Tag Archives: accidental audience

Blogcation Year 2 Epilogue

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We spent the morning by the pool and planned to have a leisurely lunch and be on our way home via East Hampton to visit the family of POB (partner of blogger).  So around noon, a van with bicycles on top drives up into the driveway.  Oh, I guess, the next renters are here.  (They are supposed to come after 4pm.)  Anyway, tall, gangly man, who looks like Steve Buscemi in the movie, “Fargo” (see http://www.funpub.net/poze/mare/steve_buscemi_1235391217.jpg), got out of the car and introduced himself in the deep voice, capable of cackles of ghoulish laughter, “My name is Mr. [Scary Guy from Hell]” and this is “Gizmo” (pointing to a little dog).  I am afraid she is high-strung and a little scary.”

Ok, a man who reminds me of a murderous movie character and Lurch (from the Addams Family) all in the same horrifying moment expects me to respond in a similarly mannered way.  I can only muster, “Hi!  We’ll be out of here shortly.”  Two women are with him, one looks like Uncle Fester and the other is hefty version of Morticia. I am freaked out about these people and ask POB whether she hid the knives.

It was hot and the women dark, long sleeves clothes.  Mr. Scary Guy from Hell was wearing tennis shoes, calf-high socks, a random long-sleeved shirt, with a bloody axe hanging from his neck (just teasing about the axe).

POB was upset that they came early.  I was upset not to have left sooner.  Perspective is everything.

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Really? Are ya kiddin’ me?

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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:

  • Help tourists with directions.
  • Ask a blind person if he or she would like assistance (but never ask if he or she “needs” assistance).
  • Look the other way when your neighbor is sneaking a cigarette around the corner.
  • Always go to the green grocer on your own block because that is the store that stays open and keeps the neighborhood buzzing and safe at late hours.

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.

Yep, you guessed it.  I had a run-in or two today.

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 responds in a are-you-for-real look, “it’s New York” with a twang in his accent and a “f”-you shrug.

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.

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

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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.

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There is a new normal for everything these days

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I was sitting on the train and I heard this annoying clicking noise.  I thought someone was cracking chewing gum.  I looked to my immediate left and saw that the woman next to me was clipping her figure nails on top of her backpack so the clippings would fall into the front pocket.  Before I could think to shut my mouth, I gasped a disbelieving “noooooooo!!!”  She looked at me, put her clipper away and took out her file, all the while making sure that everything fell into the front pocket.

So if she cleans up after herself, does it make it ok?  Is this the new normal for behavior in the subway?

Hmmmmmmmm.

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Bill’s and Hillary’s redemptive moment

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From what I read — how can one avoid it — the details of Chelsea’s wedding were better kept secrets than, say, our troop deployments in Afghanistan (thanks, WikiLeaks).

Good for them. It was Chelsea’s wedding and not a media event.  The Clintons, who have a love-hate obsession with media, kept it real.

Chelsea was the star of the show (and NOT Bill or Hillary).

I, for one, am glad not to know all the details.  I am neither family nor friend AND I don’t care what the bride wore or who was/was not invited.

I do wish Chelsea and her husband much happiness and joy in their lives together, as I would wish any newlyweds (whether or not the union is recognized by the laws of the several states).

But, Bill, really, don’t you feel a tinch bad about the Defense of Marriage Act?

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The crazy coincidences of life

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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.

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Rosy Big Picture; Details, Not So Much

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Police officers on horses look so majestic.  (I got this picture from the Internet.)

Also, a little tie with New York’s past.  Also, it is urban legend that being a Mountie is a reward for extraordinary valor.  So, these officers on mount deserve to stand taller than the rest of us.

Yet . . . .

As I was walking to the subway on another hot day, a Mountie passed by and his horse was pooping as they walked along.  I didn’t have time to catch a picture of the Mountie, but here is the goodies left over:

The next day the scene looked slightly better, after some time and a little traffic could run over it.

I bet you are wondering what is on the sidewalk right next to the horse manure.  You are, aren’t you?  Yes, you are.  I know it:

FOOD VENDORS.

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The Kids Are All Right but the Moms need some help, big time.

