Ever wonder how Elmo gets to work?
Well, here he is on his way to Sesame Street.
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. . . .
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.
So, because POB (partner of blogger) reminds me that in “good homes” the carpets and the furniture are cleaned annually, and the windows are cleaned twice, before Passover and before Rosh Ha-Shanah, we have been in a cleaning frenzy. Also the mice episodes gave the cleaning rituals a bit more fevered pitch this year. Also the bed bug scare in New York had us getting new mattresses, etc. In short, we are doing what we can to raise the retail sales numbers nationally. Now, that is patriotism.
Our housekeeper comes on Fridays. Our housekeeper is a wonderful and robust woman in her 60s who comes from Poland and, as she says, “knows hard vork”. But since she is in her 60s we try to get others to the hard vork. In this case, POB and I wanted to lay the cleaned rug down in the dining room (we had already done the heavy lifting in the living room). This endeavor also involved cutting the mat underneath so that the rug laid properly.
Here are the many dramas that came into play: Our housekeeper said, “[Blogger], you are educated; I know hard vork. Step avay from the mat and I vill cut!” Ok, POB and I were raised to respect our elders and never to let someone older do work we could do ourselves. We are also the “employers”, adding another level. Also, POB is strong like you-can’t-imagine strong.
So we are all on the floor playing out our social, economic and cultural dynamics. The window cleaner walks in (we had left the door open for him after the doorman announced him) and sees three woman on the floor with scissors and box cutters arguing over who is cutting the mat that goes under the rug. He asks, “where do I start?” Really? Really? Is this a usual scene for the window cleaner?
We all stop. I agree to cede the fight to POB and our housekeeper in order to get the window cleaner guy started as long as I get to move the dining room table. Pause. I seeing nodding and I retreat. A little victory of sorts.
Of course, I should have known that even though I was allowed to move the dining room table, everyone would have an opinion on its precise location. POB was the most forceful in her opinions. “A little to the right.” “Closer to the windows.” “No, too much.”
“Are you listening??”
NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, I scream in my head, but all that comes out is “Yes, dear.”
Back in my head, I am thinking you thought we should get our windows cleaned before a hurricane. This is not like wearing good underwear in case you are taken to an emergency room. The hurricane won’t treat us any better. But then the hurricane passes us and POB is right — again.
I used to watch Bloomberg TV in the mornings so I would know what was happening in the markets, etc., and because the morning shows are too chatty for me.
My morning routine has been up-ended as of late because my son is still on vacation and barrels into our room in the mornings to watch cartoons. We settle into “Phineas and Ferb”. POB (partner of blogger) brings me coffee (how did I get so lucky?) and I cuddle with my little baby-soon-to-be-a-tweener (who will thereafter never let me hug him again, but for now, it is a little bit of heaven). And I am in a good mood for the rest of the day. (But I do run very late for work.)
Today, my son slept until after 9am, which is an unprecedented late hour. I, however, was watching “Phineas and Ferb” since 8:30am because the show just by itself puts me in a good mood. Cuddling with my son makes it a little bit of heaven, but the cartoon is really funny.
The references to the “Love Boat” and other things of the 1970s and 80s as well as the comments from the mother (“yes, dear, I have a few minutes before my bladder bursts like a water balloon”) are hilarious. And the kids are good natured and nothing bad ever happens and there is no real violence, etc. Ok, there is some suspension of reality needed — there is a platypus named Perry who is also a secret agent and his nemesis is Heinz Doofenschmirtz.
So, forget the Dow Industrial Average and Bloomberg News in the mornings. I am tuning into my pals Phineas and Ferb.
So, on vacation, one can lose track of days, especially when one has drowned one’s blackberry (accidentally).
Our G-d daughter and her life partner came over for a couple of days. We gave them the downstairs bedroom (with two full baths – go figure) and POB (partner of blogger), our son and I took the two bedrooms upstairs (with one bathroom to share).
As is often the case on vacation, everyone’s toiletries bags are open and strewn around the bathroom. I was downstairs with our G-d daughter and her partner talking, and POB and our son were upstairs so he could get ready for bed.
