Category Archives: Urban Life

A Morning at the Museum

Posted on by
Reply

Today, we went to the Met to see Buddhism along the Silk Road: 5th–8th Century.  SOS really wanted to go.  No joke, and he isn’t even 10 years old (soon).  When I was 10, you could not tear me away from watching cartoons or fighting with BOB.  A museum?  Nevehh.

It was a win-win all around, actually.  I wanted to walk on a beautiful day (to the museum).  DOB was game for something to do on a quiet Sunday. POB was grateful for extreme air conditioning (in the museum).

SOS has so many books and DVDs on the history of the Silk Road.  He is fascinated by the spread of religion and culture through the trading corridor as well as the particularly harsh climate conditions along parts of that ancient route.  Actually, all of us were interested in the subject matter, in varying degrees.   But mostly, the rest of us marveled at our little guy’s enthusiasm: “[Blogger]-mom, let’s pack all of it in today!”

SOS’s knowledge is broad, deep and thoughtful (forget that he is so young).  Every now and again, I try to throw in something I learned from my travels in parts of Asia.  It is a little like a klutz trying to jump double-dutch.

“Hey, bud, over here!!, look at this awesome wood carving from an entrance to a stupa. A stupa is place of worship that —-”

“[Blogger] Mah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahM, I know that a stupa holds a Buddha relic,” said with more than a little exasperation.

DOB, watching this exchanged, looked at me and smiled.  It must be a little fun for him, after all, he and MOB survived three smart-aleck kids.

But then, just then, I heard him telling POB that the Bodhisattva sculptures were all depictions of the Buddha.  Aha!!!  I could tell that not all Bodhisattva sculptures were in fact depictions of the Buddha. So, I whipped out my iPhone and logged into Professor Google and read that that he was a correct to a point — the term has morphed so that it also refers to people recognized as enlightened in their time, hence very different faces of Bodhisattva.

“Hey, buddy, did you know . . . .”

“Gee, [Blogger]mom, thanks for the info!!!”

Paradise regained. 

Sidebar:  Until he is old enough to read this blog, he doesn’t have to know how I knew, right?

Then, off to brunch, where parents re-assumed the mantle of superior knowledge and power.   SOS looked to us for Talmudic rulings on whether he could eat the home fries that came, unbidden, with his omelet and whether, if he ate some of the home fries, would it count against his weekly French Fries quota.

Paradise affirmed.

And the strong and brave parents, POB and I, deserve a nap.

Share

Vision and Sight

Posted on by
Reply

Sometimes I wonder about Judaism.  Some laws are aspirational; others acknowledge the base nature of humanity.  For example, “don’t talk unkindly about the deaf” or “don’t put a stone in the way of the blind”.

Nevertheless, a good reminder.  But there is a greater imperative: guide someone who is blind if requested, or if you think that the offer of guidance would be well-received.

I went to the gym for exactly one-half hour.  (SOB is wearing off on me.)  I stopped at the wine shop because I deserved a treat after so much (okay, so little) exertion.

I overheard a conversation between a man and a woman.  The man was describing the stores to the woman.  He was very formal, as if they hadn’t met before.  I looked back and I saw that the woman had a blind person’s walking stick although her eyes didn’t have the tell-tale signs of long-term blindness.

I slowed my gait to listen.  The man, Richard, was turning left on 97th Street, and the woman, Debra, was continuing on.  On the northwest corner of 97th Street, I introduced myself to them and asked if I could be of assistance.

Debra and I walked along for a block and I described the new stores and the general scene.

Then I asked, “It seems that your blindness is recent.  May I ask what happened?”

“Glaucoma.  It was gradual.  I can see big objects, but I can no longer read.  I am what people call ‘legally blind’.  But I can’t just sit at home.  I have to make the best of it.”

We continue along and I describe the stores and our relative location.  Of course, I can’t ever remember what the new store replaced.  Because I don’t have to rely on my memory rather than my sight.

And people don’t get out of the way of a blind person.  They really need to read the basics of the Hebrew Bible.  Mostly because I was ready to rain down vengeance all over them.

She asks, “is the Starbuck’s still here?”  “Is the jazz club still here?”

I answered her questions.  We talked about family and kids.  She is 61 and her mother is still alive and is inconsolable about her daughter’s glaucoma.

