I know my limitations. Years ago, when I was trying to impress a prospective beau, I attempted to prepare Julia Child's coq au vin. While the shallots and bacon were browning, I became engrossed in the outerwear section of the L.L. Bean Catalog. I vaguely smelled a pungent aroma, but it wasn't until four fireman appeared at my door, that I realized the dish would not be a success. Now I impress prospective beaus with my prowess at selecting just the right rotisserie chicken from the Associated deli counter.
For a long time I tried to balance my check book. I painstakingly reconciled the checks I wrote with those listed on the statement. They were always a perfect match. What never reconciled was the balance in my checkbook and the balance on the statement. Some months I was pennies off. Some months I was $727.37 off. I spent days I could have been bringing peace to the world trying to find my error. Now I simply write my checks and hope to stay out of jail.
Friday, I had a reminder of a limitation too painful to acknowledge. I signed up for a twilight walking tour of "flora and fauna" in Wagner Park. I love to walk. I love flora. I love fauna. The weather was glorious. Jim, the ranger, distributed binoculars and introduced Helen, the lay birdwatcher, to give a lesson in their use. My heart palpitated in panic. I suddenly recalled Costa Rica.
"Look up; there's a sloth in the tree."
"Where? I don't see it."
"Right there. Follow my finger."
"I still don't see it."
"You can't miss it."
"Oh, now I see it."
Only I hadn't seen it. I just got tired of sounding like a blind idiot.
Sloths don't move. They sit on the same branch for a week, so inanimate that moss grows on them and insects use them for vacation homes. Birds, on the other hand, don't stop moving. If I couldn't find a stationary sloth, there was no possibility of my locating a yellow bellied warbler.
All the binocular use lessons help me not one bit. Focus the middle piece. See a clear circle. Adjust the right eye piece. Useless. What nobody mentions is that in order to locate a creature through binoculars, you first have to locate it with the naked eye. And my naked eye is extremely near sighted, even with my $1000 bifocal, toric, superstellar, 4000x magnification contact lenses. Ever the optimist, I try to locate the rara avis, knowing that I have as much chance of finding it as Tom DeLay has of winning a cha cha contest.
Despite the threat of repeating the Costa Rican experience, I was delighted that I had no difficulty spotting the first fauna of the walk.
"Here's a bumble bee," said Ranger Jim. It was on its back on a leaf, directly at my eye level. "It may be drunk."
Helen, who seemed quite knowledgeable in all things bird and bee, said, "I think it's dead."
The second fauna was a flying grackle which I did not find worthy of even trying to locate through the binoculars.
Then, God smiled on me. Robins were nibbling on the lawn three feet from me. A cardinal hopped on the concrete fifteen feet away.
So I didn't see the yellow warbler that everyone oohed and aahed at. I got fresh air, walked a total of 25 feet and experienced nature at its fullest. It's not like a missed a Hugh Jackman sighting.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
It's A Small World After All
I feel blessed to live in an age in which I can fly to South Africa in less time than it takes for the M105 bus to travel from the 86th Street to 14th Street. I am grateful to have stands on every corner with bananas from Honduras, canteloupes from Chile and calendars from 2007. I am delighted that my pants are Sri Lankan, my jacket Laotian and my shirt Turkemenistian. In fact, right now, I'm nodding my head from side to side, singing, "It's a world of laughter, a world of tears..."
But, at the risk of sound like a whiner or a communist, I must tell you, it's not all good. Our subway cars, made in Japan, have seats suitable only for tiny Japanese tushies. Most of us with good, solid American tushies spill over the ridge between the seats. Consequently, only two of three seats are occupied by commuters. The in-between seat holds either a small CVS shopping bag or a Yorkie. Because our clothes are made in China, where a large woman weighs 79 pounds, I, even after six months of weight watchers, am busting out of extra large. I don't know what comes after that. Gunny sack?
But those are de minimis complaints. The one I'm about to tell you is so de maximus that it has driven four of my acquaintances to renew their relationship with black russians. If you've ever been at your wits' end because the word document you just spent 9 hours working on disappeared or you were billed twice by the same company for a purchase you never made once, and you called the "contact us" number, you've felt my pain. A lilting,polite and utterly incomprehensible voice answered from a country where English was not learned at one's mother's knee. You explained your issue to him and he gave you very intelligent, explicit directions in Hindi. Already crazed when you called, you are now apoplectic. Trying not to sound un- p.c., you ask to speak to someone else who you have a prayer of understanding. It won't happen. They all went to the same school. Four hours later, your document still lost, your bill still unresolved and phone battery down to one bar, your helper says,"And have we resolved your problem to your satisfaction?" You answer, "yes, thank you," as you're thinking,"Are you fucking out of your mind. You need to die."