Our G-d daughter’s partner overhears our son’s question to POB, “Mommy, what are Tampax?” She repeats the question to us. I jump up and ask, “[POB], do you need help?” “Ye-e-es” she responds in a way that says I am too tired to deal with this.
So, I run upstairs, my mind blank about the “Tampax” issue. I get to the bathroom and say (because my son is a bit of a bird nerd), “You know how birds make nests when they are ready to lay eggs? Well, imagine that we have nests inside us. If we don’t produce an egg, then the nest has to leave our body and we use Tampax and other products to avoid the messiness that ensues from the nest disintegrating.”
He’s 8 years old
New York City is my home town.
Native New Yorkers (and those nearly native because they’ve lived here so long) abide by some neighborly rules. For example:
New York City is ruined by those who come here thinking that New York is so anonymous that they can give way to their worst or selfish impulses with impunity.
Some guy sees me waiting for a hypothetical cab that might be free at 6:20pm on a weekday in midtown [hint: chances are better that you won the mega-millions lottery]. I know he sees me. We make eye contact.
What does he do? He walks down the block to try beat me out of the still hypothetical, available cab. Since he is being rude with me, he goes for double and cuts another woman. The woman then walks further down the block to cut him. As you can probably tell, in order to get to win this way, one has to be moving further in the exact opposite direction of one’s intended destination. We are on Sixth Avenue (or the “Avenue of the Americas” to those who arrived in the Big Apple after 1970) which goes north. These two people are walking further south to get a cab ahead of each other.
I have my righteous indignation going. Not at the woman; she did not see me. The guy is the target of my wrath.
Of course, I have to walk a block out of my way (the man and woman were leap-frogging each other for the still hypothetical, available cab).
I catch up to the guy and call him out on his behavior.
He did whaaaaaaat? He told ME, ME, a New Yorker for 46 years, what IS and IS NOT New York? Is he kidding me?
Ok, I lose it.
I say, “Don’t you tell me about the rules of this town. I was born here. Did you ever hear of manners?” (Actually, the “did you” came out like “didja” and the “ever” came out like “eveh”. When I am angry, I lose “oo”s and my “r”s.)
The guy shows me the universal hand signal for displeasure.
**************************************************************************************************************
So, next I go down to the hotter-than-hell subway station, where everyone is letting loose.
And it doesn’t stop even when we are packed on the subway like sardines.
A woman with FABULOUS hair is flipping it all over everyone and my scalp immediately starts to itch from the contact. No, no lice, but, hey, you never know.
There is a woman who looks TWELVE MONTHS pregnant standing while young people are sitting.
There is the guy who sits “wide” and takes up one and one-half seats and is also hunched forward so that he takes up the standing space in front of him.
A woman is screaming that some man is sweating in her personal space.
I turn to the incredibly pregnant woman and ask in an ordinary subway voice (i.e., yelling) if she would like me to find a seat for her. She says she is ok in a way that suggests “I can take care of myself and who are you?” but she decides I mean well and smiles.
Someone gets up to get off at the next stop and then people insist that the pregnant woman sit down.
It was just the neighborly thing to do.
Poor “John”.
I thought about this as DOB (dad of blogger) excused himself at a restaurant to “go find the John.” He remembers not to say this in front of my sister, for whom this phrase is like fingernails on a chalkboard, for reasons unknown. But since SOB (sister of blogger) was not at lunch today, DOB thought to live a little.
While he was gone, I mused over the unfortunate associations made with the name, “John,” over time. Even Adolf (as in Hitler) is not as maligned, although it is not a really popular name anymore.
From Wikipedia and other sources:
So, John, a common name and one that has its correlatives in many different languages and cultures, has been summarily trashed over time. John makes even “Herbert” or “Horace” a better naming option. And that is tragic. (But Adolf is probably not a good alternative until at least 100 years have passed since the end of World War II. And not even then.)
Maybe at 46 years-old, I am scraping the barrel for any compliment that comes my way. I need my blog community to rule on whether a compliment received this morning can be counted as such.
