Over my lifetime I have shed 327 pounds. Diets tell you to visualize weight. 8 pounds is a newborn. 15 pounds is a 15 year old cell phone. 327 pounds is a male warthog. You've seen me, so you're probably searching the internet, muttering," I gotta find the spanx she's been wearing." Stop searching. I never weighed over 400 pounds. I never weighed over 115 pounds. Nevertheless, I've been on one diet or another for 40 years. The 327 pounds is the weight cumulatively lost by dieting. For those of you who just squeaked by calculus, let me explain that the total would not have reached 327 pounds had I kept the weight off after each regimen. Instead, I'd lose 5 pounds on the diet and gain it back as soon as I resumed eating something other than grass.
I will not bore you with the details of my teenage infatuation with amphetamines as a diet aid, other than to tell you that they were equally effective at suppressing my appetite and giving me a borderline personality disorder. Nor will I disgust you with the side effects of the diet requiring me to consume eight bowls a day of cabbage and tomatoes. Of the Atkins diet, I have only praise. I was permitted cheeseburgers, bacon, eggs and unlimited vodka. I was sated and plastered for the three weeks I was on it. Unfortunately,as a result of Atkins, I gained six pounds and was forced to go on Zocor.
I've read that fad diets are dangerous, omitting necessary nutrients, electrolytes and often, actual food. Weight Watchers, the health pundits opine, is the only safe effective "weight loss program." I tried it last year, lost weight, reached my goal and consequently became a "lifetime member," entitling me to free meetings and more important, free weigh-ins. If you have never dieted, you may not recognize the value of being weighed in by a stranger on an impartial scale.
Here's how I ordinarily weigh myself. Making sure my hair is dry so as not to add ounces, naked, I mount the scale. I look down. If the number looks good, I get off the scale and eat a donut. If the number looks bad, I move the scale a few feet to the left and step on it again. If the number is still bad, I move the scale again, repeating the process until I get a number closer to what I want. At Weight Watchers, you step on the scale. Your weight is visible to the person weighing you in, but NOT to you. You have no opportunity or reason to cheat.
A condition of maintaining lifetime membership is weighing in once a month and staying within two pounds of your goal weight. Last Saturday, I decided to report for my December weigh in at a walk-in weight watcher's location on 19th Street. The door to the office building was locked, but someone leaving the premises let me in. I took the elevator to three and found the door to the weight watcher's premises locked. I was disappointed and surprised since I thought this location was open 24/7 for lifers like me who might feel an irresistible urge to be weighed. I went downstairs. The buildings door was locked. A label beneath a green button on the side of the door read,"push to exit." I pushed the button and pushed the door. The door did not budge. I pushed the button and pulled the door. The door did not budge. I repeated this exercise 13 times, hoping fervently that I had been pushing and pulling incorrectly the previous times.
The building appeared deserted. I was locked in the lobby of 59 West 19th Street with no way out. I was the man trapped in an elevator over a weekend. Like him, I would not be found until office workers arrived Monday. Having eaten only a tiny bowl of Fiber One on Saturday morning,I might die of starvation. Worse yet, why had I picked this day to have a high fiber cereal and a large cup of coffee. I started to hyperventilate. Then I remembered my cell phone. 911. I called, embarrassed. I started to tell the operator my story...weight watchers, lifetime, weigh-in, fiber one, yada yada. She put me on hold. HOLD! I waited patiently, thinking,"Okay, my predicament may not rise to the level of a fire or armed robbery, but was she allowed to put me on hold?"
As I was musing, my savior arrived. A woman came out of the elevator, saw me and said,"Press the green button and push the door simultaneously. I know, because it's happened to me too."
Tasting freedom for the first time in a quarter hour, I skipped down 6th Avenue to the bathroom at Bed Bath and Beyond. I exuberantly peed. Then, I raced to Ray's Pizza on 11th and 6th, where I got two slices, with pepperoni. While adding the hot pepper, I thought," The pundits are wrong. Based on experience, Weight Watchers is the most dangerous diet of all."
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Bellevue to Barcelona and Istanbul for good measure
Despite my robust health and that of my friends, I have recently sampled, both personally and vicariously, medical treatment from Bellevue to Barcelona to Istanbul. For those of you who think we have the best medical care in the world, there's a used treadmill I'd be happy to sell you.
When my cousin Kenneth tripped on a tree pit on West 12th Street on the way to my passover seder , landing on his nose which consequently took a sharp upward left turn toward his ear, he hightailed it to Bellevue. He would miss the first two glasses of Manischewitz and a rousing chorus of "Dayenu," but we were all confident that when he was discharged, his nose would be front and center. Four hours later, just as Elijah was about to partake in the heavy malaga, Kenneth arrived, nose askew. "After waiting for three and 1/2 hours in a room perfumed by the stench of several homeless men, they examined me and advised me to see a plastic surgeon." Kenneth's nose still veers left.
Several years ago, while throwing out the garbage after an evening of too many mojitos , I tripped over the carpet or the cat or my untied reeboks and broke my fall with my right wrist. By morning, the pain in my wrist was excruciating and my hand was the size of a hedgehog. I went to Urgent Care at Hospital for Joint Diseases. I waited for 2 hours. "Are you pregnant?" an x-ray technician inquired. "Are you kidding?" I responded. They x-rayed me. I had no fracture and they consequently discharged me, untreated, the hedgehog as painful and large as when I had arrived. I couldn't get an appointment with an orthopedist for a week. When I was finally able to see one,his office was mobbed. I was provided with a clipboard topped with forms on which I was to detail my medical history. I handed back the filled out forms and was summoned two hours later. A physician's assistant then asked me for the identical information I had just provided on the forms. He exited and the orthopedist entered, asking me my medical history yet again. I presume medical offices have patients fill out medical history forms to distract the patients from the inordinately long wait. I would be happier with chopped liver on crackers. The doctor re-xrayed me, informed me I still had no fracture, gave me a splint and sent me for 8 weeks of physical therapy.
In May I was in Barcelona with my friend, Marilyn. We had just had dinner in a trendy restaurant, imbibed a fair amount of cava, and, my mind elsewhere, (perhaps on the fact that the check was double what it should have been)I tripped on something--no se que-and this time, for variety, broke my fall with my left hand. The next morning I was in agony and asked the concierge to call the hotel doctor. Within 20 minutes, Dr. Luca, a soap opera handsome, 32 year old English speaking doctor showed up. He palpated my arm. "Hurt here?" "Hurt here?" "No? Good, I don't think it's broken." Experienced, I tentatively asked if he had a splint. "No, but I'm from Colombia, a third world country. We know how to improvise." With rolls of gauze and two tongue depressors, he made an effective makeshift splint. A week later, my wrist was fine. No useless forms. No x-rays. No physical therapy. Perhaps my recovery was also abetted by the anti- inflammatory shot he insisted on giving me in the behind. It may not have helped my hand, but it certainly raised my spirits.
On to Istanbul. Two days before our departure for NYC, CB developed a purple polka dot rash on her inner arm. The day before we were to leave, the rash spread. Neither of us thought it posed an immediate threat, but the possibility that her funeral might have to take place in a mosque and the fear that she might not enjoy the 75% off sales occurring all over the city, were sufficient to propel us to the American Hospital in Istanbul. We were told the German Hospital was equally good, but for historic reasons there was no way in hell we were going there.
We were greeted by a receptionist who, when shown the rash, pointed us toward "dermatology." After a 3 minute wait, an attractive English speaking doctor ushered us into her office. She asked CB what drugs she was taking, looked at the rash and pronounced baby aspirin the culprit. CB looked dubious so the doctor said,"I could do a bunch of expensive tests, but I'm telling you, it's baby aspirin." CB forwent the tests and, elated that death was not imminent, bought two gorgeous dresses at 75% off. I, ecstatic that I would not have to attend her funeral, supplemented my collection of 41 tote bags with two more fabulous ones, also at 75% off. Following the doctor's directions, she stopped the baby aspirin and the rash disappeared. No forms. No tests. Just an intelligent diagnosis made by a skilled practitioner.