At 106th Street, my turn-off, I decide that Broadway and West End converge in way that is difficult to navigate.  I decide to take her to the Rite Aid on 110th Street, which is her destination.

“Why this Rite-Aid?” I ask.

“I grew up in this neighborhood and now I have moved back.  But the last time I was here was five years ago.  I figured that Broadway on a Sunday in the summer was quiet enough that I would try an adventure.  To be honest, I was relying on nice people in the neighborhood who might help if I needed it.”

I walked her into Rite-Aid.  She blessed me and my family.

But I felt blessed.  Blessed that I don’t have her impairment.  Blessed that two strangers can walk along amiably for a half-mile and both leave the encounter feeling very positive, even if for different reasons.

 

Share

Training Day

Posted on by
1

In recent weeks, SOB has taken note of my quasi-buff arms and POB’s outrageously buff arms arms, and decided to inquire about FTOB (fitness trainer of blogger).

While I applaud her desire to tone and strengthen her core muscles, I worry about her gentle internal ecosystem.  SOB does the least she can do at the gym. Really. SOB doesn’t even break a sweat on the elliptical machine, which she does (ir)religiously for a “really long time” before she can’t handle the monotony of it.  In real time, that means 12 minutes, tops.

“How long can an hour-long training session be, 45 minutes?” SOB asks innocently.

Sigh.  Doctors, even non-psychiatric ones, think in different time intervals than the rest of us.  And she is a New Yorker.  So if a New York minute is less than 60 seconds, then a New York hour CAN’T be one hour.  The logic is valid, but SOB has no idea what is about to hit her.

FTOB is wonderful and “quirky”.  She dances during breaks; she uses words for parts of the body that creep me out.  In a moment of Zen, I just thought I will let SOB experience it all, without the usual warnings I might convey.

And, yet you can understand my worry.  I am delivering my dearest SOB into the hands of a fitness freak.  While I can handle FTOB, my gentle big sister may be consumed by the sweat and exertion of it all.  I knew it could be a moral crime, but I needed to check whether wanton disregard for the attention span and general fitness profile of a loved one was a punishable offense under New York law.  So far, there is no crime on the books of New York State for accessory to a fitness event.

Still.

SOB was happy that I “happened into” the gym about 30 minutes (a New York 45 minutes) before her first training session.  (Of course I was on hand for the momentous event.) I made the introductions, even though I already gave FTOB the talk (hurt my sister and you are dead meat).  As I left, I did the “I am watching you” hand signal of touching my eyes and then pointing to FTOB.

So, I lurked about to make sure that SOB wasn’t crying or leaving mid-session.  Imagine my surprise when FTOB said, “walk this way” and started doing something out of Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks (www.youtube.com/watch?v=wippooDL6WE), and SOB did!!

SOB made it to the end of the full hour and then made arrangements to start regular sessions.

Me?  Turns out I was just a stalker without a cause.

 

Share

This Parent’s Nightmares

Posted on by
Reply

Two New York Times articles this weekend conveniently book-ended the gamut of parental nightmares — child abuse and drug abuse.

In the hallowed halls of elite Horace Mann School, unabashed pedophilia survived through willful blindness for decades.  Just another reminder for me to listen closely to my child’s discomfort and fears, if G-d forbid, there was some problem.  And any man who takes an active interest in SOS and engages in “horseplay” is suspect.

When SOS was young, we thought to have a manny (male nanny) to give him daily contact with a male (something missing in a two-mom household).  But the logistics got complicated when I realized that if we had a manny (who might just be a pedophile), we would also need a nanny to watch the manny watching SOS.  POB gave up on the idea rather than try to unravel my paranoid (and correct) logic.

The second story was about high school kids buying prescription drugs used to treat Attention Deficit Disorder and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.  These drugs, when used properly, help certain kids function with the “appropriate” level of attention and focus in classrooms and other venues. The drugs’ effects on kids who don’t need the drug are laser-focus on task and rapid recall.  Like steroids, these drugs are now seen as performance enhancing aids so that kids can perform better on class tests and college entrance exams.

It is shocking how easy it seems to get a prescription or buy a few pills from a classmate.

(My high school alma mater was singled out as one place where there is a real problem.  The person who said any publicity is good publicity is, um, wrong.)

So, POB and I were talking about this and we both scratched our heads.  We as a society are pushing our kids into drugs “to make us proud”.  It made getting high and playing frisbee seem like something out of Mayberry.  You know, the stuff you did to rebel and make your parents fret about your future.