Did I mention there were pros and cons of a small world?
But, at the risk of sound like a whiner or a communist, I must tell you, it's not all good. Our subway cars, made in Japan, have seats suitable only for tiny Japanese tushies. Most of us with good, solid American tushies spill over the ridge between the seats. Consequently, only two of three seats are occupied by commuters. The in-between seat holds either a small CVS shopping bag or a Yorkie. Because our clothes are made in China, where a large woman weighs 79 pounds, I, even after six months of weight watchers, am busting out of extra large. I don't know what comes after that. Gunny sack?
But those are de minimis complaints. The one I'm about to tell you is so de maximus that it has driven four of my acquaintances to renew their relationship with black russians. If you've ever been at your wits' end because the word document you just spent 9 hours working on disappeared or you were billed twice by the same company for a purchase you never made once, and you called the "contact us" number, you've felt my pain. A lilting,polite and utterly incomprehensible voice answered from a country where English was not learned at one's mother's knee. You explained your issue to him and he gave you very intelligent, explicit directions in Hindi. Already crazed when you called, you are now apoplectic. Trying not to sound un- p.c., you ask to speak to someone else who you have a prayer of understanding. It won't happen. They all went to the same school. Four hours later, your document still lost, your bill still unresolved and phone battery down to one bar, your helper says,"And have we resolved your problem to your satisfaction?" You answer, "yes, thank you," as you're thinking,"Are you fucking out of your mind. You need to die."
Did I mention there were pros and cons of a small world?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
On the Road Again
I haven't blogged for over a week, but I have googled. I haven't twittered or texted either, but then, I'm not that kind of a girl.
I have no doctor's note for failing to blog. My excuse is simple and noble. I was required to perform a vital, and, possibly perilous, mercy mission, viz:[I don't know what that means exactly, but it's in the Maxwell House Haggadah at least 20 times]riding shotgun in a rented Sebring next to J-e, to provide her with confidence, directions and sucking candies during the most harrowing drive either of us had made in 20 years--120 miles on the I-95 to South Hadley, Massachusetts.
A mercy mission of this nature would arise nowhere but NYC. Only here do we go to the DMV, stand in line and cheat on the eye test to renew a driver's license that we use only to verify our identity to the cashier at Duane Reade. After years of leaving the driving to others, we're petrified to put a car in drive. I have not driven since 1976 and would take the wheel only if my driving companion were rendered totally paralyzed by a stroke and there was a gun to my head. If only one condition were met, I would take my chances.
Although I am useless as an extra driver, except under the conditions outlined above, I used to be somewhat sought after as a navigator, although my utility was limited to holding the map. I understand north, south, east and west in the City and I never get lost there, but on the road "north" could be anywhere. I know Massachusetts is north of New York, but unless the road has an "N" before or after it, I can't tell which way it's going. I am terrific, however, at asking directions fluently in four languages. Unfortunately, in the unlikely event I understand the reponses, I can't remember the directions past the first, "turn left at the 2nd light," when five more maneuvers were directed.
Fortunately, on our trip, J-e did not have to rely on my navigational or linguistic skills. We had Mandy. She whispered directions to J-e in a breathy, sexy voice that would have made her a star on channel 35. Neither J-e nor I being techies, we could not get her to speak up. We spent the ride up saying, "Did she say turn at the second right or left?" And when we did hear her say "turn left in 400 yards," we had no idea what that distance meant. Who, other than carpet installers, measures distance in yards.
When we reached Massachusetts, J-e performed a sex change operation on Mandy. Mandy was now Richard with a loud voice and British accent. Being able to actually hear the directions, even if many were Richard recalculating the directions after our 11th wrong turn, rendered our trip home significantly less harrowing than our trip up.
I feel a little bit bad at having been twice replaced, first by Mandy and then by Richard. But it was nice to arrive in Massachusetts without a detour to Pennsylvania and to return to New York without crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge.
Why did we go to South Hadley, Massachusetts? All will be revealed in a future post. Promise.
I have no doctor's note for failing to blog. My excuse is simple and noble. I was required to perform a vital, and, possibly perilous, mercy mission, viz:[I don't know what that means exactly, but it's in the Maxwell House Haggadah at least 20 times]riding shotgun in a rented Sebring next to J-e, to provide her with confidence, directions and sucking candies during the most harrowing drive either of us had made in 20 years--120 miles on the I-95 to South Hadley, Massachusetts.
A mercy mission of this nature would arise nowhere but NYC. Only here do we go to the DMV, stand in line and cheat on the eye test to renew a driver's license that we use only to verify our identity to the cashier at Duane Reade. After years of leaving the driving to others, we're petrified to put a car in drive. I have not driven since 1976 and would take the wheel only if my driving companion were rendered totally paralyzed by a stroke and there was a gun to my head. If only one condition were met, I would take my chances.
