Why is everyone talking about whether the glass is half empty or half full? THERE IS NO GLASS.
Thought for today, July 20, 2009
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Tag Archives: Life
Travel
Ok, I hate flying more than ever. Before blogging, I gave the following report via blackberry to my friends while I was in the San Franscisco airport some months ago. It was a turning point in my view of air travel as a pleasant means of getting from point A to B.
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There is a woman walking around with a pillow. A full sized pillow with a case that has a pattern of small flowers. She is our age. I see her point but I am not wearing my jammies and fluffy slippers.
Did you know that wheel chairs come in LARGE now? I wish that I could read a book but I am too uptight and stressed. All I want to do is get on that plane and drift off to sleep.
Oooohh, give me a seat boys, come free my soul, I wanna get lost in my reclining seat and drift away. Music fades.
There is a screaming child. A screaming child on a red eye. Excuse me while I throw myself onto the tarmac.
I am freezing in this airport and other people are wearing thin clothes. I know it’s California, but it was cold and wet today in San Francisco.
I have to go to the bathroom but it has probably gotten too much use today and maybe I’ll wait and be the first on the plane to use. It is a delicate balance.
Should I ask the man across the seats why he picks his nose so blatantly and then rubs his discovery on his pants? Maybe I can borrow his books. Noooooo.
Baby’s cryin’ and my patience is all gone…. Oh, S. Frisco. (As in JT’s “Mexico”).
Family Caravan
So, my brother-in-law had an art show in the Hamptons. I am the designated driver for three generations (we are all born and bred city dwellers). I rented a Ford Expedition and I feel like Shirley Partridge carting everyone around. (That reference will really separate the under-40-year-olds from their elders.)
My brother-in-law has been out for a few days installing the show, so my sister (his wife) was part of the caravan.
Three generations, ranging in age from 7 to 88, in one car. Even coordinating rest room stops with each generation’s different “plumbing issues” would have been epic enough. Three people each had a portion of the directions. Sounds like a Dick Cheney staff meeting. No, it was the quintessential “don’t-worry-about-it-I-know-what-I’m-doin’,” but I was the driver and I just followed orders. My dad got us over the 59th Street bridge, my partner got us to East Hampton and my sister had the address of the gallery. That was my sister’s stated rationale for being in the navigator’s seat — the gallery address — but, in truth, my partner was the true navigator although she was relegated to the back with child and father-in-law, G-d bless her.
My sister and I played a game of who caught Dad’s annoying behaviors first because we didn’t have cousin Bernie’s behavior against which to bet. I think we came out about even although at any point one of us was a few thousand dollars ahead.
I think my sister’s purpose in sitting in front with me (other than those already surmised) was to watch the speedometer and keep an eye on the “crazy drivers” as my mother called them. At one point when I accelerated, I wasn’t sure if my sister was putting her foot to the floor as if to compel me to put my foot on the brake. Driving with Mom, you could feel her right foot slamming on the passenger side floor. (I must ask my sister about this.)
Anyway, we arrived at the show after slogging through Route 27 traffic. My father’s interest lasted about 7 minutes. My son’s lasted a good bit longer, I am proud to say. But a 3.5 hour car ride for 7 minutes of viewing, lunch and then a jitney ride home is epic, especially an 88 year-old.
Artistes don’t sell their work in their lifetimes. Since I love my brother-in-law and want him to be financially successful AND live a long time, I set about giving the hard sell to anyone who came into the gallery. After a few hours of trying to hard-sell in this economy, I joined my partner and son with my partner’s extended family, for an epic afternoon and evening. I still need to process that experience before writing.
Thought for July 19, 2009
Instead of chasing millions, chase your children around the playground.
An upper west side moment
I ducked into a place to have a seni-leisurely drink before going home because these days the subway trip is not sufficient to decompress. I figured I woul return emails from friends and tweet or draft blog entries. A gay man who was at the bar was pointedly seeking my attention by talking in my directionabout the differences in picture quality between the two TVs above the bar. Since he was talking in my direction, I looked up. He immediately slid closer to talk with me.