I am aware that people from all over the world come to the U.S. for our state of the art medical treatment. Fortunately for them, our doctors speak Spanish,Turkish, Hindi, Russian and many other languages. Many also speak English, but they are not on my health plan. So, if I ever need one stop medical treatment from an anglophone doctor, I will take a non stop flight to Barcelona or Istanbul. I'll be treated and cured before my primary care physician can write out the eight essential referrals.
When my cousin Kenneth tripped on a tree pit on West 12th Street on the way to my passover seder , landing on his nose which consequently took a sharp upward left turn toward his ear, he hightailed it to Bellevue. He would miss the first two glasses of Manischewitz and a rousing chorus of "Dayenu," but we were all confident that when he was discharged, his nose would be front and center. Four hours later, just as Elijah was about to partake in the heavy malaga, Kenneth arrived, nose askew. "After waiting for three and 1/2 hours in a room perfumed by the stench of several homeless men, they examined me and advised me to see a plastic surgeon." Kenneth's nose still veers left.
Several years ago, while throwing out the garbage after an evening of too many mojitos , I tripped over the carpet or the cat or my untied reeboks and broke my fall with my right wrist. By morning, the pain in my wrist was excruciating and my hand was the size of a hedgehog. I went to Urgent Care at Hospital for Joint Diseases. I waited for 2 hours. "Are you pregnant?" an x-ray technician inquired. "Are you kidding?" I responded. They x-rayed me. I had no fracture and they consequently discharged me, untreated, the hedgehog as painful and large as when I had arrived. I couldn't get an appointment with an orthopedist for a week. When I was finally able to see one,his office was mobbed. I was provided with a clipboard topped with forms on which I was to detail my medical history. I handed back the filled out forms and was summoned two hours later. A physician's assistant then asked me for the identical information I had just provided on the forms. He exited and the orthopedist entered, asking me my medical history yet again. I presume medical offices have patients fill out medical history forms to distract the patients from the inordinately long wait. I would be happier with chopped liver on crackers. The doctor re-xrayed me, informed me I still had no fracture, gave me a splint and sent me for 8 weeks of physical therapy.
In May I was in Barcelona with my friend, Marilyn. We had just had dinner in a trendy restaurant, imbibed a fair amount of cava, and, my mind elsewhere, (perhaps on the fact that the check was double what it should have been)I tripped on something--no se que-and this time, for variety, broke my fall with my left hand. The next morning I was in agony and asked the concierge to call the hotel doctor. Within 20 minutes, Dr. Luca, a soap opera handsome, 32 year old English speaking doctor showed up. He palpated my arm. "Hurt here?" "Hurt here?" "No? Good, I don't think it's broken." Experienced, I tentatively asked if he had a splint. "No, but I'm from Colombia, a third world country. We know how to improvise." With rolls of gauze and two tongue depressors, he made an effective makeshift splint. A week later, my wrist was fine. No useless forms. No x-rays. No physical therapy. Perhaps my recovery was also abetted by the anti- inflammatory shot he insisted on giving me in the behind. It may not have helped my hand, but it certainly raised my spirits.
On to Istanbul. Two days before our departure for NYC, CB developed a purple polka dot rash on her inner arm. The day before we were to leave, the rash spread. Neither of us thought it posed an immediate threat, but the possibility that her funeral might have to take place in a mosque and the fear that she might not enjoy the 75% off sales occurring all over the city, were sufficient to propel us to the American Hospital in Istanbul. We were told the German Hospital was equally good, but for historic reasons there was no way in hell we were going there.
We were greeted by a receptionist who, when shown the rash, pointed us toward "dermatology." After a 3 minute wait, an attractive English speaking doctor ushered us into her office. She asked CB what drugs she was taking, looked at the rash and pronounced baby aspirin the culprit. CB looked dubious so the doctor said,"I could do a bunch of expensive tests, but I'm telling you, it's baby aspirin." CB forwent the tests and, elated that death was not imminent, bought two gorgeous dresses at 75% off. I, ecstatic that I would not have to attend her funeral, supplemented my collection of 41 tote bags with two more fabulous ones, also at 75% off. Following the doctor's directions, she stopped the baby aspirin and the rash disappeared. No forms. No tests. Just an intelligent diagnosis made by a skilled practitioner.
I am aware that people from all over the world come to the U.S. for our state of the art medical treatment. Fortunately for them, our doctors speak Spanish,Turkish, Hindi, Russian and many other languages. Many also speak English, but they are not on my health plan. So, if I ever need one stop medical treatment from an anglophone doctor, I will take a non stop flight to Barcelona or Istanbul. I'll be treated and cured before my primary care physician can write out the eight essential referrals.
Inquiring minds want to know
Having relegated me to treadmill hell, Sears, after receiving my small claims complaint for breach of warranty, transported me to heaven by settling with me. I know you're dying to know what they gave me, and I would love to tell you, but I can't. Sears, apparently believing the settlement with me might depress their stock price, required me to sign a confidentiality agreement. I cannot disclose whether they gave me money. I can divulge that subsequent to the settlement, I bought a new treadmill from Sports Authority. It has no visible damage, moves at the speed I select and I can hear Ann Curry over its motor. I hope never to write a blog about treadmills again. And yes, I kept the box.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Dear DeWayne Letter
DeWayne Hodgett
Blue Ribbon Services
Sears Holding Company
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois 60179
Personal and Confidential
Dear DeWayne,
I know you meant well when you invited me to be your facebook friend. You wanted me to experience a different side of DeWayne. The DeWayne with 9,762 friends. The DeWayne who helps out at the soup kitchen. The DeWayne doing the perp walk.
But, DeWayne, I thought I was more to you than a facebook friend.
Our first encounter-nearly 3 months ago-- was brief, one sided and memorable only in retrospect as the beginning of a relationship. You left me a message saying that you were assigned to my case no. 3149639 and would call me in two days. True to your word, you called. I acknowledge I may not have been my best self in our conversation. I may have grumbled that for three months I had been living in a treadmill junkyard thanks to Sears. I may have complained about the limp I developed after I stubbed my toe on the 2nd broken Sole Fitness treadmill. I may have said,"there's not a snowball's chance in hell I will let a Sears treadmill into my house." I do know that I asked you for $2500 so I could get a new treadmill elsewhere. Unflappable, you told me you'd get back to me.
With uncanny sensitivity to my schedule, you called me every other day when I wasn't home, leaving me a message on land-line that you were sorry you missed me and that you would call in two days. I received that same message every other day for a month. In response to each message, I called you back, telling you I was sorry I missed your call and leaving you my cell phone number. You managed to leave me a message on cell every time I was on the subway.
I admit being mystified that your message was never more substantive than, "I'll call you in two days," but on August 16 when you did reach me, your reason became evident.
Only a sociopath would tell you your dog died by leaving you a message. A good person would cushion the blow with a little banter before the bad news. On August 16, you called, asked after my vacation and told me my dog died--metaphorically of course, as I don't have dog. Sears would not give me $2500. What could they do for me?
DeWayne, at that moment, perhaps because your tone was so beseeching, perhaps because the regularity of your calls enabled me to remember whether it was Monday or Wednesday, perhaps because I killed too many brain cells with $3 Trader Joe's Chardonnay, I lost my mind to you. "Okay," I said,"I'll give Sears one more chance. If you can deliver, set up and take out the broken treadmill in one visit, I'll go for it." You said you'd get back to me in two days.
For two more weeks, I received alternate day messages from you on my cell phone. I steeled myself for my dog's death. But, instead, on August 30, you gave me a birthday present. Just as you intuited my schedule, you intuited my birthday. "Pick out any treadmill on the Sears website and it's yours." Upping our intimacy level, we exchanged e-mail addresses.
I'm used to great birthday presents-- Tiffany necklaces, Broadway shows, chopped liver and kasha knish from the Second Avenue Deli-but a treadmill trumps them all. I was certain we had something special going.
I picked out a doozy, the Proform XP 580 Trainer Treadmill, checked its reviews, found out its dimensions and e-mailed you. When you left me a message two days later that you'd call me in two days, I could not and would not believe you had news of a dead canine. I was still on cloud nine, fantasizing running on my new ProForm 580, eliminating the six pounds I had gained since Sears terminated my exercise regimen.
