crossed legs, watching me unconsciously dangling one black high heeled shoe from my toes. He would glance away quickly checking to see if I had noticed, and then again allow his eyes to run down the black stockings, pause at the swaying heel, and slowly back up my leg.
To my knowledge, I hadn’t had my legs checked out by a man his age in quite some time. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t…I un-crossed my legs slowly, inviting his full attention. Lazily I stretched each one straight out, a- la- Mrs. Robinson, before crossing back over. I continued to dangle the high heeled shoe, grateful that my stockings had survived the day without a run, and thankful that the gams are the last to go. His appreciation was palpable and made my own heart light with sweet recollections of men and lovers who were young long ago.
There, before his unsuspecting pals filled with their own bravado, Tim and I shared our little secret, neither of us letting on what we both knew. A few moments when the teasing of his peers was drowned out in his own unexpected stop along the way. I knew this sweet young man would soon realize with delicious surprise that he more then had what it took. I willed him the understanding that, used passionately and lovingly, it would make him a very happy man indeed and that most good things come at just the right time.
I smile when I remember that afternoon and my performance for an unacknowledged audience of one. My gift to a young man from a woman who was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Wisdom
Not so long ago, my Granddaughter had a great affinity for Band-Aids. Immediately after a greeting hug and kiss, she would ask in her tiny girl voice, “See my Band-Aids?” and pull up the legs of her pants to reveal four or five cartoon-character-ed adhesive strips across each leg.
Of course this Grandma would seriously ask about the circumstances of each. She would shrug her little shoulders at every inquiry, but continue to point down the line until all received the proper sympathetic consideration.
If I was fortunate enough to be there at bedtime, I would hold her sweet weight in my lap while she listened to the story she had chosen. Reluctant to give in to sleep, she lasted until the book was finished. Then she would point to a spot on her arm or leg, say “boo boo” in her sleepy voice, and offer it up for attention. Again and again, her fingertip resting on unblemished skin, we’d repeat the ritual. After each healing kiss, she would sigh and burrow in closer until her eyes closed and the deep breathing of her innocent sleep began.
I often think about her wisdom. How simple to ask for what is needed with no further thought for justification in the request.
How wonderful it would be to offer up that place that needs comfort, attention, reassurance. Perhaps one of the rough spots we face every day. Or maybe one of the ones that never go away.
The child in me envies the ability of the very young to understand what we often forget. How simple it is to offer your heart to be kissed and made better.
Of course this Grandma would seriously ask about the circumstances of each. She would shrug her little shoulders at every inquiry, but continue to point down the line until all received the proper sympathetic consideration.
If I was fortunate enough to be there at bedtime, I would hold her sweet weight in my lap while she listened to the story she had chosen. Reluctant to give in to sleep, she lasted until the book was finished. Then she would point to a spot on her arm or leg, say “boo boo” in her sleepy voice, and offer it up for attention. Again and again, her fingertip resting on unblemished skin, we’d repeat the ritual. After each healing kiss, she would sigh and burrow in closer until her eyes closed and the deep breathing of her innocent sleep began.
I often think about her wisdom. How simple to ask for what is needed with no further thought for justification in the request.
How wonderful it would be to offer up that place that needs comfort, attention, reassurance. Perhaps one of the rough spots we face every day. Or maybe one of the ones that never go away.
The child in me envies the ability of the very young to understand what we often forget. How simple it is to offer your heart to be kissed and made better.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
The Family That Picnics Together
(This is another "dusted off" piece, but in keeping with yesterday's entry, good food for thought. If anyone in my family is insulted, I apologize. I love you all.)
We were approaching the due date of our annual family reunion picnic. My father was one of seven children who married and pro-created Catholic-ally, and I have twenty seven first cousins who are mostly married with children and grandchildren. There are only three of the original seven left, two uncles and an aunt.
When everyone shows up, we are our own little village...or circus depending on the pull of the universe and any one or forty three personalities having some sort of delusional off day. Last year, half of them were in a snit, and in the spirit of some weird unity, an entire block declined to attend. I was trying to remember exactly why this morning and had to think for a few minutes, which is always the way of a past unpleasantness whose origin is never as important as the result.
We had talked about doing a picnic for years and finally got it together just three seasons ago. After the first one, e-mails flew back and forth between the cousins about how much fun we'd had and how it brought back so many memories of us all growing up together. We had shared many 4th of July celebrations, riotous loud affairs when our young parents joined in to toss water balloons and horseshoes, and bocce that went on all afternoon. Of course, they were Italian picnics with the best food anywhere and all my favorites, Aunt Millie's eggplant parmesan and my grandmother's anisette cookies to name just two.
