Category Archives: Personal Moments in an Anonymous City

Deja Vu All Over Again

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I saw my sister in the gym tonight.  Actually, I bumped into a trainer just outside the gym who told me my sister was working out.  I looked shocked; the trainer then looked puzzled.  You see, my sister has a stress fracture in her foot and should not be on an elliptical machine (and that is all she does at the gym when I am not around to coach her about weights).  I march upstairs in my “street clothes” to confront my sister.  I go to the heart of the matter and ask her whether she did, in fact, get her medical degree through a correspondence course with an off-shore medical school. In our family, that is the sum total of trash-talking.

After having laid down the gauntlet, my sister sputters some rationalizations, all of which I reject in an imperious way (after all I am a doctor, too — ok, a juris doctor).  I give her THE LOOK (Mom’s look of disappointment).  She doesn’t flinch.  She is not my sister.  My sister would have flinched.  I am confronted by the realization that my sister’s body is inhabited by an alien who is not scared of THE LOOK. THE LOOK proves the old adage, “if looks could kill . . . ” Well, not exactly, but THE LOOK with the eyes of my mother can really make a person plead for forgiveness. No sign of recognition by the alien inhabiting my sister.

Still, she knows about “our” Dad’s procedure tomorrow.  Clever aliens, these pod people.

So, I test this alien with other facts that my sister should know.  I mention some things I had written in my blog.  She is a little hazy about some of my latest entries.  But she does zero in on some with incredible accuracy.  I am not convinced yet but I leave to regroup and give the alien a false sense that she fooled the sister of her host body.  I come back up and flash an old picture of my parents and my sister at camp visiting day, circa 1969.  The alien looks at the picture, sighs and hugs me.

Maybe my sister is inhabited by an alien, but it is a really endearing alien.  Maybe the alien can heal her stress fracture.  Maybe the alien can help with my sagging neck.  After all, aliens have special powers that can conquer humanity, or at least that is true in the movies.

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No-Where-istan’s Gender Politics

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Friends were over Saturday night and the discussion came up about the gender of No-Where-istan’s Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness.  According to more than a few, but less than a majority, of those present (lesbians between ages 45 and 58), the Minister (see prior entries) is of indeterminate gender.   (These are blackberry camera photos, so the picture resolution and, therefore any conclusion, are necessarily fuzzy.) 

I then raised the not-so-news (to us old folks) that academic circles hold forth that there are six — count them, six — genders.  None of us could think of more than 2, and we did acknowledge that a person could identify with more than one at a time but there are still only 2.  Determined not to be out of the mainstream and matters hip and trendy, some stood fast in their knowledge and ability to discern gender.  Not that it matters.  But when you gather highly educated and accomplished people together, there is bound to be strong opinions and lines drawn on your imported Persian carpet (oh, well).

So, last night, I saw the Minister holding a conference in the Times Square subway.  I tried to get close enough, but not too close as to arouse suspicion.  But, my eye sight forced me to squint and trend closer to the Minister, so much so, that in order to continue my covert investigation I had to give her a dollar and get a small red heart-shaped Ministry-gram that said “peace is in your heart”. 

I felt the Minister’s calloused hand.  Not dispositive.  No discernible Adam’s apple.  Still not dispositive (one can have that shaved down, I understand).  Nice muscle tone but still within range of any gender. So, not dispositive. 

After my investigation, I still have no idea (although I have a guess).  But it doesn’t really matter as long as she is my Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness and still gives out Ministry-grams.  And as long as she isn’t looking for closet space in No-Where-istan (which is still in my head and a bit full, with cobwebs and all).

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A schlepic

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schlepic (n): [pron: SHLE-pic] a journey of epic proportions (from the Yiddish schlep).  A schlepic is often measured by length and grueling effort or by short distance with emotional energy expended. 

So, according to Vebster’s Dictionary of Yiddish phrases, a schlepic can be long but complicated and frustrating travel or a short subway ride full of bizarre behavior and emotional and psychic energy.  Or anywhere along the continuum between those two points.

I had a schlepic this morning:

Although I am feeling “waist creep” — that terrible feeling that you can’t suck in your stomach to close your pants from last year — I am still a small person who can fit easily in the small space between two large passengers on a subway car.

And yet, I didn’t have to fit easily between two people in the subway car.  I was at the end of the bench next to a hand rail, a comfortable distance away from the next passenger, who had a wide berth on the other side of him as well.  Then, a large man squeezes in next to me. 

The man on the other side of him still has room to move down a little, but insists on standing (er, sitting) his ground. So the force of gravity is heading my way on the right and there is a metal handrail on my left. 