When you began our phone call on September 7, with "How was your weekend?" I knew Fido was in his casket. "The Proform XP 580 is not available." "But DeWayne," I whined, "it's available on the Sears website."
You explained that it was not in a warehouse in my area and graciously invited me to pick out another one...any other one...and it would be mine.
I've picked out three more, none of which are available in my area. You maintain your graciousness in the face of my disappointment, urging me to keep selecting, but the only treadmills remaining cost $75 and are suitable for use by Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
DeWayne, I admit I'm inexperienced in matters of the heart. You led me down the primrose path with your reliability, generosity and empathy. I believed I was more than just one out of 9,762. DeWayne,with me it's all or nothing. If I cannot be your BFF, I will not be your "friend" at all. I nevertheless look forward to our next communication on Tuesday. It will either be "This is DeWayne Hodgett. I'm sorry I missed your call, but I will call you back on Thursday." That will provide a needed reminder that it is Tuesday. Or, we'll speak. You'll ask me about my weekend, so I'll know Fido's being interred and you'll say "Pick out any hamster wheel on the Sears website. Price is no object."
Best,
Carol
Blue Ribbon Services
Sears Holding Company
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois 60179
Personal and Confidential
Dear DeWayne,
I know you meant well when you invited me to be your facebook friend. You wanted me to experience a different side of DeWayne. The DeWayne with 9,762 friends. The DeWayne who helps out at the soup kitchen. The DeWayne doing the perp walk.
But, DeWayne, I thought I was more to you than a facebook friend.
Our first encounter-nearly 3 months ago-- was brief, one sided and memorable only in retrospect as the beginning of a relationship. You left me a message saying that you were assigned to my case no. 3149639 and would call me in two days. True to your word, you called. I acknowledge I may not have been my best self in our conversation. I may have grumbled that for three months I had been living in a treadmill junkyard thanks to Sears. I may have complained about the limp I developed after I stubbed my toe on the 2nd broken Sole Fitness treadmill. I may have said,"there's not a snowball's chance in hell I will let a Sears treadmill into my house." I do know that I asked you for $2500 so I could get a new treadmill elsewhere. Unflappable, you told me you'd get back to me.
With uncanny sensitivity to my schedule, you called me every other day when I wasn't home, leaving me a message on land-line that you were sorry you missed me and that you would call in two days. I received that same message every other day for a month. In response to each message, I called you back, telling you I was sorry I missed your call and leaving you my cell phone number. You managed to leave me a message on cell every time I was on the subway.
I admit being mystified that your message was never more substantive than, "I'll call you in two days," but on August 16 when you did reach me, your reason became evident.
Only a sociopath would tell you your dog died by leaving you a message. A good person would cushion the blow with a little banter before the bad news. On August 16, you called, asked after my vacation and told me my dog died--metaphorically of course, as I don't have dog. Sears would not give me $2500. What could they do for me?
DeWayne, at that moment, perhaps because your tone was so beseeching, perhaps because the regularity of your calls enabled me to remember whether it was Monday or Wednesday, perhaps because I killed too many brain cells with $3 Trader Joe's Chardonnay, I lost my mind to you. "Okay," I said,"I'll give Sears one more chance. If you can deliver, set up and take out the broken treadmill in one visit, I'll go for it." You said you'd get back to me in two days.
For two more weeks, I received alternate day messages from you on my cell phone. I steeled myself for my dog's death. But, instead, on August 30, you gave me a birthday present. Just as you intuited my schedule, you intuited my birthday. "Pick out any treadmill on the Sears website and it's yours." Upping our intimacy level, we exchanged e-mail addresses.
I'm used to great birthday presents-- Tiffany necklaces, Broadway shows, chopped liver and kasha knish from the Second Avenue Deli-but a treadmill trumps them all. I was certain we had something special going.
I picked out a doozy, the Proform XP 580 Trainer Treadmill, checked its reviews, found out its dimensions and e-mailed you. When you left me a message two days later that you'd call me in two days, I could not and would not believe you had news of a dead canine. I was still on cloud nine, fantasizing running on my new ProForm 580, eliminating the six pounds I had gained since Sears terminated my exercise regimen.
When you began our phone call on September 7, with "How was your weekend?" I knew Fido was in his casket. "The Proform XP 580 is not available." "But DeWayne," I whined, "it's available on the Sears website."
You explained that it was not in a warehouse in my area and graciously invited me to pick out another one...any other one...and it would be mine.
I've picked out three more, none of which are available in my area. You maintain your graciousness in the face of my disappointment, urging me to keep selecting, but the only treadmills remaining cost $75 and are suitable for use by Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
DeWayne, I admit I'm inexperienced in matters of the heart. You led me down the primrose path with your reliability, generosity and empathy. I believed I was more than just one out of 9,762. DeWayne,with me it's all or nothing. If I cannot be your BFF, I will not be your "friend" at all. I nevertheless look forward to our next communication on Tuesday. It will either be "This is DeWayne Hodgett. I'm sorry I missed your call, but I will call you back on Thursday." That will provide a needed reminder that it is Tuesday. Or, we'll speak. You'll ask me about my weekend, so I'll know Fido's being interred and you'll say "Pick out any hamster wheel on the Sears website. Price is no object."
Best,
Carol
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Attaboy Ed (Take Two
June 15, 2010
Edward S. Lampert
CEO and President
Sears Holding Corp.
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois
Dear Ed,
Kudos are in order. I didn't think it possible, given Sears'
extraordinary prior performance, but your company has exceeded my expectations. June 10, Lourdice(You remember her, don't you? My Sears fairy godmother who enhanced my decor with three non working treadmills?)called and told me she had arranged something special for me. I had only to call American Direct,make an appointment and an installer would arrive at my apartment to install my newest Sole Fitness treadmill and place the defective Sole treadmill in the box the new one had come in. Once the defective Sole was boxed, I had only to call Atlantic Freight to pick it up. Holding on to the 15 year old Pro-form treadmill(the treadmill emeritus,)I did a celebratory jig in the square foot of living room floor not occupied by gym equipment.
Friday, June 11 was the appointed day. That Thursday night I was a
kid on Christmas Eve. The possibility that I might reduce my treadmill inventory by a third as well as have one of the two remaining treadmills work was so thrilling, I could barely sleep. Towards morning, I dozed off, happily dreaming of starting a relationship with a new treadmill, while slightly sad at what would mark the termination of my relationship with Lourdice. When I awoke, I smiled,realizing it had just been a dream. My relationship with Lourdice would likely be lifelong, in as much as she had no idea how to get the treadmill emeritus out of my house.
At the crack of noon, Mejandro from American Direct, removed the new Sole from its box,placed it gently on the Ralph Lauren floral quilt I willingly sacrificed to the treadmill gods and dragged all 250 pounds of it from its honored position in the living room(where the couch had been) to the side of my bed. It lay there on its side wrapped in plastic while Mejandro disassembled the defective Sole, and dragged its 250 pound carcass
on a Liz Claiborne plaid quilt, which I also sacrificed, to the box. He got all the pieces in, closed the box, taped it shut and proceeded to my bedroom for the installation of the new Sole.
Mejandro unwrapped the plastic and gasped. Go ahead, Ed, guess why. No,
not because it was the most wondrous machine he'd ever seen. Because it was broken, Ed. The shaft, that should have been inside the machine, was sticking out and broken. I had sacrificed two irreplaceable quilts(well they might be replaceable, but not at the price I got them for)to ungrateful gods.
Ed, what can I say? I would like to say that I took this disappointment in stride, recognizing that my problem was trivial in the global scheme of things, but Ed, I'm not that big of a person. At that moment, had Bob Barker arrived at my home, crowned me Miss America and asked me what I wished for, I would not have said, "Bob, I wish all nations could get along and that we could have world peace." No, on national television, I would have smiled and said,"Bob, I would like have these three f**kin' treadmills out of my house." As Mejandro replaced the broken corpse of the new Sole on the the soft lillies of the quilt, and dragged it to my living room,right in front of my door, where it rejoined the other two treadmills, I first called your escalation unit where I spoke to Roslyn, narrated the Tale of the Three Treadmills and told her I wanted them out of my house that afternoon and my money back for the 15 years I paid for the useless warranty. Roslyn said she'd get back to me. Figuring that hell might freeze over before Roslyn called me back, I called your President's line where,at a higher decibel level,I spoke to Melanie. She filed her nails, listened politely, said she'd get back to me and ended the conversation with, "Thank you for choosing Sears."