My father's brothers and sisters remained close by all their lives, to the benefit of everyone. Sunday visits to one or the other were the rule in a time when nobody was too busy for a leisurely afternoon. It seemed everyone was thrilled to be together again.
Then somebody got insulted somewhere between the fall and the following summer. There are a few versions of who did what and what was said to who. A couple of nasty themed e-mails were hurled and copied into the entire family e-mail address list. Many tried to soothe over the situation and some didn't want to get involved for fear of making it worse. There is no lack of loud and pointed communication skills in this family. I suppose the ensuing hard feelings still exist because I just learned that the succeeding group would not be attending again due to each individual having "a prior commitment."
One aunt turned 90. One uncle is 85. We cousins are in our 40's and 50's, with a few past the 60 mark. There have been some serious medical issues.
I don't know if any of my relatives read this blog, but who gives a damn who said what to who. Did you forget how nice it was to say "Hey, do you remember.... ?" That we looked at each others grandchildren and said, "Did you ever think.....?" We share this one remarkable family, warts and disappointments included. Get over it. Get on with it. Let it go. I don't want to be standing in some cemetery listening to your regrets.
POSTSCRIPT: After this was written, two of "the cousins" passed away. My brother John, and my cousin Dennis. May they rest in peace. And yes, I stood in the cemetery and listened...
We were approaching the due date of our annual family reunion picnic. My father was one of seven children who married and pro-created Catholic-ally, and I have twenty seven first cousins who are mostly married with children and grandchildren. There are only three of the original seven left, two uncles and an aunt.
When everyone shows up, we are our own little village...or circus depending on the pull of the universe and any one or forty three personalities having some sort of delusional off day. Last year, half of them were in a snit, and in the spirit of some weird unity, an entire block declined to attend. I was trying to remember exactly why this morning and had to think for a few minutes, which is always the way of a past unpleasantness whose origin is never as important as the result.
We had talked about doing a picnic for years and finally got it together just three seasons ago. After the first one, e-mails flew back and forth between the cousins about how much fun we'd had and how it brought back so many memories of us all growing up together. We had shared many 4th of July celebrations, riotous loud affairs when our young parents joined in to toss water balloons and horseshoes, and bocce that went on all afternoon. Of course, they were Italian picnics with the best food anywhere and all my favorites, Aunt Millie's eggplant parmesan and my grandmother's anisette cookies to name just two.
My father's brothers and sisters remained close by all their lives, to the benefit of everyone. Sunday visits to one or the other were the rule in a time when nobody was too busy for a leisurely afternoon. It seemed everyone was thrilled to be together again.
Then somebody got insulted somewhere between the fall and the following summer. There are a few versions of who did what and what was said to who. A couple of nasty themed e-mails were hurled and copied into the entire family e-mail address list. Many tried to soothe over the situation and some didn't want to get involved for fear of making it worse. There is no lack of loud and pointed communication skills in this family. I suppose the ensuing hard feelings still exist because I just learned that the succeeding group would not be attending again due to each individual having "a prior commitment."
One aunt turned 90. One uncle is 85. We cousins are in our 40's and 50's, with a few past the 60 mark. There have been some serious medical issues.
I don't know if any of my relatives read this blog, but who gives a damn who said what to who. Did you forget how nice it was to say "Hey, do you remember.... ?" That we looked at each others grandchildren and said, "Did you ever think.....?" We share this one remarkable family, warts and disappointments included. Get over it. Get on with it. Let it go. I don't want to be standing in some cemetery listening to your regrets.
POSTSCRIPT: After this was written, two of "the cousins" passed away. My brother John, and my cousin Dennis. May they rest in peace. And yes, I stood in the cemetery and listened...
Monday, August 16, 2010
Just A Little Bit
(The 2010 Dodge Poetry Festival is coming up soon. This was written before the 2008 Festival, but carries the message at the end I want everyone to know today. The poem is newer, and I share that with you too)
I am hoping for beautiful weather for the weekend for the Dodge Poetry Festival. I want a sunny and warm invitation to let me lose myself there for two days. I need all the poetry I can get. I need to spend more money than I should on books. I need to see all the familiar faces and give them a hug. I need to hear the ones I don't know and escape in their words. I need to figure out how not to feel guilty and sick and sad about wanting to have all of the above.