I lean over to assess the situation and see if I can ask the man on the other side to move down.  As I lean forward, I realize that I have lost the back of the seat to my fellow traveller’s shoulders.  He never looks up and he takes out a text book to read (very convenient on the subway).  The man on the other side is looking down and is wearing ear phones, so my “excuse me, sir” falls on already noise-filled ears.  I try to reach over to tap the man, because if I get up, then textbook man will slide into my already diminished space.  Of course, I had to invade textbook man’s space to tap the other passenger.  That turned out to be an affront to his G-d-given right to comfort and self-determination on the subway.   I said, “I am just trying to get a little more room here,” and his response was a sigh of disgust, as if I am the interloper.  Ok, ok, ok, how does this work?  I am being squished out of my seat and I am the interloper and troublemaker?

Many mean thoughts raced through my head.  Then rage.  Then my stop came.  No resolution.  No catharsis. No release.  Just a jackass on a train who thinks he is right.  Ok, he represents a huge demographic in our country.  Probably over 60% of the population.

Emotions and anger continue to rage as I walk up the steps and out of the subway. 

It was short, but a schlepic nevertheless.

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Cell YELLLLLLL

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Cellphones are sometimes blessings but, most times, curses. 

When your 89 year-old father is running late because of city traffic, it is a blessing not to start calling emergency rooms around the city.  If you are on a bus and a teenager is talking about adolescent issues and her first visit to the gynecologist, well, then, it is a little like being in purgatory.

Recently, on a bus going uptown on the west side of Manhattan, a woman in her mid-to-late seventies was having a conversation on her cellphone.  To be more precise, she was YELLING into her cellphone as if she were hard-of-hearing or had never used a cellphone before (or both).  A man in his sixties turned around and told her he was very sensitive to noise and ask very politely if she would mind lowering her voice.

Her response was to tell her friend, “can you believe someone told me to quiet down? If you were next to me and we were screaming to each other, no one would say anything to us.” 

You can’t argue with that, mostly because all you would get out of it is a headache.

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No-Where-istan Swears In Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness

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Here she is, the Minister of Peace, Love and Happiness, plucked from the subways of NYC and into the ministry of Peace, Love and Happiness.  She is wearing the official dress and head gear of the country in keeping with its cultural roots.  There will be traditional dancing at the inaugural balls later on in the season.  But for now, I give you, ladies and gentlemen, Her Excellency the Minister:

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Is it me?

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Last night’s commute, straight from my simultaneous note-taking on my blackberry (like Anderson Cooper on CNN blogging through commercials).

Man on the subway is talking about how horrible marriage is.  He is really ranking on his wife.  Says he doesn’t get why she wonders why he is always drunk.  Also, he is a fund manager without a fund. And he is belittling his “friend” who is on the train.  Now, he is pissed that his friend recently moved into a new apartment, asking his friend how come he is doing well if he can’t pull it together.  He keeps asking about people they know in common and whether they are married. I am gathering that they don’t work together any more.  They both get off the train. I guess it is my turn to stand up and ask women if they are wearing matching or clean undergarments.  Maybe a therapist will start talking about his or her crazy clients or maybe a disheveled man who is homeless but no more or less crazy than the fund-less fund manager will walk into the car. Nope. Pretty ok although there is a straight guy reading a pink colored book called Sex and the Single Girl. Ok, he just checked out a guy. So, maybe a not-so-straight guy reading a book with a pink cover about single women’s sex lives. Ok, that’s weirder.

Ok ok ok ok. I am heading out of the subway on one of those exit-only stairs that have the out-only turnstiles with the horizontal bars all the way up to the ceiling. A man in his 70s who sports the bohemian, artiste look is aheading of me and climbs onto one of the lower bars the way my 7 year-old does, intending for me to pushing him through.  So here I am pushing this strange stranger through the turnstile as I would my son.  At least, the (strange) stranger didn’t say weeeeeeeeeee like my son, thank G-d.  But I am standing on the street in the rain typing this on my blackberry, so who is the crazy one?

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Republic of Texas

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Just today a Dallas newspaper had an article about secession.  It posited that more people outside Texas than inside would like the state to secede from the Union.

I saw my brother for lunch.  My sister-in-law suddenly got sick at the sight of me and begged off lunch.  I am trying not to connect the dots.

I sat in the bar/lounge of my hotel, waiting for my friends for dinner, and saw a sign that weapons are not allowed in the bar/lounge.  I’m from New York City, where grit and crime are part of the  urban landscape, and I have never seen such a sign.  I suddenly felt safer in NY.  At least I know that in No-Where-istan, that fabulous, mythical place, there are no weapons, concealed or otherwise.

Actually, given that my hotel was in the seamy part of Dallas (my secretary allowed “cost-cutting” to go too far), I am feeling like I am in an area of Dallas that, if this were NY, would be called Fort Apache, The Bronx.