And now my new view is:

SOS, if you must try drugs, please smoke A LITTLE dope (and then make sure it was a bad experience).  And promise me (pinky-swear and everything) that you won’t ever, ever, snort Adderall for performance enhancement. 

I love you just the way you are.

 

Share

My new trainer

Posted on by
Reply

My fitness trainer abruptly left the gym and I think the city about ten days ago.  I am worried about him.  But enough about him, let’s turn it back to me, because I need Michelle Obama arms for my wedding.

He texted me and suggested one of the other trainers whom I will call FTOB (fitness trainer of blogger).  FTOB is very, how shall we say, vivacious.  She spontaneously lifts people off the floor when she is happy.  She likes to take dance breaks, which makes me think of the Ellen DeGeneres’s show (the episode I saw) during which she danced with her guests. 

Still, the clock was ticking and I have an unforgiving dress.  I called FTOB and scheduled an appointment.  She is high energy and very effective.  But while I was learning from FTOB, I had to teach her two things: (i) I don’t have a booty and (ii) I don’t have ta-tas.  As to the first, I have a tushie, behind, derriere, butt or any number of variations of those words.  As to the second, I have breasts, a chest or, if necessary, boobs. 

No-no-no to ta-tas.

FTOB was awesome about this.  The second session contained no references to the “b” or the “t” words.  Strong work, FTOB.

FTOB has a FauxHawk (modified Mohawk, where the the sides aren’t shaved, just very short).  In this last session, her hair was slicked back and it looked like it was all one length.  “I love your hair!!” I exclaimed, almost matching her general exuberance.  “You think so?  It got wet and I gelled it back.  I am getting it cut soon.”  Ahhh, it was only a temporary NoHawk. 

So, in a moment that can best be described as my mother inhabiting my body, I blurted out, “You know, I asked [my old trainer] once to introduce us, because I wanted to say to you, ‘You have such a lovely face, why do you have your hair cut that way?'” 

“Really?”

“A good haircut can make all the difference,” I said.

I think we were both shocked at the exchange and I was a little weirded out having had a Freaky Friday moment with my mother in my body.  And FTOB is so good natured that she took it in the spirit in which it was meant — concern.

It turns out she has a girlfriend who likes her hair.  “Well, then, don’t listen to me; listen to her.  But if you are single again, listen to me.”

Oh, Mom, next time, give me some warning, ok?

Share

Aggressive, the defensive way

Posted on by
Reply

On Wednesday nights, POB and I have dinner “just us”.

Sidebar:  I guess it would be better if we had Saturday night date night (for which presumably we wouldn’t be as tired as on a work day) but we have sitters for SOS whom we trust and they are often not available on Saturday nights.  Continuity and dependability totally trump date night convention.

We went to a local-ish place.  It was on the early side because I was too tired to go to the gym after work.  I asked for us to be seated in the empty part of the restaurant (away from bar area, service stations and kitchen).

POB and I were looking forward to a quiet evening since I was recovering from a really bad migraine and POB had endured an entire day of workmen hacking out part of our ceiling because our neighbors seem determined to flood our apartment room by room.

Sidebar: First, improperly installed pipes in our upstairs neighbors’ jacuzzi caused the ceiling of our maid’s room to come crashing down.  Then, as we were repairing that, water gushed down from the light fixture in the maid’s bathroom (can you say dangerous?).  The neighbors offered to have their contractor fix her “ooops” but I refused to allow that contractor to touch anything in our apartment. Now, the third time, on the other side of the apartment, there is water damage in the ceiling of SOS’s bathroom and the hallway. What are they doing upstairs?  Building a water park?????

Shortly after we were seated, the hostess brought over three people from the bar — tasty, cosmo-like, drinks in hand — to the table right next to us.  I looked around this massive (for New York City), empty, dining room.  Of all the tables in that whole room, they had to sit down next to ours.

One of the women had a whisper as loud as someone else’s scream.  She, of course, was the one talking the most.

I know all about her son the swimmer at Harvard who breaks all these intercollegiate records.  She also passed around her iPhone to show her friends all of her son’s “hot” teammates. Ok, stop gawking at your CHILD’S friends. That is just gross. EWWWWWWWW.