Ed, had I not taken my pharmaceuticals that morning, had I lived in walking distance from a Wal-mart, had I not been a pacifist, after Melanie so graciously thanked me, I would have bought an automatic, taken the subway to Sears and hurt people.
G-d works in mysterious ways, Ed. Just as I slammed the phone down, an angel from Atlantic Freight arrived to pick up the boxed treadmill. The angel said, "I'm glad it's in a box. I had to pick up a treadmill the other day that wasn't boxed and it took two men." Having been told by Lourdice that even an angel couldn't pick up an unpackaged treadmill, I inquired, "You pick them up unboxed?" "Yes," he said. I asked him if he could take the emeritus and the broken Sole. He said he could if he had the order to do it.
Ed, I was distraught. Not only would I have share my apartment with 20 pieces of broken treadmill lying next to its 15 year old predecessor, but Lourdice, whom I had trusted with every fiber of my being, had lied to me. Betrayed, I had no reason to ever talk to Lourdice again, but I nevertheless left her a voice mail telling her what had occurred since the previous day.
I lay down with a cold compress on my head for several hours when, at 4:00, Roslyn called with unbelievably good news. Someone would pick up the treadmills on Sunday or Monday, whichever day I preferred and whatever time I preferred. I told Roslyn that the pick up should be made Monday, June 14, between 8:00 a.m. and 12 noon. Roslyn placed me on hold, confirmed the date and time and told me I'd receive an electronic call Sunday night giving me a two hour window. I could have kissed Roslyn. Instead, I thanked her profusely. "Roslyn," I inquired,"How is it that you managed to arrange what Lourdice said was impossible?" The question was rhetorical, Ed, so I didn't really listen to Roslyn's response.
I'm a glass half full kind of girl, Ed, so I banished all thoughts of Lourdice from my consciousness. But at 4:30 she called me. I guess some people would rather stay in a bad relationship that move on. "Lourdice," I asked," How is it that Roslyn was able to perform this miracle when,for three months, you couldn't get it done?"
Ed, Lourdice couldn't get functioning treadmills delivered or broken treadmills picked up, but I have to hand it to her. When backed into a corner, she's a fighter. "Are you telling me I don't know how to do my job?" she fairly spat at me. "No, Lourdice," I said soothingly,"I would never say that." A little afraid of her now, I was glad she couldn't see my eyes roll. Lourdice continued, "Roslyn can't do it and its not going to happen."
I'm a law abiding person Ed, but over the weekend I did take bets on whether the treadmills would be picked up timely. I provided the bettors with the treadmill history including Lourdice's final utterance. Whether because of Sears track record or Lourdice's possible interference, the odds that Sears would actually pick up the treadmills Monday a.m were 50-1. Betting closed at 4:00 Sunday.
6:00 p.m. Sunday, I did indeed receive an electronic message, giving the window for pick up: 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. I pressed "0" to speak to a representative and got Jason. When I told Jason that the treadmills had to be picked up between 8:00 and 12:00, that I worked and wouldn't be home in the afternoon, Jason patiently explained to me that 8:00-12:00 was merely a "request," that it couldn't be done in the a.m. and did I want to reschedule. Equally patient, but loud, I explained to Jason that I did want to "request" another time, I WANTED THEM PICKED UP IN THE MORNING. GET IT DONE. Jason, still patient, explained that he couldn't. "Jason, let me speak to your manager." "Why?" asked Jason. "Guess," said I. I was put on hold and after 20 minutes, Jason returned to the line. You'll have them picked up between 8:00 and 12:00.
Ed, I told Jason he deserves your job. (Don't be miffed Ed. I know no one could do it as well as you.) But I was a little sceptical. Was Jason humoring me or would Sears actually pick up the treadmills? If Jason had arranged it, would Lourdice throw a wrench into it?
Monday morning was tense. A driver called at 7:30. "Where are you?" he asked. I told him. "In the Bronx?"he asked. "No, Manhattan," I responded. "I don't know if I can get there. I'll call you back." "Just get here," I screamed. 10:00 a.m. Sharon, Roslyn's colleague from escalation called. "Sharon," I said, "call the driver and make sure he gets here." 10:10 Sharon called back. "I called the driver and told him to go to your house. He thought he was picking up refrigerators. I told him treadmills. I got his manager's number. Someone will be there by 12:00." I wrote down the manager's number.
By noon, there was no sign of Sears. I called the manager and heard the following recorded message: "You have reached, 201-546-3323. The person you have called is not accepting calls at this time." Although I now had clumps of my own hair in my hand, I found this message so fabulous that I took the time to transcribe it verbatim for use on my voice mail. It will be such a time saver.
12:30 the phone rang. "This is Sears. The men have been in front of your door for 1/2 hour and no one's there." "Not possible," I said, "this is a doorman buiding and I've been here all morning." "What's your address?" I told her. "Whoops, they're down the street at 51 Jane Street. They'll be right there."
And Ed, they were. Two big guys who lifted these treadmills as if they weighed no more than helium balloons. They worked for Ex-El, the company that delivers and picks up for Sears and guess what: they were incredulous at my treadmill tale.They always pick up appliances that are unboxed because, as they so aptly put it, "Why would you keep the box that
a useless refrigerator came in?"
Now, Ed, after this long story, you might be wondering what the kudos were for. So, I'll tell you. When I started this adventure with Sears, my expectation was that, thanks to the exorbitant warranty I had paid for for 15 years, I would receive, free of charge, a working treadmill. As you know, I don't have one. But, Ed, you are a master of reducing expectations. After three months of dealing with Lourdice, I am ecstatic...no, delirious...that I have no more broken treadmills in my house. The fact that I don't have a working treadmill does not seem to bother me. Sears has managed to satisfy me despite having breached its warranty.
Although the words ATTABOY ED are inadequate to convey my feelings about the job you're doing, I know of no other printable words to do it.
So ATTABOY ED. Keep up the good work.
Very truly yours,
Carol R. Abramson
Edward S. Lampert
CEO and President
Sears Holding Corp.
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois
Dear Ed,
Kudos are in order. I didn't think it possible, given Sears'
extraordinary prior performance, but your company has exceeded my expectations. June 10, Lourdice(You remember her, don't you? My Sears fairy godmother who enhanced my decor with three non working treadmills?)called and told me she had arranged something special for me. I had only to call American Direct,make an appointment and an installer would arrive at my apartment to install my newest Sole Fitness treadmill and place the defective Sole treadmill in the box the new one had come in. Once the defective Sole was boxed, I had only to call Atlantic Freight to pick it up. Holding on to the 15 year old Pro-form treadmill(the treadmill emeritus,)I did a celebratory jig in the square foot of living room floor not occupied by gym equipment.
Friday, June 11 was the appointed day. That Thursday night I was a
kid on Christmas Eve. The possibility that I might reduce my treadmill inventory by a third as well as have one of the two remaining treadmills work was so thrilling, I could barely sleep. Towards morning, I dozed off, happily dreaming of starting a relationship with a new treadmill, while slightly sad at what would mark the termination of my relationship with Lourdice. When I awoke, I smiled,realizing it had just been a dream. My relationship with Lourdice would likely be lifelong, in as much as she had no idea how to get the treadmill emeritus out of my house.
At the crack of noon, Mejandro from American Direct, removed the new Sole from its box,placed it gently on the Ralph Lauren floral quilt I willingly sacrificed to the treadmill gods and dragged all 250 pounds of it from its honored position in the living room(where the couch had been) to the side of my bed. It lay there on its side wrapped in plastic while Mejandro disassembled the defective Sole, and dragged its 250 pound carcass
on a Liz Claiborne plaid quilt, which I also sacrificed, to the box. He got all the pieces in, closed the box, taped it shut and proceeded to my bedroom for the installation of the new Sole.