But no gunfights so far, so I don’t really feel like I am in the Republic of Texas.  This is already a long, strange trip and Jerry Garcia had the benefit of drugs.

republc

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A typical day in my life

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Crazy day on the road to Utopia.

I had every textbook stress dream a person can have.  Teeth falling out.  Not being dressed at work.  Having to use the bathroom in front of people.  Having to take an exam in a course at school I thought I dropped.  Running and never making it where I need to go.  Have I missed any?  

I woke up in a cold sweat and groggy. My partner thinks it is because she put too much garlic in that new recipe she tried last night. While the amount of garlic was indeed impressive and did require a Tums or 5, it didn’t cause my bad dreams.  Those I was able to conjure up all by myself.

So, I was exhausted when I started the day at the office.  I was able to get some work done before my computer crashed.  Apparently, everyone else’s computers worked.  Mine was the only one frozen.  Maybe it happened because I didn’t have a stress dream about it.  Note to self: Don’t get out of bed until you’ve had EVERY stress dream imaginable.

I walked to the east side to have lunch with a friend.  I bumped into the Columbus Day parade.  A sad little affair with marchers dressed up in period clothes to look like people of Columbus’s time.  If you want to parade, go to Randall’s island. Get out of my way in midtown.  Although I did get perverse pleasure in being jostled into an Orthodox Jewish man who would not otherwise touch me lest I were ritually unclean (I was not).

I did have an opportunity to pass by a prayer station.  I’m not kidding.  See?  Prayer is fine, but you think with all those who are praying, something would have changed by now.mail

I had a really fun lunch with my friend who is so hysterically funny.  Because I want to maintain confidentiality of my sources, her stories will come out over time.

After fighting my computer for the rest of the day (the computer won), I went home on the train.  There was a guy drizzling hot sauce on top of the hugest falafel I have ever seen, as he was swaying in the subway car.   Shreds of lettuce were falling out of his mouth as he ate. I needed to switch cars at the next stop.  In my next car, there was an angry child demanding “eye contact” from his mother and saying hateful things in jags and spurts. I think I witnessed a portrait of a sociopath as a young child.  They got off and a bike messenger who reeked of pot got on and everything got sooooo mellow.

A day in the life.

Off to bed.  To sleep, perhaps to dream.  (Maybe I’ll make a pot of coffee and stay awake to keep the dreams at bay.)

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No-Where-istan gets a national anthem

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We No-Where-istanis need an anthem, something to rally around.  I was worried about how to choose the right song — a song to capture the mood, the state of mind (or whatever) and the gestalt of No-Where-istan.

On Friday, I was mulling this on my way into the subway.  The 42nd Street-Times Square Station often gives me inspiration.  Into the bowels of New York I descended.  I saw this woman getting ready to play her saxophone:

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She did not ask for money,  just business cards.  She was just learning how to play, as in she would not make the B squad of the high school band.  Maybe she was an out-of-work Wall Streeter, trying to find her inner Marsalis.

Anyway, she started playing, of all things, No Where Man by the Beatles.  For all I know, she was trying to play On the Good Ship Lollipop, but No Where Man came out in fits and starts from her saxophone.  I was the only one who stopped.  More accurately, I was the only one not running away from the noise. 

Then I thought, “No Where Man.  No-Where-istan.  THAT’S IT!!!  It is a real No-Where-istan. . . .”

Another inspirational moment in the subway.

This nation-building thing is really coming together, eh?

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No-Where-istan is getting crowded

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A friend emailed that she wants a senior position in government AND the townhouse must be in Tribeca.  Then again, she thought, the townhouse wasn’t a good idea because there is no staff to help if there is a leak or something.  Ok, so she is sensible, but . . . . .

I need to tell you more about this sensible friend.  We saw her last evening at a function and she was wearing Jimmy Choo, insanely high-heeled shoes.  She is not a short woman and already has a presence about her without being 5 inches higher as a result of lovely but insane shoes.  (By the way, back-breaking shoes are NOT allowed in No-Where-istan.) 

Of COURSE, it was an I-am-40-and-over-and-I-needed-these-shoes crisis.  For those of you not yet in your 40s, don’t think that we are exaggerating the phenomenon.  Save up just for your impulse buys for the 40s decade.  Trust me.  Or ask a female financial planner.  Really.

On the plus side, our friend’s calves looked fabulous (for the real confirmation, she couldn’t ask straight women, so she made sure she asked POB (partner of blogger) and me about how hot her calves looked).

But she is not going to be senior health advisor (high heels knocked her out of the running) and we don’t have health care in No-Where-istan anyway. 

But, we will have a senior official with killer calves. 

She’ll have to take off the shoes when trying to enter the country that is still in my head.

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