I went to Dodge 2006 trying to remember every moment to bring back to Steve because he was too weak to go. I called him on the way home while it was all still fresh to report and brought him an armload of books and an extra program.
This time I go having learned that my brother's brain tumor is "end stage," and the doctors say three to six months. He has outlived his prognosis by two years, but that’s not enough for me. I'm selfish. He's my baby brother and my only sibling.
I want my buddy Steve alive and talking non-stop all over Waterloo Village. I want my brother's brain with no malignant cells and for him to tease me like the little brat he always was. I want him to play, “Do you remember when?” with me at my dining room table as we linger for hours after a holiday dinner.
Right this minute, I want certain market-watching idiots in my workplace to stop whining about it and just go on up to the counting house and shove their investments someplace really uncomfortable. I have all I can do to keep from screaming. I wish them just ten minutes of knowing someone you love is dying, and to hold their hand and know that they know it too. I'm sick of all the crap that never mattered.
And to my friends who read this blog…I love you...right now... for all the things that do matter, and for however long we have.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Did You?
I wondered if you knew me at the end
when I dropped morphine into your cheek,
watched the clock,
the undertaker’s card tacked to the wall.
I wanted you to reach over
and poke me in the ribs
until I smacked you back
so you could call Mom
and she would tell me to stop –
stop what I was doing.
“Just leave him alone,” she’d say
“Ignore him and he’ll be fine. “
Linda Radice July, 2010
I am hoping for beautiful weather for the weekend for the Dodge Poetry Festival. I want a sunny and warm invitation to let me lose myself there for two days. I need all the poetry I can get. I need to spend more money than I should on books. I need to see all the familiar faces and give them a hug. I need to hear the ones I don't know and escape in their words. I need to figure out how not to feel guilty and sick and sad about wanting to have all of the above.
I went to Dodge 2006 trying to remember every moment to bring back to Steve because he was too weak to go. I called him on the way home while it was all still fresh to report and brought him an armload of books and an extra program.
This time I go having learned that my brother's brain tumor is "end stage," and the doctors say three to six months. He has outlived his prognosis by two years, but that’s not enough for me. I'm selfish. He's my baby brother and my only sibling.
I want my buddy Steve alive and talking non-stop all over Waterloo Village. I want my brother's brain with no malignant cells and for him to tease me like the little brat he always was. I want him to play, “Do you remember when?” with me at my dining room table as we linger for hours after a holiday dinner.
Right this minute, I want certain market-watching idiots in my workplace to stop whining about it and just go on up to the counting house and shove their investments someplace really uncomfortable. I have all I can do to keep from screaming. I wish them just ten minutes of knowing someone you love is dying, and to hold their hand and know that they know it too. I'm sick of all the crap that never mattered.
And to my friends who read this blog…I love you...right now... for all the things that do matter, and for however long we have.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Did You?
I wondered if you knew me at the end
when I dropped morphine into your cheek,
watched the clock,
the undertaker’s card tacked to the wall.
I wanted you to reach over
and poke me in the ribs
until I smacked you back
so you could call Mom
and she would tell me to stop –
stop what I was doing.
“Just leave him alone,” she’d say
“Ignore him and he’ll be fine. “
Linda Radice July, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Tatoo....or Two ?
I do not have a tattoo. I am not tempted to get one, even in a place so hidden it would never see past my underwear. My children do not share my reluctance to dabble in such decoration. My daughter has a smiley face at the base of her spine. My son has a few more interesting designs.
When my son was little, I slathered his skin with sunscreen and made him wear a hat to avoid skin damage. He was ( and still is) allergic to fabric softener, and we used fragrance and dye free soap and detergents to keep his arms and legs free from rashes that itched and irritated. He is not, however, allergic to the tattoo artist's paint, nor does he seem to mind the pain the needles cause or the burning aftermath that shines with Bacitracin.
He started out small...the masks of tragedy and comedy, and the Impala symbol for his classic cars on his forearms. Then came his last name in gothic letters across his shoulder blades, and then some flames leaping from his ankle and partway up his calf. He has an almost completed "sleeve" that starts on his right shoulder and carries on down toward his elbow. I have to say that the artist does wonderful, intricate work on the detailed mural of buildings, a woman's face, and an old car that blend together beautifully. I suppose I just never thought that the tender baby skin I powdered and oiled and protected was being primed as a canvas.