Mejandro unwrapped the plastic and gasped. Go ahead, Ed, guess why. No,
not because it was the most wondrous machine he'd ever seen. Because it was broken, Ed. The shaft, that should have been inside the machine, was sticking out and broken. I had sacrificed two irreplaceable quilts(well they might be replaceable, but not at the price I got them for)to ungrateful gods.
Ed, what can I say? I would like to say that I took this disappointment in stride, recognizing that my problem was trivial in the global scheme of things, but Ed, I'm not that big of a person. At that moment, had Bob Barker arrived at my home, crowned me Miss America and asked me what I wished for, I would not have said, "Bob, I wish all nations could get along and that we could have world peace." No, on national television, I would have smiled and said,"Bob, I would like have these three f**kin' treadmills out of my house." As Mejandro replaced the broken corpse of the new Sole on the the soft lillies of the quilt, and dragged it to my living room,right in front of my door, where it rejoined the other two treadmills, I first called your escalation unit where I spoke to Roslyn, narrated the Tale of the Three Treadmills and told her I wanted them out of my house that afternoon and my money back for the 15 years I paid for the useless warranty. Roslyn said she'd get back to me. Figuring that hell might freeze over before Roslyn called me back, I called your President's line where,at a higher decibel level,I spoke to Melanie. She filed her nails, listened politely, said she'd get back to me and ended the conversation with, "Thank you for choosing Sears."
Ed, had I not taken my pharmaceuticals that morning, had I lived in walking distance from a Wal-mart, had I not been a pacifist, after Melanie so graciously thanked me, I would have bought an automatic, taken the subway to Sears and hurt people.
G-d works in mysterious ways, Ed. Just as I slammed the phone down, an angel from Atlantic Freight arrived to pick up the boxed treadmill. The angel said, "I'm glad it's in a box. I had to pick up a treadmill the other day that wasn't boxed and it took two men." Having been told by Lourdice that even an angel couldn't pick up an unpackaged treadmill, I inquired, "You pick them up unboxed?" "Yes," he said. I asked him if he could take the emeritus and the broken Sole. He said he could if he had the order to do it.
Ed, I was distraught. Not only would I have share my apartment with 20 pieces of broken treadmill lying next to its 15 year old predecessor, but Lourdice, whom I had trusted with every fiber of my being, had lied to me. Betrayed, I had no reason to ever talk to Lourdice again, but I nevertheless left her a voice mail telling her what had occurred since the previous day.
I lay down with a cold compress on my head for several hours when, at 4:00, Roslyn called with unbelievably good news. Someone would pick up the treadmills on Sunday or Monday, whichever day I preferred and whatever time I preferred. I told Roslyn that the pick up should be made Monday, June 14, between 8:00 a.m. and 12 noon. Roslyn placed me on hold, confirmed the date and time and told me I'd receive an electronic call Sunday night giving me a two hour window. I could have kissed Roslyn. Instead, I thanked her profusely. "Roslyn," I inquired,"How is it that you managed to arrange what Lourdice said was impossible?" The question was rhetorical, Ed, so I didn't really listen to Roslyn's response.
I'm a glass half full kind of girl, Ed, so I banished all thoughts of Lourdice from my consciousness. But at 4:30 she called me. I guess some people would rather stay in a bad relationship that move on. "Lourdice," I asked," How is it that Roslyn was able to perform this miracle when,for three months, you couldn't get it done?"
Ed, Lourdice couldn't get functioning treadmills delivered or broken treadmills picked up, but I have to hand it to her. When backed into a corner, she's a fighter. "Are you telling me I don't know how to do my job?" she fairly spat at me. "No, Lourdice," I said soothingly,"I would never say that." A little afraid of her now, I was glad she couldn't see my eyes roll. Lourdice continued, "Roslyn can't do it and its not going to happen."
I'm a law abiding person Ed, but over the weekend I did take bets on whether the treadmills would be picked up timely. I provided the bettors with the treadmill history including Lourdice's final utterance. Whether because of Sears track record or Lourdice's possible interference, the odds that Sears would actually pick up the treadmills Monday a.m were 50-1. Betting closed at 4:00 Sunday.
6:00 p.m. Sunday, I did indeed receive an electronic message, giving the window for pick up: 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. I pressed "0" to speak to a representative and got Jason. When I told Jason that the treadmills had to be picked up between 8:00 and 12:00, that I worked and wouldn't be home in the afternoon, Jason patiently explained to me that 8:00-12:00 was merely a "request," that it couldn't be done in the a.m. and did I want to reschedule. Equally patient, but loud, I explained to Jason that I did want to "request" another time, I WANTED THEM PICKED UP IN THE MORNING. GET IT DONE. Jason, still patient, explained that he couldn't. "Jason, let me speak to your manager." "Why?" asked Jason. "Guess," said I. I was put on hold and after 20 minutes, Jason returned to the line. You'll have them picked up between 8:00 and 12:00.
Ed, I told Jason he deserves your job. (Don't be miffed Ed. I know no one could do it as well as you.) But I was a little sceptical. Was Jason humoring me or would Sears actually pick up the treadmills? If Jason had arranged it, would Lourdice throw a wrench into it?
Monday morning was tense. A driver called at 7:30. "Where are you?" he asked. I told him. "In the Bronx?"he asked. "No, Manhattan," I responded. "I don't know if I can get there. I'll call you back." "Just get here," I screamed. 10:00 a.m. Sharon, Roslyn's colleague from escalation called. "Sharon," I said, "call the driver and make sure he gets here." 10:10 Sharon called back. "I called the driver and told him to go to your house. He thought he was picking up refrigerators. I told him treadmills. I got his manager's number. Someone will be there by 12:00." I wrote down the manager's number.
By noon, there was no sign of Sears. I called the manager and heard the following recorded message: "You have reached, 201-546-3323. The person you have called is not accepting calls at this time." Although I now had clumps of my own hair in my hand, I found this message so fabulous that I took the time to transcribe it verbatim for use on my voice mail. It will be such a time saver.
12:30 the phone rang. "This is Sears. The men have been in front of your door for 1/2 hour and no one's there." "Not possible," I said, "this is a doorman buiding and I've been here all morning." "What's your address?" I told her. "Whoops, they're down the street at 51 Jane Street. They'll be right there."
And Ed, they were. Two big guys who lifted these treadmills as if they weighed no more than helium balloons. They worked for Ex-El, the company that delivers and picks up for Sears and guess what: they were incredulous at my treadmill tale.They always pick up appliances that are unboxed because, as they so aptly put it, "Why would you keep the box that
a useless refrigerator came in?"
Now, Ed, after this long story, you might be wondering what the kudos were for. So, I'll tell you. When I started this adventure with Sears, my expectation was that, thanks to the exorbitant warranty I had paid for for 15 years, I would receive, free of charge, a working treadmill. As you know, I don't have one. But, Ed, you are a master of reducing expectations. After three months of dealing with Lourdice, I am ecstatic...no, delirious...that I have no more broken treadmills in my house. The fact that I don't have a working treadmill does not seem to bother me. Sears has managed to satisfy me despite having breached its warranty.
Although the words ATTABOY ED are inadequate to convey my feelings about the job you're doing, I know of no other printable words to do it.
So ATTABOY ED. Keep up the good work.
Very truly yours,
Carol R. Abramson
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Dear Mr. Lambert
June 8, 2010
Edward S. Lambert
CEO and President
Sears Holdings Corp.
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois
Dear Mr. Lambert,
This is not a complaint letter. I have nothing to complain about. I have wonderful friends, am comfortable financially and my health is good, thank G-d, except for an annoying twinge in my left wrist and occasional heartburn after kung pao chicken. I understand you're a very important man what with your single handedly running not only Sears and K-Mart but also Lands'End(from which, I want you to know, I purchased the most fabulous suck-it-all-in eggplant bathing suit which I wore to death in Cancun), but rest assured, this letter will occupy only a few minutes of your valuable time.
