Excuse Me?

One afternoon not too long ago, I walked into Dunkin Donuts to get my afternoon cup of what keeps me going. The new, young-thing employee handed over my cup, poised her finger over the register button, looked me in the eye and asked...."Senior?"
"What?" I replied, thinking she must have said "cinnamon" or "sesame seeds" or anything else that could not possibly be inquiring if I was over 60 or whatever the heck the new "discount" age is.
"I said... SENIOR?!," the barely pubescent little snot shot back.
I turned around to see if there was an aged gentleman or a stooped little lady with a walker standing beyond my vision. For once, I was the only customer in the store and there was no mistaking who she was addressing. She got a little impatient. I guess she figured my old brain had taken long enough to process the information and
I was partially deaf to boot because now she shouted it across the counter. "SENIOR CITIZEN! YOU KNOW... DISCOUNT?" Then she repeated it.
I thought about asking her just how old she thought I was, but decided I was afraid of the answer. I already knew she wasn't very bright and shudder to think what decade she'd place me in.
The thing is, no one ever asked before. Not at the movie theater, boarding the train, or at any store on senior citizen 10% off day. I don't have gray hair. I wear contact lenses, not bifocals. Okay, they're bi-focal contact lenses, but you can't tell by looking. My lipstick, when I remember to put it on, does not overflow the confines of my lip line. I don't own one of those fold-out plastic rain bonnets, support hose, or a container of Metamusil. Geez...gimme a break here. I had 3 1/2 inch heels on and I didn't hobble in and lean against the counter to catch my breath.
Like the age I've actually become, this little chickie caught me off guard.
So I smiled my youngest smile and tossed my head as hard as I could without wrenching my neck. I laughed and said, "Oh no, I don't qualify," paid full price for the coffee (tip jar my ass, kiddo) and strode out as fast as possible on those heels...which she didn't have to know were Easy Spirits and comfortable as hell.
What I really wanted to do was reach over the counter, shake her silly by a handful of her thick hair and tell her that she too will one day be old. If she watches her mouth.

Wrappings

A friend told me recently how his Mother would give him a sandwich to take home with him. It would be wrapped in layers. First wax paper, then foil, and finally a impenetrable plastic wrap coating. For good measure she added a rubber band lest any of the protective armor come loose from door to door.
"What was that all wrapping about?" he asked. I've been thinking about an answer for him all day.
Mothers send food home with their adult children. It is our job. Even if they have a fully stocked refrigerator waiting at home, you will never let that child leave your home without "a little something."
Italian Mothers, for whom food is an organized religion, have been my primary examples. My Grandmother would have clutched her chest moaning "Madre benedetta della Mary di miei (Blessed Mary Mother of Mine !)" and passed out cold if she ever found herself without something for you to take with you.
I always knew when my father had dropped by Grandma's house. There would be a foil wrapped package on the table that could be peeled like an onion to reveal another layer of foil, some waxed paper, and finally the square of ricotta pie prize. What was inside changed deliciously with the seasons, but the triple plate shield was always the same.
My own mother never discarded any plastic container with a lid. She would send us home with eggplant or sausage in a giant margarine tub, wrap foil around it "in case it leaks" and then cover it with some plastic. She'd slap a few bits of masking tape on the whole deal to make sure that the plastic that was supposed to cling actually did so.
I'm a modern Mama. I have those disposable plastic containers...which I wash and re-use anyway since I AM my mother's daughter. So I pack whatever is going home with my kids in those uniform see-through rectangles with the tight fitting lids. There may be a rubber band involved if I panic and wonder if the "sure seal" lid might pop. Then I put the whole thing in a zip lock bag. After that it goes into another bag for carrying purposes.
As I said, I've been considering my friend's question all day.
I know why we bundle our children off with sandwiches and cookies and the lasagna from Christmas dinner in such careful packaging.
They are our gift wrapped hearts.

Please Mr. Verizon Man, Is There A Telephone In Your Bag For Me?

I come from a long line of basic telephone people. My Mother had a rotary phone until she passed away. My grandparents had only one phone in the house...a basic black Bakelite with a cloth cord and a receiver that weighed more than my first child. And my great-grandparents over in Italy had one of the original models...yell over the chickens to your neighbor.
I tried to explain this to the wireless Verizon guy in the store. I just wanted a replacement of my broken, simple, cell phone. However, I am convinced there is a little microchip implanted in the Verizon-ites who work there that refuses to acknowledge the words "basic," "no frills," "streamlined," or even my more colorful and descriptive "freaking plain phone please."
We paraded past all the Blackberrys, Iphone's and "with this you can do everything" phones. He looked at me in disbelief when I insisted that not only did I not need any of their magical powers, but I also probably wouldn't be interested in time travel or accessing Mars just because it might become available on some futuristic model.
I explained that I do consider myself a little advanced. I can leave messages and text. I can use the camera, although my thumb is usually in the picture and it takes a couple of moments for me to figure which way the lens is supposed to point. I carefully explained again that I really just want to dial the phone and have someone on the other end say "hello."
Finally, in a tone reserved for the aged and the dumb he sighed and pointed. I followed the direction of his outstretched arm and had to squint to see the phone.
It was huddled in the corner...a wallflower, looking small and sheepish at the end of the line while all the others winked and blinked their "come hither" charms on dressy, well endowed bodies.
"All it has is the phone and a camera," he said, shaking his oh-so-young-techo-filled-head at me. I picked up the little number and flipped it open.
"Perfect, " I replied...and took a picture of my thumb.

Is it Hot in Here or is that Johnny Depp Ringing My Doorbell?