His self-expression thing is probably my own fault. I let him get his ear pierced when he was in the third grade. The other mothers were horrified, a number of his friends started asking for earrings, and one kid's father told my son that "only fags wear earrings." That incident was one of my stellar mother moments. Suffice to say that after I spoke to the man, he kept a lot of space between us forever after.
I never had a problem with clothes or hair. My generation was the one that cleared all those paths, and my kids benefited from my, "as long as you're clean," attitude. My son had a multitude of hair styles. He grew it down to his rear end and had a Mohawk. Then there were colors. Red, blue, and green, in a style that required a variation spiky Mohawk with short dyed hair around the sides and back. He insisted on wearing the largest jeans he could find, size 48 waist, hacked off at the bottom and held up with a woven belt that went around him twice. He topped that off with a triple extra large t-shirt that hung well past his knees. For a couple of years, he appeared as a rather squat, well padded adolescent. On the evening of his junior prom, he came downstairs in his perfectly fitted tuxedo, a slim and trim, size 25 waist, 16 year old. We had forgotten what he really looked like.
My daughter was more conservative, but I do remember the "Punky Brewster" two different color shoes phase, and she did have "very big hair" at the same time she dated a guy with a Porsche that had a sun roof. When she got into the car and the roof was open, her hair stuck right up through it.
There are a lot worse things than having sections of your body look like a page from the Sunday comics. I admire other people's tatts and the talent of the artists who do such amazing work. I'm all for everyone doing their own thing. And since I’ve long passed financing my kids self-expression of choice, I say go for it.
When my son was little, I slathered his skin with sunscreen and made him wear a hat to avoid skin damage. He was ( and still is) allergic to fabric softener, and we used fragrance and dye free soap and detergents to keep his arms and legs free from rashes that itched and irritated. He is not, however, allergic to the tattoo artist's paint, nor does he seem to mind the pain the needles cause or the burning aftermath that shines with Bacitracin.
He started out small...the masks of tragedy and comedy, and the Impala symbol for his classic cars on his forearms. Then came his last name in gothic letters across his shoulder blades, and then some flames leaping from his ankle and partway up his calf. He has an almost completed "sleeve" that starts on his right shoulder and carries on down toward his elbow. I have to say that the artist does wonderful, intricate work on the detailed mural of buildings, a woman's face, and an old car that blend together beautifully. I suppose I just never thought that the tender baby skin I powdered and oiled and protected was being primed as a canvas.
His self-expression thing is probably my own fault. I let him get his ear pierced when he was in the third grade. The other mothers were horrified, a number of his friends started asking for earrings, and one kid's father told my son that "only fags wear earrings." That incident was one of my stellar mother moments. Suffice to say that after I spoke to the man, he kept a lot of space between us forever after.
I never had a problem with clothes or hair. My generation was the one that cleared all those paths, and my kids benefited from my, "as long as you're clean," attitude. My son had a multitude of hair styles. He grew it down to his rear end and had a Mohawk. Then there were colors. Red, blue, and green, in a style that required a variation spiky Mohawk with short dyed hair around the sides and back. He insisted on wearing the largest jeans he could find, size 48 waist, hacked off at the bottom and held up with a woven belt that went around him twice. He topped that off with a triple extra large t-shirt that hung well past his knees. For a couple of years, he appeared as a rather squat, well padded adolescent. On the evening of his junior prom, he came downstairs in his perfectly fitted tuxedo, a slim and trim, size 25 waist, 16 year old. We had forgotten what he really looked like.
My daughter was more conservative, but I do remember the "Punky Brewster" two different color shoes phase, and she did have "very big hair" at the same time she dated a guy with a Porsche that had a sun roof. When she got into the car and the roof was open, her hair stuck right up through it.
There are a lot worse things than having sections of your body look like a page from the Sunday comics. I admire other people's tatts and the talent of the artists who do such amazing work. I'm all for everyone doing their own thing. And since I’ve long passed financing my kids self-expression of choice, I say go for it.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Where Do You Come From?
The town I've lived in all my life has changed. It has gone from the bedroom community of my youth, (close to the NYC rail lines and buses for commuters) to a little village with many immigrants, mostly South American. The downtown strip of stores are now Spanish food stores and restaurants, places that teach ESL, and travel agents with store fronts full of little booths where people can pay by the minute to phone home.