I know her politics:  “I cared that he was pro-choice but I was not happy that he killed that young girl”.  I bet Mary Jo Kopechne’s mother and father were not so psyched either.

I know she likes to gossip.  A teacher at a well-known prep school is suspected of having an affair with a student.  According to the maven next to us, the student was entrapped the teacher because she was bad news from the start — “over-sexualized” and thrown out of another tony prep school.   Really, you are talking about this young girl like a man-eater, yet you are gawking at your son’s friends in their Speedos and ok with Chappaquiddick?

I know she likes alpha males.  She went on a date with a nerdy, slight guy and she was dubious but he was “very MALE” when it came to “making out”.  (Who talks like this?)

And she was

LOUD,

LOUDER,

LOUDEST.

Despite it all, POB and I tried to have a low-key conversation, focused on the wedding.  It wasn’t working.  POB was horrified at this woman’s bad manners and grotesque discussion topics and I was losing any salubrious effects of migraine medication.

Then POB got an idea.  “Let’s aggressively chat!!”

“Aggressively chat? over thaaat?” I croaked, motioning to the table next to us.

“Yesssssss!”

“Ok, YOU start….”  Frankly, I didn’t know what it meant.  POB started:

“I like your lipstick.  Did I buy that lipstick?  It is a lovely spring shade.  Are you getting your hair colored before the wedding?  oh, do.  It will look good in the pictures.  Speaking of pictures, I spoke to the photographer and asked him whether the heavier make-up style of the lady at Saks would look good in the photos or creepy.  Ok, now your turn.”

“Wait? What?  I was reveling in the sound of your voice.  Was I supposed to match that?  You’re kidding?”  The way she looked at me, she was NOT kidding.  I did the only thing I could do.  I caught the eye of our server and mouthed, “check, please.”

And a new defensive mechanism for leaving cheek by jowl with strangers was born….

Share

The Old Neighborhood

Posted on by
Reply

I grew up in the East 50s near Sutton Place.  DOB still lives there.  Most times, he likes to come see us on the Upper West Side — “The travel gives me a way to pass a few extra hours,” DOB says.

Nevertheless, every now and again we take out our passports and travel to the East Side for lunch.  DOB has started to favor a coffee shop closer to the house.  I think because the old coffee shop is three blocks away and down a hill.

When we were seated, an old man next to us asked if we were new to the neighborhood.  “Our family has lived here for over 50 years!” I replied jovially (at least I thought so).  The old man said, “I was just going to tell you what’s good,” and then he sighed in that loud annoying way to show he was exasperated and feeling under-appreciated even though his help was unsolicited.  Or, maybe I yelled at him, “What’s it to you, bud?”  Of course, I didn’t but you would think so based on the tone of his response.

Wow, I thought, the old neighborhood has gotten cranky with age.  Maybe because all of my parents’ contemporaries (who are still alive) have grown old and cranky in the old neighborhood.

Shortly after we shut down that random act of neighborliness gone horribly wrong, I saw an old (old) friend of my parents walk in the door.  He was with his female companion of 30 years or so.  Our families had gone to the same synagogue and we kids went to Hebrew School with his daughter.

I immediately got up and went over to greet them. They thought I was SOB because they said that they see her on the street when she visits Dad, implying that I am never around.  I paused, counted backwards from 10 and determined that they didn’t mean it the way it sounded.  Except, they certainly did mean it the way it sounded.

Sidebar:  As nice as this man is — he really is — he took me aside at a gathering shortly before my mother died and after having met POB, “make your father happy; find a man.”  But back to the situation at hand.

There were so many ways to handle this affront to my being a good and attentive daughter:

  • I could dredge up ancient gossip and unpleasant truths about his long ago divorce.  Nah, that is too aggressive.
  • I could just smile.  Nah, too passive.
  • I could be could let slip that Dad usually comes over on Sunday nights for a home-cooked dinner.  Ahhhh, passive yet aggressive.  Perfect.

Sidebar:  Don’t you love when being passive-aggressive is the reflection of your best impulses?  So, so, rewarding.

I did let that fact slip using a tone that suggested that his daughter never cooked for him.

“You must be a good cook!”

Really, that’s your response?  That’s all you got for me after my exhaustive mental gymnastics to figure out how to preserve my dignity and protect my mother’s pride in her children?  Really?

There were two other people whom Mom knew who walked in during the course of our lunch.  But I was too exhausted to go over and say hi.