Ed(I hope you don't mind my calling you that, but I feel close to you),you must be the smartest CEO on earth, or at least in Hoffman Estates, Illinois. You appreciate that anyone can employ the best and the brightest to manage a company, but what do they get? A well run company that serves its customers and shareholders. You, Ed, care about more than the bottom line. You're a people person. You hire the mentally challenged,pay them a fair wage and send them out to to deal with Sears' customers. You change their lives. You're a veritable Mother Teresa.
You've changed my life too, Ed. For 15 years, every morning I arose, took my high blood pressure pill and walked for 20 minutes on my Sears Pro-form treadmill . My relationship with the treadmill was the most stable in my life. Like most relationships, it wasn't perfect. The treadmill was deafening, but I didn't complain. I simply learned to read Ann Curry's lips. The treadmill occasionally zoomed from 3.9 mph to 4.8 mph, propelling my head toward the console. I adjusted and wore a helmet. But one day, it stopped running altogether and I was forced to invoke the Sears warranty for which I'd paid $150 per year for 15 years- a total of $2250.
The repairman had me sit down while he gave me the bad news. The motor was kaput and irreplaceable. But, he said,comforting me with his hand on my shoulder, since it was under warranty, Sears would give me a brand new treadmill-free.
I was thrilled. I had wondered for years what Matt Lauer sounded like and now I'd know. I could shed the helmet. I'd be getting a new $900 treadmill, free. Within weeks I received a call from Lourdice, your employee in South Carolina. Like a fairy godmother, she told me to pick out the treadmill I wanted and she'd arrange the delivery. "But Lourdice, what about the pick up of the 15 year old treadmill? I don't have room for two treadmills." Lourdice assured me she'd take care of it.
On April 22, Atlantic Freight delivered my new Sole Fitness treadmill and left it in a box in the middle of my living room floor. The box was the size of my father's 1960 Chevy Impala. Michael, of American Direct, arrived to install it.He removed it from the box, moved my old Pro-form into the living room and moved my new Sole Fitness into the Pro-form's spot in the bedroom. The new Sole Fitness weighed 350 pounds, its footprint was 7 feet and its console, 5'3" high, bore a striking resemblance to the console that Scotty used to beam up the crew of the Enterprise. I couldn't wait to try it. Unfortunately, Michael could not get it to start. Michael disposed of the box and left. I called Lourdice. Lourdice said,"Don't worry. Sears will send it back to the manufacturer and we'll send you a brand new one." As of April 22, thanks to Sears, I had two treadmills.
Ed, you really are terrific. You must pay your employees alot more than I get paid. You see, I live in a NYC apartment. It isn't easy to fit one treadmill into a NYC apartment,let alone two. (It isn't easy to fit an extra hanger into a NYC apartment.) Lourdice must live in a very spacious house, because she was flummoxed by my repeated requests to have the two dead treadmills removed before a third was delivered. But, ever accommodating, she arranged to have Atlantic Freight pick up the defective Sole.
Atlantic Freight called me. Yippee, they were going to pick up the Sole Fitness and return it to the manufacturer. But it would have to be boxed, at the door, ready to go.
Boxed? I took a valium and left a message for Lourdice explaining the situation. Lourdice left me the following message: I don't understand why you don't have a box. Everyone knows when you return an item, it has to be in the box."
Until that moment, I was unaware of your generous hiring practices. But now it was clear that Lourdice either thought a treadmill was the size of a fruitcake or would return a rental car in a box.
I took an ativan and called her back. "Lourdice," I explained,"your installer disposed of the box. I HAVE NO BOX. And even if I had a box, there's no way in hell I could get a 350 pound machine into it. I'm 70 years old and I weigh 100 pounds." Okay, Ed, I admit I overstated my age and understated my weight, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
After deliberation, Lourdice called me back. "I'll take care of it,"she said.
The following day, Atlantic Freight called to arrange an appointment to deliver my new treadmill. No talk of pick up. "Sure, come tomorrow," I said. "What's one more treadmill?"
Ed, thanks to the generosity of Sears, I now have a trio of treadmills in my apartment. The new Sole, in pristine condition in its box, sits in the place that formerly housed my couch. I sit on it to watch "The Good Wife." The couch is in storage. The 15 year old Pro-form is propped up next to my dining room table requiring me to eat standing up. And the defective Sole is a 350 pound high tech sculpture in my bedroom. Like every body else's fitness equipment, it serves as a clothing hanger.
My morning activities have changed. I arise, take two blood pressure pills, one valium, one ativan and a prozac and spend 20 minutes talking to Lourdice,who is now the most stable relationship in my life. Like my relationship with the treadmill, it's not perfect. I ask her daily to remove two treadmills and install the third. She tells me daily that she's working on it. My guess is she hears me as clearly as I heard Ann Curry.
So, Ed, I can think of no better way of thanking you for how you changed my life than by paraphrasing our ex-president. ATTABOY, ED. Keep up the good work.
Very truly yours,
Carol R. Abramson
Edward S. Lambert
CEO and President
Sears Holdings Corp.
3333 Beverly Road
Hoffman Estates, Illinois
Dear Mr. Lambert,
This is not a complaint letter. I have nothing to complain about. I have wonderful friends, am comfortable financially and my health is good, thank G-d, except for an annoying twinge in my left wrist and occasional heartburn after kung pao chicken. I understand you're a very important man what with your single handedly running not only Sears and K-Mart but also Lands'End(from which, I want you to know, I purchased the most fabulous suck-it-all-in eggplant bathing suit which I wore to death in Cancun), but rest assured, this letter will occupy only a few minutes of your valuable time.
Ed(I hope you don't mind my calling you that, but I feel close to you),you must be the smartest CEO on earth, or at least in Hoffman Estates, Illinois. You appreciate that anyone can employ the best and the brightest to manage a company, but what do they get? A well run company that serves its customers and shareholders. You, Ed, care about more than the bottom line. You're a people person. You hire the mentally challenged,pay them a fair wage and send them out to to deal with Sears' customers. You change their lives. You're a veritable Mother Teresa.
You've changed my life too, Ed. For 15 years, every morning I arose, took my high blood pressure pill and walked for 20 minutes on my Sears Pro-form treadmill . My relationship with the treadmill was the most stable in my life. Like most relationships, it wasn't perfect. The treadmill was deafening, but I didn't complain. I simply learned to read Ann Curry's lips. The treadmill occasionally zoomed from 3.9 mph to 4.8 mph, propelling my head toward the console. I adjusted and wore a helmet. But one day, it stopped running altogether and I was forced to invoke the Sears warranty for which I'd paid $150 per year for 15 years- a total of $2250.
The repairman had me sit down while he gave me the bad news. The motor was kaput and irreplaceable. But, he said,comforting me with his hand on my shoulder, since it was under warranty, Sears would give me a brand new treadmill-free.
I was thrilled. I had wondered for years what Matt Lauer sounded like and now I'd know. I could shed the helmet. I'd be getting a new $900 treadmill, free. Within weeks I received a call from Lourdice, your employee in South Carolina. Like a fairy godmother, she told me to pick out the treadmill I wanted and she'd arrange the delivery. "But Lourdice, what about the pick up of the 15 year old treadmill? I don't have room for two treadmills." Lourdice assured me she'd take care of it.
On April 22, Atlantic Freight delivered my new Sole Fitness treadmill and left it in a box in the middle of my living room floor. The box was the size of my father's 1960 Chevy Impala. Michael, of American Direct, arrived to install it.He removed it from the box, moved my old Pro-form into the living room and moved my new Sole Fitness into the Pro-form's spot in the bedroom. The new Sole Fitness weighed 350 pounds, its footprint was 7 feet and its console, 5'3" high, bore a striking resemblance to the console that Scotty used to beam up the crew of the Enterprise. I couldn't wait to try it. Unfortunately, Michael could not get it to start. Michael disposed of the box and left. I called Lourdice. Lourdice said,"Don't worry. Sears will send it back to the manufacturer and we'll send you a brand new one." As of April 22, thanks to Sears, I had two treadmills.
Ed, you really are terrific. You must pay your employees alot more than I get paid. You see, I live in a NYC apartment. It isn't easy to fit one treadmill into a NYC apartment,let alone two. (It isn't easy to fit an extra hanger into a NYC apartment.) Lourdice must live in a very spacious house, because she was flummoxed by my repeated requests to have the two dead treadmills removed before a third was delivered. But, ever accommodating, she arranged to have Atlantic Freight pick up the defective Sole.