I suppose earlier generations of women would understand. They had Clark Gable. They swooned for Frank Sinatra. Lucy and Ethel pursued William Holden and Richard Widmark just for a peek. There have always been good-looking men for female adoration, especially in the days of elegant movie theaters and cloth hankies, but I wonder if its ever been quite like this.
Thanks to recent postings by friends on FaceBook...and how utterly un-elegant a venue...I've given more than a little thought to Mr. Depp. Mention his name and 17 women will appear and say "ahhhh," in unison. Refer to a movie of his and 17 more will come forward with quotes, comments on what he wore in which scene, and how at any given time they would chuck it all for a swing from the mast of that ship with Johnny.
I confess. I'd let Edward cut my hair in a heartbeat. Benny could stick a fork in my dinner rolls, dance them on the counter, and I'd be thrilled to accompany him on a kazoo. The Mad Hatter can put his hats in my hat boxes and to heck with my headgear.
And Johnny...whose brain passed sexy seventeen billion syntax's ago. Well, I'm just sayin'...is it hot in here?

In Memory of Steve....

Today is the second anniversary of Steve's death. His family printed a poem written by him as a memorial in The Courier News. Below is the poem...one I had seen in many drafts during the time he wrote it. I share it with you and all of the poet friends who knew him.

BLOOD COUNT
(Upon diagnosis of Multiple Myeloma)

By Steven Worowski, March 7, 2006


I was ten years old on a hill slope sled
To cut the thread my penknife slipped
Rust drops became red spots
In white snow from dirty gloved
Squeezed covered thumb
All the way home, raw, hidden, one inch deep
For the sake of a sled left behind
In the fleshy red emergency.
Same year; 1962, Cub Scout Den Mother
Also my birth mother
And nine other boys.
2 causasian, Nick and me.
7 black boys then called "negros"
Greg Vanderveer smacked in the nose
By Tommy Richardson's basketball
Wide brown nostrils became slowly
Flowing crimson spigots.
Our den mother soaked both of her handkerchiefs
Fresh clean, now white, ent brown skin dyed
Summertime scarlett in an instant
1962 - 10 years after the Manhattan Project
Uranium test soil dump site here.
Our unofficial playground
The sun had set in Nevada.
It has set on Bikini Island
In Hiroshima, In Nagasaki.
In tons of soil here remained
Hundreds of pound of memory
With Scarlet life heated just under the sun.
A dull cut. My mother now safe and dead.
Never racist, a miracle she was for that in those years.
1988 - Soil removed in sealed cement bunkers
Dropped 40 miles in North Atlantic Ocean,
Half forgotten, never gone.
There now for future generations
Of Greenland fisheries to
Pull away from their sleds.
Half forgotten, never gone, though some
Of the negro kids are.
Gone skin-popped first, then died watching
ebbs and flows in cool Syringes like
Seasons changing in steely moments
Instead if monotonous grey months.
and now, maybe me - 21st Century Man
With a sample cup to pee in
And still for the sake of a sled.
I bring my bandage to my mother's ghost
in the night. She sighs.
She kisses my forehead.
She whispers I will be alright.
A tumor. A late bloomer. A rumor
The negro kids look up.
Has the Manhattan Project conspired with my spine?

KATE GOSSLEIN FORCED TO NJ SALON

(Author's Note...as a fan of both "The Onion" and "The Jersey Backup," and in that vein, this is my tongue-in-cheek response to reality shows and the tabloids...and...uh...meaning no disrespect)


Kate Gosslein, the sharp tongued Mom of Jon and Kate Plus Eight, was whisked to a Hair Salon in Phillipsburg last Wednesday after learning that the entire state of Pennsylvania was temporarily out of hair bleach. It is rumored that over the course of the past year and a half, Kate has spent hours each day having her ever expanding highlights touched up, and the beauty supply warehouses have not been able to keep up with the demand.

Misty LaRue, proprietor of Misty’s Magic Fingers Massage and Hair Salon, worked on Kate personally. “She had her cell phone on speaker the whole time.” said the native born Phillipsburgian. “Even when we had her head in the sink she was yelling at her lawyer. She said that she gave birth to 8 kids, so she’s entitled to eight-tenths of everything. I think she also said something about getting Jon’s left lung and his hair plugs, but don’t quote me on that.”

Mabel Clarsidge was a client in the salon at the time. “I was under the hair dryer so I couldn’t hear, but I saw Kate grab a rat-tail comb and hold it under Misty’s throat. I don’t know what it was all about, but shortly afterwards a kid ran in from Starbucks with a grande frappuccino.”

Mel Stracher, spokesman for the Pennsylvania Association of Beauticians, contacted the media to add his comments to the growing Jon and Kate debacle. “Kate is a selfish woman,” he said in a Philadelphia newscast interview, “She apparently does not care if other people have to walk around with dark roots showing. Every salon in the state has a waiting list of furious women who cannot get a touch up because of Kate. She has a limo to drive her over state lines. She doesn’t have to pump her own gas to get her tummy-tucked-shrunken-rear-end over to Jersey, but what about the average Jane?” He shook his head in disgust. “We’re doing our best to get bleach from other states, but the demand is always high, even in the current economy. However, we have formed a coalition which will severely limit Kate Gosslein’s future access to it in Pennsylvania. Let Jersey have her and good riddance.”

In related stories, WalMarts across Pennsylvania are reporting that they have been wiped out of women’s hats and head scarves, and local police report responding to numerous complaints by grandmothers having babushkas snatched from their heads.

Tiferet has graciously included my poem "Directory Assistance" on their website as an excerpt from issue 9. The website is http://tiferetjournal.com/writings/poetry/ Tiferet is a beautiful publication of poetry, non-fiction, drama, fiction and art (copies can be obtained through the website) and I am honored to have been selected to be part of the current issue. Many thanks again to the editors for choosing the poem, and I hope you'll read the other fine examples from Tiferet's pages as well.