Although I am useless as an extra driver, except under the conditions outlined above, I used to be somewhat sought after as a navigator, although my utility was limited to holding the map. I understand north, south, east and west in the City and I never get lost there, but on the road "north" could be anywhere. I know Massachusetts is north of New York, but unless the road has an "N" before or after it, I can't tell which way it's going. I am terrific, however, at asking directions fluently in four languages. Unfortunately, in the unlikely event I understand the reponses, I can't remember the directions past the first, "turn left at the 2nd light," when five more maneuvers were directed.
Fortunately, on our trip, J-e did not have to rely on my navigational or linguistic skills. We had Mandy. She whispered directions to J-e in a breathy, sexy voice that would have made her a star on channel 35. Neither J-e nor I being techies, we could not get her to speak up. We spent the ride up saying, "Did she say turn at the second right or left?" And when we did hear her say "turn left in 400 yards," we had no idea what that distance meant. Who, other than carpet installers, measures distance in yards.
When we reached Massachusetts, J-e performed a sex change operation on Mandy. Mandy was now Richard with a loud voice and British accent. Being able to actually hear the directions, even if many were Richard recalculating the directions after our 11th wrong turn, rendered our trip home significantly less harrowing than our trip up.
I feel a little bit bad at having been twice replaced, first by Mandy and then by Richard. But it was nice to arrive in Massachusetts without a detour to Pennsylvania and to return to New York without crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge.
Why did we go to South Hadley, Massachusetts? All will be revealed in a future post. Promise.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Birthday Thoughts
I have friends who would rather eat squirrel brains than face a public acknowledgement of their birthday. I think they're nuts.
I am of the opinion that my birthday should be a national holiday. Most years it is. Americans get off from work. They wile away the day barbecuing pork, chicken or tofu, depending on their arterial condition. They culminate the day with fireworks displays in my honor. They used to give me a parade down 5th Avenue, but either because of a competing Pakistani day parade, or because of my communication to the Central Labor Council that it was appreciated, but not really necessary, the parade has been cancelled indefinitely.
This year, perhaps because of the sorry state of the economy, the country did not close down for my birthday. This failure was more than compensated for by my friends' and family's spontaneous demonstrations of birthday love.
Well, not exactly spontaneous. It's taken years of training to insure that my nearest and dearest call to sing me "happy birthday." Of course, I understand that circumstances may arise rendering such a call impossible. A friend could be marooned in Luang Prabang without cell service. It might happen that a relative is erroneously incarcerated. Someone could be undergoing open heart surgery. In all those cases, a card will suffice until their circumstances improve.
But yesterday, my birthday, no one was unavoidably prevented from making my birthday perfect. I was serenaded twenty-two times. I received 20 cards-- some with actual postage stamps. I received fabulous gifts that, Lord be praised, I don't have to return. I was feted at lunches and dinners and when I got on the scale this morning, I had only gained a pound. Even the weather was perfect.
So when I looked in the mirror this morning and found a new wrinkle, I smiled contentedly and thought, it comes with the birthday. And if you believe that, there's a mortgage backed security I can sell you.
I am of the opinion that my birthday should be a national holiday. Most years it is. Americans get off from work. They wile away the day barbecuing pork, chicken or tofu, depending on their arterial condition. They culminate the day with fireworks displays in my honor. They used to give me a parade down 5th Avenue, but either because of a competing Pakistani day parade, or because of my communication to the Central Labor Council that it was appreciated, but not really necessary, the parade has been cancelled indefinitely.
This year, perhaps because of the sorry state of the economy, the country did not close down for my birthday. This failure was more than compensated for by my friends' and family's spontaneous demonstrations of birthday love.
Well, not exactly spontaneous. It's taken years of training to insure that my nearest and dearest call to sing me "happy birthday." Of course, I understand that circumstances may arise rendering such a call impossible. A friend could be marooned in Luang Prabang without cell service. It might happen that a relative is erroneously incarcerated. Someone could be undergoing open heart surgery. In all those cases, a card will suffice until their circumstances improve.
But yesterday, my birthday, no one was unavoidably prevented from making my birthday perfect. I was serenaded twenty-two times. I received 20 cards-- some with actual postage stamps. I received fabulous gifts that, Lord be praised, I don't have to return. I was feted at lunches and dinners and when I got on the scale this morning, I had only gained a pound. Even the weather was perfect.
So when I looked in the mirror this morning and found a new wrinkle, I smiled contentedly and thought, it comes with the birthday. And if you believe that, there's a mortgage backed security I can sell you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)