Category Archives: Urban Life

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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Another Gym Moment

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We had had friends over for dinner Saturday night and good food and wine doesn’t not go gently on the body anymore. 

So, Sunday, at the stroke of 11:39am, I set off for a run.  I cut short the run at a mile, because, well, the chill in the air was not helping the creaks in my knees and the gym is warmer.  So I trot into the gym and, thinking about my new health regimen, I get one of those parsley, beet, cucumber, kale, blah blah blah drinks with some extra stuff for energy and focus.  It is a gross green color and therefore it must be good for me, right?

I drink it up as I am inputting my weight and my age into the machine (I pause for a moment to shake my head at the weight creep up the scale) and I notice that I have a faint after-taste of garlic.  Aaaargh.  Garlic was not listed in the ingredients to this elixir.  Luckily, I have one of those damp towels with eucalyptus in it (who knows why, but I took one), so I can breathe into it and not offend others near me.

This time I choose the recumbent bike, so that there is really no way I can fall off this machine, even if I faint from the garlic and the eucalyptus.  The woman next to me is ten years older and is going further and faster on her bike.  And she is burning more calories.  It’s ok, I rationalize because if I went faster, I would sweat more garlic, and SHE would keel over.  So my slow pace is actually altruistic.  And not only that, I am breathing through my eucalyptus towel to keep the garlic smell quotient to a minimum.

All of this altruism, eucalyptus and garlic is making me tired and I still 25 minutes to go (I have only been pedaling for five minutes, but it was a complicated and emotional five minutes).  The Marathon is on the TV and now I am psyched up to keep going.  Then I turn to another TV and see John King on CNN asking dumb questions instead of tough questions and I get agitated.  My bike starts making weird clanking noises.  They are loud enough for the people next to me to look over because they can hear the noises over their iPods.  The older woman is staring at me and I want to say, “hey, I am breathing into this stupid towel so you don’t faint from garlic, and you are running faster and further than I am, so you want to make something of my clanking bike?”  But of course I don’t.  I smile sheepishly as if I had been flatulent and everyone can smell it. 

Oh, will the degradation ever end for this schlepper at the gym?  No, I fear. 

I am destined for every gym visit to be — how shall I say? — “schl-epic”.

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It’s The Great Pumpkin

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Ok, so my son’s babysitter and he carved a pumpkin LAST Friday because she is away this Friday.  So, we have a candle-less jack o’lantern in the house.  To me, it looked like a fruit that was poised to rot if left out.  (Maybe you are getting the idea that I hate Halloween.)  What am I to do with a carved-up piece of fruit that will attract every manner of vermin and insect into my kitchen?  Throw it out?  An excellent idea, except that would not be a good thing in my son’s eyes.  So, I put it in the refrigerator, where one puts stuff that would rot if left out.

My partner comes home and sees the pumpkin in the refrigerator and thinks I am an alien who came fully sprung from a pod and never experienced Halloween or any other quaint Americanism that our society holds dear.  She thinks it is even a little charming.  Then she realizes that I grew up in NYC and I am (allegedly) a non-pod person, so now she thinks I am crazy and a little ooky.

People dressing up in scary clothes, eating candy that rots out teeth, carving rotting fruit.  What kind of holiday is this anyway?

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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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Why I often focus on politics

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So, I focus on politics which is sometimes a downer.  But I can’t write about the Seinfeldian experiences in my family life because many of them read the blog.

In talking about a future gathering, the purpose of which is to pick at the emotional scabs over a wobbly relationship, I advised the person to wear a HazMat suit because although the people present vary in intensity, all will want to ask inappropriately invasive questions.  But I can’t go into the background because I don’t want to be excommunicated from my family.

So, you see my predicament.  I find people endlessly fascinating, but I need to keep it out of the family.

That is why I am going back to the gym and try to take public transportation.  Because the Seinfeldian experiences happen to me or to strangers and then it is fair game.

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Bruised, but energized

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I arrived at the gym at the crack of 11:30am on Sunday, ready to get back into shape.

Previously, I described my body as a pear with rhombus touches.  Right now, I feel like a square rhombus, which is a fatter, squatter, diamond shape.  I am going for the diamond shape rhombus — I am not getting any taller but I can shrink the girth.  Less girth, more mirth.  Somehow that isn’t slogan-y enough.  Let me try that again in sing-song perky voice — More Mirth!! Less Girth!!!  Naw.

