Elmo Goes To Work

Ever wonder how Elmo gets to work?

Well, here he is on his way to Sesame Street.

Hey, Elmo, “can you tell me how you get — how you get — to Sesame Stree-ee-tt??”

Wait, Elmo, you’ve stopped on the corner of 50th Street and 7th Avenue.  I know for sure — for sure — that this is most definitely NOT Sesame Street.

Funny, his voice sounded awfully much like a lawyer I used to know. . . .

A gift from my sister

SOB (sister of blogger) and my brother-in-law spent a few days in Vienna, goose-shtepping with Wagner.

My gift from the heart of virulent anti-semitism is this priceless picture.  A gift that keeps on giving.

You can’t make this up.

Sunday night dinner with the family

As usual, SOB (sister of blogger), HOSOB (husband of blogger), DOB (dad of blogger), COB (cousin of blogger), POB (partner of blogger), Blogger and our son have dinner together at our house on Sunday nights.  Our son calls the crowd, the “Regulars” (as in, “[Blogger], are the Regulars coming over this weekend?”).  Often, after a funny story told by one of the assembled family, our son sometimes says to me, “[Blogger], why don’t you blog about that?” (Put that under the category of “Kids Say the Darndest Things”.)

Fresh Direct was scheduled to deliver groceries between 4pm and 6pm.  DOB came at 4pm; Fresh Direct came at 6pm.  In fact, as DOB ages, he is coming earlier and earlier.  I think that is why restaurants offer early bird specials — the elderly set factor in so much time to get where they are going that, even though they intend to eat dinner at 6:30pm, they arrive at the restaurant at 4:30pm.  So, if my rough calculations are correct, in just five short years, when DOB is 95, he will be showing up at brunch time.  So we will have to have new menu options by then.  Fair warning.

As I said, the Fresh Direct delivery came at 6pm.  In our house, we play FDF (Fresh Direct football), which means that I throw non-glass groceries to our son, who runs it into the kitchen where POB puts them away.  Sometimes, I follow in pursuit for a two-hand touch tackle.  For glass (and milk), I do a pass off and our son runs it in.  Less yardage but the quarterback can’t always pass.  Sometimes, the vegetables look a little mangled and bruised if the pass is incomplete, but it still tastes fine.  POB is unconvinced but keeps her opinions in the “if looks could kill” category.  That works because I just look away.

SOB and HOSOB were at the house while we were playing FDF and SOB was a guest quarterback for a few clutch plays.  I could tell she was a bit overwhelmed by the number of boxes and volume of foodstuffs that required cooking and preparing.  SOB and HOSOB have been married for only a few years and, before that, SOB mostly lived alone and out of prepared food cartons.  Even now, their refrigerator is a little post-apocalyptic (see http://40andoverblog.com/?p=2355 for pictures).

The expression on her face as she looked at the Fresh Direct boxes suggested that she found this somewhat foreign cultural activity charming and said to HOSOB pointing to the now empty boxes, “Groceries. [pause.]  Groceries.  We should have groceries, too!”  (Dear SOB, most people buy groceries.) 

HOSOB, looking a little scared, said “What would we do with them?”  Oh, sweet, HOSOB, you and SOB can do nothing with groceries.  You need to stick with what works — take-out.

As long as we are rethinking who can be a citizen of the United States . . . .

Let’s start with those who are afflicted with criminal stupidity or arrogance.  Like the guy whose wedding pictures are on Facebook.  Except that his wife wasn’t the bride.  (see below the jump.)

So, this guy who was born here  and pushes our civilization further down the drain (can you hear the flushing noises) is a citizen of the United States of America as a “birthright.

Makes a person not want to join this club, huh? 


By MEGHAN BARR, Associated Press Writer Meghan Barr, Associated Press Writer 1 hr 43 mins ago

CLEVELAND – Dread of the unknown hung in the air as Lynn France typed two words into the search box on Facebook: the name of the woman with whom she believed her husband was having an affair.

Click. And there it was, the stuff of nightmares for any spouse, cuckolded or not. Wedding photos. At Walt Disney World, no less, featuring her husband literally dressed as Prince Charming. His new wife, a pretty blonde, was a glowing Sleeping Beauty, surrounded by footmen.

“I was numb with shock, to tell you the truth,” says France, an occupational therapist from Westlake, a Cleveland suburb. “There was like an album of 200 pictures on there. Their whole wedding.”

The husband claimed Thursday that his marriage to Lynn France was never valid. He said she knew earlier about the other marriage and was making the Facebook claim as a publicity ploy.

Bridal Diapers???


I have been meaning to write on the subject of bridal diapers (no, not as in horses).  You have to read this.  Truth IS stranger than fiction.

A college friend emailed this article around shortly after our 25th reunion in mid-June.  (As I mentioned in an entry then, at reunion we discussed relevant topics such as, “if we were dating when in our 70s and 80s, would someone’s use of “Depends” diapers for convenience only be a dating deal breaker?”)  We thought it was.  We determined that one should maintain as much control as possible for as long as possible and resist smelling like a cesspool if at all possible.