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POB (partner of blogger) and I went to see the movie, “The Kids Are All Right,” about a lesbian couple and their two kids and the sperm donor who is invited into their lives by the elder child (who turned 18 and can get the information).

It got great reviews.   After seeing it, I realize that these reviewers are straight.

Based on the (straight people) reviews, I was looking forward to seeing how my life turns out (not really, but sort of really).  Two happily married lesbians raising their kids.  Sounded like a Utopian fantasy come to major motion picture.

Of course, I have my own issues — I am not a biological parent.  At least, each of these moms was biologically related to a child.  That is firmer ground than that which I will stand when coming face to  face with FOS (the face of sperm man), should it happen.  (OF COURSE, it will happen, but I intend to be in a state of dementia at that point.)

Back to the movie.  The hetero sex scenes were more enthralling than the one (count it, ONE) quasi-I-didn’t-understand-what-the-f$%^-was-going-on scene with the women.  Gay male porn and one woman under the covers while that other woman is watching man-on-man and showing no signs of arousal?  Ok, ok, ok.  I went to EVERY class on lesbian indoctrination given by the proponents of the gay agenda.  NO WHERE DID I SEE THIS.  This is NOT how any couple I KNOW gets romantic or has sex (yes, they can be mutually exclusive).

(While being indoctrinated all those many years ago, I did read about some things I decided were safer NOT to try at home, but in a passive-aggressive moment, I left those pamphlets for my mother to read and weep about.  I still feel a little bad but by the end of my mother’s life, she was not focused on fisting one’s partner.) 

I am going to have t-shirts made up that say: 

WE DO IT BUT NOT LIKE NIC AND JULES.

So, in this movie, child is parent to the mothers.  A usual Hollywood turn of events.

And the sexual excitement was spent on one of the mother’s extra-marital affair with Sperm Donor Man.  It was enticing, even though Mark Ruffalo has too much hair.  Also, what is with THAT?

If a lesbian has an affair (I am told) it is often with a woman and, if not a woman, a co-worker or client.  (Well, he was in fact a client at some point in the movie.)

NEVERTHELESS, in our first major motion picture about aging lesbians and their children, couldn’t the producers have made the sex a little steamy?  It isn’t like the L Word didn’t break some ground here.  Couldn’t the producers throw a bone to us true-life lesbians with families?  Keep hope alive for those of us in the midst of parenting and working and dreaming of beautiful sunsets with our partners when the kids are out of the house?

I always thought we were lucky — no Cialis, Viagra, etc. — now I am scared that I have man-on-man porn to look forward to while someone “services” me under covers.  I am soooooo grossed out.

This movie about a “solid” lesbian family is enough to cause therapists to cancel their August recess just to keep up with the demand of freaked out Moms.

Maybe this film touched a nerve (ok, it did) but I have to believe that it needed to please heterosexual America.  And so our lives are casualties.

Paging the L Word.

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When worlds collide

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If you live, work and love in New York, sometimes old worlds and old orbits collide. Sometimes, the reunion is comfortable; sometimes, there has been too many years of avoiding contact about issues. Quite frankly, sometimes we are in fact so shaped by our current circumstances, that the overture across worlds would require the universal translator that always saved Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock in the original Star Trek.

And in life (in contradistinction to movies), epiphanies are few and the hoped-for catharsis even rarer. Mostly, those who were on the peripheries of your prior worlds are only proxies for the unanswered questions and unresolved feelings of something much bigger.

So I declined the opportunity to invade someone’s performance at an outdoor cafe to re-greet a person of the past. She was performing and it would have been selfish at that moment. There are certainly opportunities — I have her number, etc., but I have chosen for 11 years not to reach out.  Why do so in her space during an expression of her art? If I really wanted to bridge the worlds, I would do so on terms acceptable to both of us. And after a decade, what do you say?  “How are you?”.  Sounds so stupid and pedestrian.  Some things are left better unsaid.  And these are not opportunities to reconnect — reconnect with what?  A life and circumstance that no longer exist?

I enjoyed her performance.  She has a beautiful voice.

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Bridal Diapers???

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http://shine.yahoo.com/channel/beauty/bridal-diapers-new-wedding-trend-1794912/

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.

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