Alms for the Poor(Blogger)

You know those "schnurring"[translation-begging] letters you get this time of year from orthodox Jewish orphanages, pleading with you to send money? The guilt I feel from looking at the black and white photos of pathetic children while tossing the solicitation in the garbage is almost overwhelming. But who ever heard of Jewish orphanages? Fertility clinics, yes. Orphanages, you must be kidding.
But today I felt empathy for the orphanages, or whoever it is that sends out those letters. Because I sent out a "schnurring" letter. Not for financial support, but for moral support. I asked you to sign up to follow my blog and eight of you found it in your hearts to do it. To those of you who supported me in my time of need, thank you. To the rest, fi on you. Just kidding. I know you'll come around. (And Amy G and Marian, you win the prize-virtual of course-for sending me the first comments. )
Writing this blog has given me a new appreciation for N.Y. Times writers. I marvel that they can write an article of publishable quality daily. But of course they have an advantage. They're writing about something--banana blight in Africa, new erectile disfunction drugs. I'm writing about nothing and, trust me, it's so much harder.

I Love The Subway

I love the subway. I can leave my house at 12:45 for a 1:00 dance class, catch the A train, sit between a sumo wrestler and and a dwarf, and be at the class with time to spare for a pee stop. That train would leave the Starship Enterprise in the dust. The others aren't shabby either. Yesterday, 25% off coupon in hand, I caught the 2 to Lord and Taylor's. Four minutes later I was trying on flood pants. Flood pants in hand, I caught the V to exercise class at 54th and 1st. Within five minutes, I was squatting and lunging. Having barely survived the 100th squat by napping on the mat while my classmates performed rigorous crunches, my chariot, the E train, whisked me in 15 minutes to Associated where my chickens, reserved earlier, awaited me. As if the warp speed of the trains were not gift enough, when I use my "unlimited" card, the Transit Authority further rewards me by reducing the fare the more I ride. I believe they are currently paying me to ride.
Today, my usually perfect subway experience was rendered even more sublime. I received a donation from a homeless person. There have been times when, due to my garb or my hair or general demeanor, I might have being mistaken for someone homeless. But only by someone homeful. I thought that, like we Jews can spot our own, homeless people can too. Well, either I've lost more money in the market than I thought, or I was wrong. This homeless man handed me an umbrella. Handing it back to him, I said, "You keep it, I already have one," gesturing at my chic cat umbrella. Without speaking, he pointed to himself and nodded his head, "No," handing the umbrella back to me. I thanked him and he walked away looking pleased with himself. Helping someone in need makes you feels so good.
By the way, it's a Totes.

making something from nothing

I've Finally Done It!

I've been wanting to start a blog for years, but I had performance anxiety. Not about finding the right words to put to the page. Not about divulging my true opinions to friends who had previously thought of me as an incredibly nice person. Not about revealing my idiosyncracies to strangers. But about being unable to perform technologically. I have a love-hate relationship with computers. On the love side, they provide me with jokes, e-mails and potions to enhance my penis. Okay, I don't have a penis, but if I did, potions could change my life. On the hate side, they confuse me, don't listen to me, mystify me and make me feel old, infirm and feeble minded.
I steeled myself to start a blog a week ago. Not having used my Google account for months, Google sent me a "security" graphic of weirdly distorted letters. If I could correctly type them, Google would let me start a blog. I don't know why a vision/typing test would confirm my identity for Google, but it seemed like a piece of cake. I was wearing my contacts; my vision was within the sighted range. I typed what I saw. Google told me I was incorrect and sent me another graphic. This one was harder than the first. I got it wrong again. Google sent me a third graphic which I'm not sure contained the English alphabet. Since I was wrong three times, they asked me to answer my security question: What was your first phone number? I typed "IN2-3300. " This was my phone number for the first twenty years of my life. It's tattooed on my mitochondria. Apparently the tattoo artist made a booboo, because Google informed me I had failed the security tests and was barring me from my account.
Except for a ceramics course, I'd never failed a test in my life. I felt moronic, but I wasn't going to be defeated so easily. I went to a wonderful blogging site,"diaryland" which did not require me to decipher and transcribe hieroglyphics before I began blogging. So I blogged. For 1 and 1/2 hours. I was brilliant. I was just into the meat of the blog, when my entry disappeared into the ether. Despite frantic missives to the "contact us," black hole, my diaryland blog is gone.
So here I am on Google. I'll spare you how I got here, but, let me just say, it pays to have friends in the right places. I don't, but I hope to one day. I no longer have blog-block and if I can figure out how to access my blog tomorrow, you'll hear from me then.