Many have a problem with the new population. There is overcrowding in the schools, illegal housing problems, and that old common fear of people who are different. There has been "white flight" going on for years now, and I've been asked many times when I'm going to sell and get out. I would be dishonest if I didn't say that I'm not happy with the increase in my property taxes because of the need for more classrooms and services due to the changes. But for now, my family and friends are pretty much still within spittin' distance, this is my home, and I happen to like diversity.
Maybe it is the second or third generation that has conveniently forgotten how their grandparents or great-grandparents wound up here. Or maybe they don't have a story as I do, one that they just can't forget, about the settling in of their ancestors.
My mother's parents came from Sicily. They first lived in Brooklyn where my grandfather, a tailor, worked until they were able to save enough money to buy a house. They found one right here, a block from the spot where I'm writing this, and moved in sometime in the early 1930's. One of the neighbors was not happy about the family with the fig tree, grape arbor and chicken coop in the back yard. The man who lived directly across the street came to my grandfather and offered to buy his house if he would not buy another one close by. He made no apologies when he stated that he did not want Italians in his neighborhood. My grandfather was the gentlest soul I've ever known and I cannot imagine what his response could have been, but my understanding is that he just told the man that he did not want to sell his house.
As my mother told the story, this man also had a daughter who was my Mom’s age, and the little girls played together due to the kindness of his wife. My mother was allowed to play at her friend's house only when the father was not at home, but he would not allow his daughter to play with my Mom’s other friend, a little Jewish girl, at all.
My grandfather was successful and went on to own a tailoring factory nearby. He later bought a bigger house in town, but kept the one around the corner. It stayed in the family, from my grandfather to my uncle and to my cousin who finally sold it just a few years ago. My mother and uncles had wonderful memories of that house and the loving extended family that occupied it. It is where my father courted my mother.
My grandfather never told me about the incident, so I don’t know how he really felt about that discrimination. What I do know about him is that he was a kind and honest man, devoted to his family, and that I was the apple of his eye, "My sweet Leenduce," until he died in 1964.
My mother told the story many times, a first hand lesson for her children to remember, and I am grateful for the impression it made on me.
I often think about the unfortunate ending to the man across the street too. He died of a heart attack one Sunday morning. In church.
Many have a problem with the new population. There is overcrowding in the schools, illegal housing problems, and that old common fear of people who are different. There has been "white flight" going on for years now, and I've been asked many times when I'm going to sell and get out. I would be dishonest if I didn't say that I'm not happy with the increase in my property taxes because of the need for more classrooms and services due to the changes. But for now, my family and friends are pretty much still within spittin' distance, this is my home, and I happen to like diversity.
Maybe it is the second or third generation that has conveniently forgotten how their grandparents or great-grandparents wound up here. Or maybe they don't have a story as I do, one that they just can't forget, about the settling in of their ancestors.
My mother's parents came from Sicily. They first lived in Brooklyn where my grandfather, a tailor, worked until they were able to save enough money to buy a house. They found one right here, a block from the spot where I'm writing this, and moved in sometime in the early 1930's. One of the neighbors was not happy about the family with the fig tree, grape arbor and chicken coop in the back yard. The man who lived directly across the street came to my grandfather and offered to buy his house if he would not buy another one close by. He made no apologies when he stated that he did not want Italians in his neighborhood. My grandfather was the gentlest soul I've ever known and I cannot imagine what his response could have been, but my understanding is that he just told the man that he did not want to sell his house.
As my mother told the story, this man also had a daughter who was my Mom’s age, and the little girls played together due to the kindness of his wife. My mother was allowed to play at her friend's house only when the father was not at home, but he would not allow his daughter to play with my Mom’s other friend, a little Jewish girl, at all.
My grandfather was successful and went on to own a tailoring factory nearby. He later bought a bigger house in town, but kept the one around the corner. It stayed in the family, from my grandfather to my uncle and to my cousin who finally sold it just a few years ago. My mother and uncles had wonderful memories of that house and the loving extended family that occupied it. It is where my father courted my mother.
My grandfather never told me about the incident, so I don’t know how he really felt about that discrimination. What I do know about him is that he was a kind and honest man, devoted to his family, and that I was the apple of his eye, "My sweet Leenduce," until he died in 1964.
My mother told the story many times, a first hand lesson for her children to remember, and I am grateful for the impression it made on me.
I often think about the unfortunate ending to the man across the street too. He died of a heart attack one Sunday morning. In church.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