But, apparently, according to the article, the bridal gowns are so cumbersome that going to the bathroom is a 20-minute ordeal or could possibly end in unsightly leakage.  EEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

You would think the sensible answer would be, of course, GET A DIFFERENT DRESS!! 

Nope, not for these bridezillas.  The answer: DIAPERS, so they can wet themselves while talking to guests and dancing with their fathers or cutting the cake or being danced around on a chair. 

Think about that the next time you go to a wedding.  Think to yourself, could that dress be hiding a diaper?  Could I be congratulating the happy couple while the bride is . . . ?

And we wonder why our civilization is rounding the drain.

Tim Burton’s version of Toy Story

I haven’t seen Toy Story 3 yet but I understand that there is a bear that is cuddly even though it is the evil character in the film.

Because life imitates art (for example, Mel Gibson is still a star despite hateful speech and threats of violence), this evil bear is all the rage among the under 6 set.  It wasn’t always the Cabbage Patch Doll redux; in fact, at one point, you could buy one huggable version and get the second one for half price. 

A friend has a 3 year-old who desperately wants one and now these bears are all sold out.  He knows that his friend’s wife bought two bears on special and wanted to buy one from her.  She wouldn’t sell it to him.  He then goes home and proceeds to scare his child into tears so he could take a picture and post it on facebook with the caption, “I am crying because Aunt [name withheld] won’t sell Daddy the cuddly bear”.

Even Seinfeld couldn’t have dreamed up this one.

I told my friend I would blog about this because the world needs to know this scary toy story.

Signs and Portents in New York

Yesterday I was walking past a building where a delivery was being made.  I couldn’t see the company logo, just the shirt backs of the two delivery men.

One said, “The First Guy,”

and the other said, “The Other Guy“.

Funny and true and sad.  We readily let two guys into our apartment and we have no idea their names.  If we had to talk about the delivery, we would say, “the First Guy asked where we wanted the sofa and the Other Guy brought it in on the wheely-thing and then the First Guy asked me to sign the receipt.”

Reminds me of my housekeeper years ago when I was a bachelorette.  I left a relationship (and moved out) and took over the lease of my friend’s apartment together with all of the contents that she wasn’t taking to her new apartment with her girlfriend.  I even got the housekeeper, Olga.  Except Olga didn’t do the work.  She had her “cousin”, Marta, do the work. I saw Marta once (Russian, bad blonde dye job) and wouldn’t recognize her if I fell over her.  I was embarrassed not to be able to recognize her, so, on Fridays, I would get up early and walk down the stairs so I wouldn’t run into her.  (Of course, she wouldn’t know me either.)  If I saw anyone of her vague description within a block of my apartment, I would smile and nod just in case.

I imagined how I would answer a detective’s incredulous questions on Law and Order.  “How could you not know Marta’s last name?” “You have no address for the woman who has a key to your home, and access to your jewelry?” ‘Tell me again how you could not possibly know the full name of the woman who cleans your underwear?” “How did you know it was Marta every week?” “Based only on the fact that she ruined your whites with the same hue of blue, you are telling me that it was always the same woman?” Unfortunately, the answers are yes, “I could” and “I did”.

I did have Olga’s outer-borough phone number.  I used it to say that I was moving and I wouldn’t be needing Marta’s services.  I left two weeks’ pay and Marta left a thank-you note written in a scrawl that suggested that she didn’t know so much English and was just as happy that she didn’t bump into me (even if she recognized me).

At least I know her first name.  That is something.  But not really a lot.  A nameless immigrant in the sea of New York, doing work that most people won’t do.  If you want to see strivers and the role that nameless immigrants — legal or not — play in our society, come to New York City.

Tennis, anyone? a New York happening

I work in Rockefeller Center, so there is always something happening with the Today Show outdoor events or Radio City Music Hall.  But today, there were periodic wild eruptions of applause and cheers.  It made me curious.

I was hungry around lunch time and I decided to take a walk even though it was HLAH (hot like Africa hot) and see if I could figure out the cause of the commotion.

On one of the pedestrian walkways, HSBC and Prince (racquets) had erected a viewing stand with a huge TV so people could watch parts of the Wimbledon tournament.   They also built a  grass tennis court and invited passersby to play.  So, I took off my shoes and blazer, grabbed a racquet and started hitting with a tennis pro.  I had never played on grass before — the surface is fast and the ball doesn’t bounce up. 

If someone asks if I have ever played on grass, I say, “sure, on the streets of New York City.”  No one will believe me, but it is true.

Lunch with Stinky

I was at a business lunch today and the guy next to me was flatulent.  I was recovering from a very bad reflux attack last night and so the — er— the — um — the — ok, I’ll say itstink bombs nearly did me in.

I survived, barely able to keep down lunch.

At least I didn’t have to pay to gag.

Heard on the subway platform

A woman on the phone passes me on the subway platform and I hear her say to the person on the other end of the conversion:

“If you are in a room with a murder, just LEAVE. [Staying there] was NOT smart!”

So many thoughts and comments collide in my head.  But, really, none is necessary.  All you need to do is let this woman’s admonishment wash over you and the nuances, the complexities and the insanity hidden in that simple sentence will crash in your head, too.  It is a little like going down the biggest slide in the most insane water park ever.  Enjoy, but please be careful not to drown.