Atlantic Freight called me. Yippee, they were going to pick up the Sole Fitness and return it to the manufacturer. But it would have to be boxed, at the door, ready to go.
Boxed? I took a valium and left a message for Lourdice explaining the situation. Lourdice left me the following message: I don't understand why you don't have a box. Everyone knows when you return an item, it has to be in the box."
Until that moment, I was unaware of your generous hiring practices. But now it was clear that Lourdice either thought a treadmill was the size of a fruitcake or would return a rental car in a box.
I took an ativan and called her back. "Lourdice," I explained,"your installer disposed of the box. I HAVE NO BOX. And even if I had a box, there's no way in hell I could get a 350 pound machine into it. I'm 70 years old and I weigh 100 pounds." Okay, Ed, I admit I overstated my age and understated my weight, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
After deliberation, Lourdice called me back. "I'll take care of it,"she said.
The following day, Atlantic Freight called to arrange an appointment to deliver my new treadmill. No talk of pick up. "Sure, come tomorrow," I said. "What's one more treadmill?"
Ed, thanks to the generosity of Sears, I now have a trio of treadmills in my apartment. The new Sole, in pristine condition in its box, sits in the place that formerly housed my couch. I sit on it to watch "The Good Wife." The couch is in storage. The 15 year old Pro-form is propped up next to my dining room table requiring me to eat standing up. And the defective Sole is a 350 pound high tech sculpture in my bedroom. Like every body else's fitness equipment, it serves as a clothing hanger.
My morning activities have changed. I arise, take two blood pressure pills, one valium, one ativan and a prozac and spend 20 minutes talking to Lourdice,who is now the most stable relationship in my life. Like my relationship with the treadmill, it's not perfect. I ask her daily to remove two treadmills and install the third. She tells me daily that she's working on it. My guess is she hears me as clearly as I heard Ann Curry.
So, Ed, I can think of no better way of thanking you for how you changed my life than by paraphrasing our ex-president. ATTABOY, ED. Keep up the good work.
Very truly yours,
Carol R. Abramson
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Call Me "Triathlete"
Yesterday I did a triathlon. I had always dreamed about entering a contest that would measure my prowess against that of others who had, like me, been sacrificing their social lives for muscularity. In high school,while my classmates practiced putting on eyeliner, I toned my abs. While they fretted over boys, I focused on my stroke. While they mooned over Toy Donahue, I mooned over the prize-$1000. I was an amateur in a world of pros,small in a world of bigs, but with my robust abs, perfect eye hand coordination, and eye on the money, I had a fighting chance at winning Nathan's annual frankfurter eating contest. I had only to pace myself on the sauerkraut. Unfortunately, notwithstanding my training, I was bested by Schmuel Minkleman, the four time winner. By golly, Schmuely was fast. In five minutes, he downed sixteen franks to my thirteen. I was runner-up and won a year of Nathan's french fries. The loss was crushing, the psychological devastation only slightly offset by the seventy-two pounds of sublime french fries I devoured that year.
Thanks to Schmuely's rout, an event discussed at length with my therapist, until this year I avoided competitive sport. I had, of course, heard the word "triathlon." It had an alien sound that was, nevertheless, alluring. I looked it up. Three sports rolled into one contest-swimming, cycling and running. I could do that. Okay, not those three sports. Who chose those anyway? I would choose my own three physically challenging sports that I had been training at for years, hold a contest and leave those pussy swimmers, runners and all around mishegoyim in the dust.
The first activity is changing the closets from winter to summer. Twenty four winter coats must be moved from the front closet rack to the back rack while simultaneously moving the summer jackets from the back rack to the front. That over,catching your breath and using only a step stool, the mukluks, boots and shoes of the winter collection must be gathered and paired from under the bed and placed in boxes on the top shelf of the closet while the espadrilles, sandals and peek toes are taken down and placed paired under the bed.
The second activity involves going to Ikea in Brooklyn by public transportation. You must take the number 2 or 4 train and wait at Boro Hall for the Ikea bus. It comes weekly. When you arrive, you are given an item to locate. A 12 inch lipped shelf, for example. You may not leave the store until you locate it. If you are able to find the item in fewer than five circumnavigations of the premises, you will definitely win this portion of the contest, and stand a good chance of winning the event in its entirety. It is this event that culls the field.
The last event involves endurance and the ability to withstand pain. Wearing any shoes but sneakers, you go to the Metropolitan Museum and view five exhibits without sitting down or stopping at a bathroom. (The gift shop does not count as an exhibit.) You must remember one fact or art object from each of the exhibits.
My triathlon is the comsummate democratic event. It requires no expensive equipment(a step stool, unlike a bike, costs under $15 ) and no gym membership, but is nevertheless grueling. It is helpful to do carb loading the evening before--Nathan's french fries work well--and you will definitely require the day following as a sick day. But if you work at it, you, like me, can be a triathlete.
Thanks to Schmuely's rout, an event discussed at length with my therapist, until this year I avoided competitive sport. I had, of course, heard the word "triathlon." It had an alien sound that was, nevertheless, alluring. I looked it up. Three sports rolled into one contest-swimming, cycling and running. I could do that. Okay, not those three sports. Who chose those anyway? I would choose my own three physically challenging sports that I had been training at for years, hold a contest and leave those pussy swimmers, runners and all around mishegoyim in the dust.
The first activity is changing the closets from winter to summer. Twenty four winter coats must be moved from the front closet rack to the back rack while simultaneously moving the summer jackets from the back rack to the front. That over,catching your breath and using only a step stool, the mukluks, boots and shoes of the winter collection must be gathered and paired from under the bed and placed in boxes on the top shelf of the closet while the espadrilles, sandals and peek toes are taken down and placed paired under the bed.
The second activity involves going to Ikea in Brooklyn by public transportation. You must take the number 2 or 4 train and wait at Boro Hall for the Ikea bus. It comes weekly. When you arrive, you are given an item to locate. A 12 inch lipped shelf, for example. You may not leave the store until you locate it. If you are able to find the item in fewer than five circumnavigations of the premises, you will definitely win this portion of the contest, and stand a good chance of winning the event in its entirety. It is this event that culls the field.
The last event involves endurance and the ability to withstand pain. Wearing any shoes but sneakers, you go to the Metropolitan Museum and view five exhibits without sitting down or stopping at a bathroom. (The gift shop does not count as an exhibit.) You must remember one fact or art object from each of the exhibits.
My triathlon is the comsummate democratic event. It requires no expensive equipment(a step stool, unlike a bike, costs under $15 ) and no gym membership, but is nevertheless grueling. It is helpful to do carb loading the evening before--Nathan's french fries work well--and you will definitely require the day following as a sick day. But if you work at it, you, like me, can be a triathlete.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Olympics
The Olympics were grueling. Long nights holding my breath while Shaun White somersaulted out of the half pipe, Lindsay Vonn flew past the gates and Kim Yu-na perfectly executed her triple axel-double toe loop. Early mornings reading a recap of the previous night's events in the New York Times sports section, a section whose sole purpose prior to the Olympics was protecting the floor from wet boots. No preparation could have spared me the toll these two weeks took on my body.
Worse than the physical trials of the Olympics were the emotional demands. Eating my oatmeal, I sobbed, reading about Joannie Rochette, the Canadian skater whose mother died two days before the competition. Drinking my decaf, I broke out in hives worrying about what would happen to Kim Yu-na if she lost. Would she abandon skating and become a computer programmer? Would South Korea assassinate Mao Asada, Kim's Japanese rival, if Mao won? I couldn't sleep fretting about Rachel Flatt's advance placement tests.
For two weeks, mesmerized by the athletes' death defying maneuvers, I nevertheless had two major questions:(1) What sadistic lunatic thought up these tricks? Did someone say,"It's not dangerous enough to go down a 5000 foot mountain at 90 mph on two pieces of wood. Let's have them do flips in the air while they're at it, so they can really kill themselves." Or, did someone propose, " Snowboarding is boring. Let's make it interesting by having them do somersaults 50 feet in the air, so that if they land badly they'll be permanently crippled." Or did someone suggest," Ice skating is for pussies. Let's add impossible jumps, so 99 out of 100 performances will result in a fractured limb."