He kept chatting along, moving from one subject to another. But it was an insane topic-hopping. He is just an older man without family in New York whose friends have died or are enfeebled and he probably didn’t talk to anyone that day before he caught my eye. I listened and engaged in conversation for about one-half hour. Then I had to go home to my family. And I realized what a gift that is: having someone waiting at home.
I think I’ll call my dad now.
Supporting Artist While They are Alive!!
This weekend, there is a show of four live, breathing, artists in the Hamptons. These are real people who have day jobs and still manage to create art.
Everyone who is going to the beach, remember, it may rain. Take down this information:
Ashawagh Hall, 780 Springs Fireplace Road, East Hampton, NY., Jul 18-19, 10am-6pm . Check out one of the artists, Alan Messer
Click on Alan’s name.
Friendships
An old friend emailed to me, “reading your blog is like catching up over a coffee because you write exactly as you speak.” I shared that with another friend who understood exactly. These are friends regardless of the time that passes between visits. I urged both friends to guest-blog so that I “can catch up over coffee” with them. So far, one friend is reviving her blog and I have linked it.
Sick passenger on the subway
This morning my train was stopped in a station because of a sick passenger at 42nd Street. Everyone was quiet and polite when hearing the announcement. No groans about the inconvenience. People were patient and calm.
Then a local train pulled in the station and everyone started pushing each other and shoving themselves into the overcrowded train. The train conductor started to yell to people to back away from the train.
Different situation, but exactly the same people.
Kitty Genovese 40+ years later
My sister is guest blogging with me. She is helping edit this entry. So, it will be nicer and better written than usual.
On Sunday, my partner, son and I were on our way back from the Bronx Zoo on the No. 2 train. Somewhere in the Bronx, a woman had a petite mal seizure (form of epilepsy it seemed) on the train, but no one knew that until she came around. Everyone was joking about her being a drunk or a drug addict. Someone helped her back on the seat. Then, everyone continued talking about her as if she wasn’t there. I got up and walked down the subway car to see if someone was hurt and and asked her if she was ok. She said she has seizures and felt ok. She seemed dazed and I kept my eye on her and asked her a few more times about how she was feeling. We got off the train at the same stop in Manhattan and I made sure she knew where she was and that she had her wallet with money to get where she needed to go (back up to the Bronx). I was startled and sad that no one else came to her aid and people thought it was funny. I didn’t even help that much, but I hope I made her feel a little safer.
Over 40 years ago, Kitty Genovese was stabbed countless times while her neighbors looked on. Psychologists say that this communal inaction is known as diffusion of responsibility. No one will act unless someone else does, and therefore no one acts.
So, only one person needs to act and everything can change. Yes, we can.
Visiting Day at Day Camp — Part II
Too many bugs in nature. But I braved the wilds of Rockland County for my son.
I went to camp for ten summers. I loved camp, notwithstanding my current aversion to the bugs and inconveniences of the natural world. (I need a NICE bathroom.)
So, having loved camp so much, I was game for all of the activities. My son wanted to relax after a hard day of having fun and lied down in the grass. My partner took pictures of him lying down. I got involved in a soccer game (and gracelessly tripped over the ball) and then played parent-child basketball games (even though my child was on the sidelines chilling out). And I ran to get the cherry italian ices for us that the camp gave as a parting snack. I overheard a father asking if there were lemon ices because the cherry kind stained permanently. I saw a woman in white pants (great idea for an evening at a camp) get splashed with cherry ices being eaten by a nearby child. It seemed to happen in slow motion, with love music in the background as the white and the cherry collided in a loving embrace. Ok, the woman and the child who was not her daughter — not so much loving happening there.
Our son wore most of his cherry ices on his clothes and on his face. The neon quality of the coloring made it a handy tracking device as we boarded the buses back to the city.