How about:  It is time to put the T-O-N-E in my muscles.  (Except there is no “t”, “o” or “n” in “muscle”.)  Don’t I sound like an infomercial?  [imagine someone with perky, sing-song voice singing “All right, okay, waste that waist away!!” while doing something 1980s like jazzercise.]  (Didn’t some trainer of C-list celebrities say something like that?)

I still looked dweeby in my gym outfit because, while the length of my work-out pants covered my unshaven legs, they were toooooo form fitting.   (Here’s the sad truth — these once weren’t form fitting work-out pants.)  And my work-out shirt, which thank G-d was not sleeveless, wasn’t long enough. 

I did both cardio and weights.  I hurt today.  That is an understatement.  My body is SCREAMING at me.  Yet, I will go at it again, today, or, errrrrr, tomorrow.  But DEFINITELY, today or tomorrow.  Or Wednesday.  But I am committed, clearly.

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Slapstick at the gym, starring me

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Ok, I have not kept up with my gym routine.  But this week I resolved to get back into shape (a pear with rhombus accents).  So I spent two days getting psyched and yesterday I went to the gym. 

First, I have to say in my defense that I am sleepwalking most mornings before 10am so while I thought I was packing a gym “outfit”, I was, in fact, packing a gym “misfit”.

I am in the locker room and to my horror I discover that I packed running tights that go down just below my knees and are form-fitting.  Two things to note — since Labor Day, I can’t remember when I shaved my legs, and if form-fitting looked good on me, I wouldn’t need to go to the gym.  I soldiered on and experienced the unpleasant sensation of my butt touching the backs of my legs and creeping around my body to engulf my hips.  If you are eating while you read this, please stop one or the other.

I have a geeky t-shirt that stops at my waist making “my look” particularly unattractive.  If my skin were pasty, I would have won the Woody Allen female impersonator award.  Not pretty a pretty sight at all.

Nevertheless, boldly, I go upstairs amid the lovely, the young and the buff and claim rights to a Stairmaster.  Not the easy pedal kind, but the full-on steps.  I am going to do 30 minutes no matter what.

After 5 minutes I think I will die.  Then I decide that I should have turned on my iPod that is lying on the tray all tangled.  I am trying to untangle the iPod, while on Stairmaster and wearing bi-focals.  Well that lasted for less than a second because I am crumpled on the ground having banged my head.  Buff, beautiful and thin people come over, offering helpful excuses like, did you have a seizure?  Did you have a drink before going on Stairmaster?  Have you eaten?  No, in fact, multi-tasking on a Stairmaster when you are a klutz AND you are wearing bi-focals is stupid, but not an illness recognized by the medical community or any support group known to me.

Bruised, but undaunted, I return to the Stairmaster to conquer this beast.  I start the program over AND I up the level from 5 to 6.  I’ll show the machine who is boss.  I make sure to put my ear phones in first.  But after 5 minutes, I am ready to collapse.  I decide it is time to email my college friends to catch up.  At some point I knocked my ear phones out while thumbing a message on my blackberry.  Ah!! Another trick, you dangerous and mean Stairmaster!! You want me to retrieve my ear phones so that I can fall off again.  No, I say, NO!!!  I will not succumb to your evil tricks!! The ear phones are not near any mechanism.  I WILL CONTINUE FOR 30 MINUTES AND MY FORM FITTING OUTFIT WILL LOOK BETTER FOR IT!!

I spend the next 20 minutes on Stairmaster looking at the closed captioning on the TV screens (the bifocals did come in handy, or seemed to, anyway).  I am bored out of my mind.  But I am determined to burn 200 calories and climb over 2 miles.  I even do the 1.5 minute warm down after the 30 minutes are over.  Take THAT, you evil machine.

Triumphant, I walk around the gym floor looking at other tortures waiting to be vanquished.  Then I catch sight of my gym stalker in the mirror — that middle-aged gray haired lady getting a little thick around the middle.   You remember, the one who looks suspiciously like my mother.  I sigh.  My reflection and I have had enough of the gym for today.  We go home together.

But there is always tomorrow . . . . . .

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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.

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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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