(I wish WordPress had those voting buttons so you can click “yes” “no” or “maybe“.)
I have a lunch meeting later with a client, so I am wearing make-up, earrings and a necklace. No, that is not all. I am wearing clothes. (Nice) t-shirt under a bespoke blazer (so it really fits well) and bespoke pants (which would fit better had I not gotten the peri-menopause tummy paunch). Shoes and bag work with the ensemble. A true outfit.
Many of you may be shocked; as sometimes I wear nice clothes but ruin the look with a pair of clogs. But, I digress (comme d’habitude).
A man, who was dressed well enough not to be homeless, entered the subway car with a cart. I know what you are thinking. But, really, the cart had perfectly reasonable looking things in it. Not like he was carrying his worldly possessions or anything. Look, he didn’t SMELL. And some homeless people are down on their luck. Not all of them are crazy. And we should help them off the streets because it is as good a litmus test as any for how civilized is our society really. But, I digress (comme d’habitude).
The train clears out at the next stop. It is an express station — not because he smelled. I sit down in a seat next to the doors. Then I realize I could move down and he could sit in that seat and be closer to his stuff. So I offer to move down.
He thanked me but declined. Then, he said that I looked beautiful and my outfit was just right. I thanked him.
Then he started talking to himself and doing a little tap-dance, foot shuffle, whatever. This continued until he got off the train.
Valid compliment or no? That is the question.
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.
33 years ago, my sister met another freshman at college because of random dorm assignments. Two 18 year-olds, one from NYC and another from a small town in Wisconsin, became friends and that friendship has spanned the decades.
The friend is one of eight (yes, eight) children and, long ago, our mothers bonded over the trials, tribulations and –yes — tragedies from which they could not protect their children. And the families have, by happenstance, and good fortune (for our family) literally kept bumping into each other throughout life. I think Kurt Vonnegut had a word for this phenomenon.
When I went on college interviews, there was invariably a sibling nearby to greet me and show me around. When, years later, an out of town colleague of my ex was in NYC and wanted to bring a friend along for dinner, in walked another sibling. (They are instantly recognizable.) So, into my then home walked OMIGOD [name withheld] FROM WISCONSIN!!
When POB (partner of blogger) and I set up home and family in the very Upper West Side, who should be teaching at a pre-school nearby? That same sibling.
Years later, who is dancing at my sister’s (ahem, long awaited) nuptials? That college friend.
And whom do I see when I go for a run, on my way to work or out for coffee? You bet, the sibling. Sometimes we sit and chat about life. Sometimes, I just yell a greeting. If my sister’s college friend is visiting town, I always try to pop over to my sister’s and say hi. Even if I can’t make it, I know that will — and do — bump into that college friend during her stay.
Because our two families — from different backgrounds and along different life paths — were intended to know each other.
I emailed my sister today because I, of course, saw the sibling. My sister wrote back that this coincidence is not as crazy as how I met POB.
POB and I were in the same bunk at a camp on Cape Cod in 1974. We were 10 years old and best friends. Our families both lived in the City and subsequently we went to the same synagogue and Hebrew School. She did her homework; I was in the rabbi’s office. We continued to learn with the rabbis after Bat Mitzvah and Confirmation, until we graduated from high school. We lost touch for 20 years and re-met, first casually, then as good friends, and after our own relationships imploded, as life partners.
All I remember is that POB’s mother randomly picked a camp because they were building a summer house and needed the girls to go somewhere. POB’s father was not pleased at all with the facilities at the camp. When POB’s mother was alive, I often thanked her for not consulting with her husband as that might have changed the course of history. I still remind POB’s dad that going to that camp was one of the best things that happened to his daughter (I only say that when POB is not perturbed with me).
Life is crazy like that. Which is another reason to listen to your grandmother’s warnings about not wearing torn underwear or never going out without lipstick because the doctor in the emergency room could be your first boyfriend. And, no matter what happened since then — even if you are lesbian — you want to make sure that the guy regrets letting you get away.