 

Share

Confluence of events and blogs

Posted on by
Reply

Last night I was at the gym, in my usual (and clean), well-worn yet dorky gym attire, when I came upon the Sniffer at the water fountain.

As you may recall, the Sniffer (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=3247) feigned an allergy to perfumes so that he could come over to where SOB and I were companionably and half-heartedly “working out” (read, “chatting”) on side-by-side elliptical machines.  He sniffed and sniffed around us and then said, “I knew by looking at you that you weren’t the type to wear perfume. . . . ” And then he took the elliptical machine next to mine.  I think that line would turn off straight girls much less an almost-married lesbian.

The Sniffer has since tried to make conversation with me about various, incredibly odd, things.  I now think that he is socially inept and just wants to chat the way others do at the gym.  I started to feel bad for him, until . . . .

Back to the water fountain.  Sniffer half-turns to me and says in that loud voice that suggests he doesn’t know how to modulate volume:

“I almost didn’t recognize you without your “Friendships are Recession-Proof” t-shirt.  Do you have just one or is the recession over?”

This is what the shirt looks like.

For the story behind the t-shirt, click http://40andoverblog.com/?p=127

Really, sniffer?

Of course, I have to tell him in an equally loud voice that I had them made for my friends and they were popular enough that I had to do a second “printing” and ended up with six or so EXTRA of them.

“And they are always clean!” I bellow in a last exhausted gasp.

“So the recession isn’t over in your eyes?  Technically, it ended in . . . .”

Ok, I had to walk away.  His disquisition on economic markers (which I had overheard before) is mundane yet pedantic, jargon-y yet shallow, almost exquisitely so.

I met POB for dinner after the gym.  “How was your day?” she asked.  “I need new gym clothes,” was my response.

 

Share

The Undergarment Day

Posted on by
1

Today was the day.  It is a ritual in every woman’s life, especially on the occasion of one’s wedding.

At least once in your life, you go to a place where a woman says, “just as the doctor says, naked from the waist up!!” and then leaves for five minutes.  When she comes back, she sizes up your breasts.  All this in the elusive search for undergarments that give us shape, without the need to re-enact post-partum Scarlett O’Hara trying to get into her pre-pregnancy whale-boned corset.

With the wedding looming large, POB and I walked into The Town Shop, a storied place, where the owner (until the day she died) would “cup” each customer.  WITH HER HANDS.  So you stand naked from the waist up and an old lady comes over  (WITHOUT drawing the curtain on your dressing room) and grabs you and yells out the size and model.  First, humiliation and then triumph.

Even though the proprietor died, her family keeps up the place, and there are enough old women who are brutally honest to make the process just as humiliating and then triumphant.

Bessie helped us today.  She had the air of a Southern black woman whose mama taught her well. Except, she started by telling us she just got the cast off her right arm and made me feel the pin that the doctors inserted.

We told her that we needed help getting the right, supportive undergarments for the wedding dresses we brought with us.

“Which one of you is the bride?”

“We both are”.

“Hmmmm,” with some incomprehension.  It never ceases to amaze me how this still happens in New York City.

She turned to me.  “Let me look at you first.”  Ok, Bessie studied my breasts.   She looked at the dress.  “I am going to have to concentrate very hard here.  Come out here where the light is better.”  That meant I had to step outside the dressing room in full view of everyone in the store — man, woman, child and cat.  “I am thinking D cups for all that! And [looking at the bra I had been wearing] you have some ratty old bras, doncha?” she yelled.  I looked at the floor hoping that the earth would open up so that I might crawl in.

“I also need something for the waist down . . . ” I said as force-ably I could muster after she was off for my new bra.

Bessie came back with a bra.  She strapped me in and then said, “Lean over and let them things settle!” I did as bidden.   “I said LEAN, not pray!”  “Now sit down and jiggle.  Hands up!!  Jump up and down!”  I have never been to Club Med, but this is sounding familiar.  “Ok, now PRAY!” Bessie asked for quiet while she concentrated “fiercely”.  “We need to get you something tighter ’cause you all over the place.”

We settled on a bra that lets me shake, rattle and roll without falling out all over the place.  Then we got to the knee to waist issue.  She brought something so tight, I didn’t know how I was getting into this.  “Well, this will cover that pooch,” as Bessie pointed to the area below my two-pack abs.  “Water gain — she has been traveling,” POB said indignantly and in my defense.  (I ♥ POB.)

“How many people are helping you get dressed?”  A question that implied it would take a village to get us ready on the morning of our wedding.  And she hadn’t even started on POB.  I was ready to call off the wedding, until I thought of Elinor Donahue in Father Knows Best winning the basketball game and having her friends crowd around her and get her into her prom dress so she could be crowned queen.  So, I am thinking about a scrum in rugby, except that we will emerge looking FABULOUS in our dresses.

In order not to embarrass POB, I will just say that POB fared only a little better with our straight-talking Bessie.  POB doesn’t have ratty bras because she came from a good home (as she reminds me).  Ok, except when it came to the zipper for POB’s dress.  “Did you try this dress on before you bought it?” Bessie offered “helpfully” as others needed to assist us because of Bessie’s healing arm. REALLY?

After we were finished, I asked POB if she had arranged for us to be Medi-vac’d home.  “No,” she said, “but we could have a snack on our way to the shoe place.”

This wedding stuff is NOT for the weak. (As for Bessie, I am going next Saturday for some new bras.)

Share

The Gym

Posted on by
Reply

It is a cruel truth of quantum physics that if there are five people in an otherwise empty gym locker room, all five will have lockers in the exact same corner.

And, two of the five will be half-naked and bent over shaking out their wet hair, another two will be full-on naked about to get into the shower and there will be one (me, in this case) who contorts herself in such a way as to avoid being with in a hair’s breath of someone’s sweaty or writhing body while she tries to open the lock on her locker.

I don’t use my lock that often, although I carry it around in my bag. The other night, I just couldn’t get the combination to work, even after many of the women left so I could stand straight up in front of the locker. After many unsuccessful attempts, I decided that I needed to ask the manager to cut the lock. It was late and I was meeting POB and Cousin California for dinner.

The only person at the front desk was a young man with Justin Bieber hair (or is it the other tweenage idol?). Without looking up, he said, “you’ll have to wait” while he attended to certain meaningless tasks.  I was tired so while I was irritated, I simply waited a few minutes. 

As I waited, I noted various serious looking managerial types (i.e., the adults) going into a “closed door” meeting (except there are glass walls so nothing is ever secret). When the young man finally listened to my predicament, he told me that the manager went into a closed door meeting and I would have to wait until the meeting ended.  How did I know that would be his response?

“When will it be over?”

“I don’t know. It could be long.  And, I can’t interrupt.” Customer service at its best.

“Well, I can interrupt!”

He saw that I was serious and he ran around to beat me to the door. It is amazing how quickly “can’t” becomes “can” when a lazy person realizes that his bad service could be detrimental to his continued employment.

The manager came out immediately. He was very cordial, although he did ask if I was sure it was my lock and locker. As I was about to get angry, I realized that he had a point — locks and lockers look alike and I am sure people make mistakes. I was quite sure because I bought my lock for its unusual design.

A young woman accompanied me with jaws-of-life size clippers – the kind that TV police use on locks when they don’t shoot at them.  As she 0was about to engage the jaws of life, she said, “I’ve never done this before and I am a little scared!” At that, everyone ducked and I yelled, “Cover your heads, we are in foul ball territory!”

Luckily, I was right about it being my locker and no one got hurt by the flying debris.  The young woman pivoted and started to walk out.  I had to stop the young girl so I could show her some identification but she waved me off saying, “I trust you.”

“You don’t know me. You need to ask for identification.”

The young woman left, still not comprehending why she ought to ask for some corroboration of my story.  She would hold the door open for a man in a ski mask and machine gun.

After all started to calm down in the locker room, a half-naked woman started telling me about the time her locker was mistakenly cut by a confused gym user.  And then she showed another woman and me that her combo is on the back of her lock, so she doesn’t worry about remembering it.  A little like telling a stranger at the bar how to disable your home alarm system.

The other woman was then looking at the first woman’s stuff,  “to see if I like any of it enough to steal.”  REALLY??? 

Ok, neither is a fashion plate.  And the second woman, whom I see a lot, could use a wardrobe refresher, but now I was thinking that the young ingenue who trusted me had already let in the thief.  I reminded both woman that, in women’s locker room, everyone looks fabulous and has fabulous stuff but we don’t burgle.

Exhausted, I crawled out of there so ready to be welcomed into the bosom of my family.

Share