And (2)Were these athletes spawned by asexual reproduction? What mother would permit, let alone encourage, her offspring to engage in an activity that could easily put him in a wheelchair for life? (It wasn't because of discrimination that there were no Jewish competitors.)
Last week,as the Olympics drew to a close, I performed my version of an Olympic maneuver--the double toe loop-single klutz--when I tripped on the bow of the extra long laces of my hiking boots, executing a perfect landing on the 77th Street station platform of the Lexington local. It was an unplanned invention of a new Olympic event that mere mortals can excel at--the throw me for a loop.
Worse than the physical trials of the Olympics were the emotional demands. Eating my oatmeal, I sobbed, reading about Joannie Rochette, the Canadian skater whose mother died two days before the competition. Drinking my decaf, I broke out in hives worrying about what would happen to Kim Yu-na if she lost. Would she abandon skating and become a computer programmer? Would South Korea assassinate Mao Asada, Kim's Japanese rival, if Mao won? I couldn't sleep fretting about Rachel Flatt's advance placement tests.
For two weeks, mesmerized by the athletes' death defying maneuvers, I nevertheless had two major questions:(1) What sadistic lunatic thought up these tricks? Did someone say,"It's not dangerous enough to go down a 5000 foot mountain at 90 mph on two pieces of wood. Let's have them do flips in the air while they're at it, so they can really kill themselves." Or, did someone propose, " Snowboarding is boring. Let's make it interesting by having them do somersaults 50 feet in the air, so that if they land badly they'll be permanently crippled." Or did someone suggest," Ice skating is for pussies. Let's add impossible jumps, so 99 out of 100 performances will result in a fractured limb."
And (2)Were these athletes spawned by asexual reproduction? What mother would permit, let alone encourage, her offspring to engage in an activity that could easily put him in a wheelchair for life? (It wasn't because of discrimination that there were no Jewish competitors.)
Last week,as the Olympics drew to a close, I performed my version of an Olympic maneuver--the double toe loop-single klutz--when I tripped on the bow of the extra long laces of my hiking boots, executing a perfect landing on the 77th Street station platform of the Lexington local. It was an unplanned invention of a new Olympic event that mere mortals can excel at--the throw me for a loop.
Friday, February 19, 2010
What to do in an emergency
Yesterday morning at 8 a.m. I was unceremoniously roused from a deep slumber by pounding on the door and the incessant ringing of my doorbell. I had been dreaming I was on the beach in Aruba. I had just emerged from the water wearing a bathing suit that made me look like Sally Fields in her Gidget days. George Clooney, Robert Redford and Paul Newman, amazingly vibrant for a dead man, were all hitting on me.
Smiling, I lay in bed for a few minutes, confusing the doorbell with the chime on the cooler of the Brighton Beach good humor man. Unable to make sense of the pounding, I belatedly realized someone was at my door. I threw on a tee shirt and elastic waist pants, screamed, "Just a minute," and sprinted to the door.
The sprint was actually more of a lope and between my bed and the door, I had ample time to panic. Was there a fire? A gas leak? An umbrella illegally left in the hall? Upon opening the door, I knew it was worse than I had imagined. At my door, was a SWAT team consisting of Frank, the handyman, and two porters, Kashaf and Valentin. Under ordinary circumstances, nothing short of a twenty dollar bill could entice any one of them to appear at my door. And now three of them, without any cash inducement on my part, were staring at me stone-faced. I trembled, certain that the Board President, who coveted my apartment, had exercised her considerable clout and offered them a princely sum to rough me up.
Frank spoke. "You have a cat, right?"
"Yes," I responded, wondering what transgression my 17 year old indoor cat could have committed. Had he stolen my neighbor's tuna fish while I was at work?
"Is that him?" Frank asked, pointing down the hall to an orange cat, who was unperturbedly licking his balls..
"No, my cat is black," I said.
"Do you know whose he is, then?" Frank inquired.
"Not a clue." I don't even know who my neighbors are, let alone what their cats look like.
Stumped, they called the building CEO, John, the super.
When my kitchen cabinets fell down, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
When my toilet was overflowing and flooding my bedroom, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
For a misplaced cat,however, which would require no labor on his part, he was both in the building and in front of my door.
"No," said John,"I have no idea whose cat it is."
The SWAT team scratched their collective head and regarded me silently, but beseechingly. I knew they wanted me to take in the orange cat so they could proceed to their first coffee break of the day, but I was resolute. Providing even temporary shelter to this cat would cause my 17 year old feline to drop dead or worse, use the living room carpet as a litter box. The crisis resolved when a kind neighbor from another floor magically materialized and offered to take in the red cat until its owner could be found.
This incident brought to mind the Smothers Brothers. They had a routine in which Tommy sang, "I fell into a vat of chocolate. I fell into a vat of chocolate."
Dick asked, "What did you do when you fell into the chocolate."
"I hollered, FIRE!" Tommy said.
"Why did you holler, 'FIRE?'"
Who would come to my rescue if I hollered, "CHOCOLATE."
Now, in the event my cabinets collapse, my toilet overflows or there is an imminent explosion, I know how to get the building staff to respond immediately. I'll holler, "CAT!"
Smiling, I lay in bed for a few minutes, confusing the doorbell with the chime on the cooler of the Brighton Beach good humor man. Unable to make sense of the pounding, I belatedly realized someone was at my door. I threw on a tee shirt and elastic waist pants, screamed, "Just a minute," and sprinted to the door.
The sprint was actually more of a lope and between my bed and the door, I had ample time to panic. Was there a fire? A gas leak? An umbrella illegally left in the hall? Upon opening the door, I knew it was worse than I had imagined. At my door, was a SWAT team consisting of Frank, the handyman, and two porters, Kashaf and Valentin. Under ordinary circumstances, nothing short of a twenty dollar bill could entice any one of them to appear at my door. And now three of them, without any cash inducement on my part, were staring at me stone-faced. I trembled, certain that the Board President, who coveted my apartment, had exercised her considerable clout and offered them a princely sum to rough me up.
Frank spoke. "You have a cat, right?"
"Yes," I responded, wondering what transgression my 17 year old indoor cat could have committed. Had he stolen my neighbor's tuna fish while I was at work?
"Is that him?" Frank asked, pointing down the hall to an orange cat, who was unperturbedly licking his balls..
"No, my cat is black," I said.
"Do you know whose he is, then?" Frank inquired.
"Not a clue." I don't even know who my neighbors are, let alone what their cats look like.
Stumped, they called the building CEO, John, the super.
When my kitchen cabinets fell down, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
When my toilet was overflowing and flooding my bedroom, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
For a misplaced cat,however, which would require no labor on his part, he was both in the building and in front of my door.
"No," said John,"I have no idea whose cat it is."
The SWAT team scratched their collective head and regarded me silently, but beseechingly. I knew they wanted me to take in the orange cat so they could proceed to their first coffee break of the day, but I was resolute. Providing even temporary shelter to this cat would cause my 17 year old feline to drop dead or worse, use the living room carpet as a litter box. The crisis resolved when a kind neighbor from another floor magically materialized and offered to take in the red cat until its owner could be found.
This incident brought to mind the Smothers Brothers. They had a routine in which Tommy sang, "I fell into a vat of chocolate. I fell into a vat of chocolate."
Dick asked, "What did you do when you fell into the chocolate."
"I hollered, FIRE!" Tommy said.
"Why did you holler, 'FIRE?'"
Who would come to my rescue if I hollered, "CHOCOLATE."
Now, in the event my cabinets collapse, my toilet overflows or there is an imminent explosion, I know how to get the building staff to respond immediately. I'll holler, "CAT!"
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Life's Never Easy
In my less enlightened days, I thought my already terrific life would attain perfection if I had boyfriend. I had the luxury of many boyfriendless years to develop his qualifications. However, with the wisdom that comes from life experience and alcohol, I realized that my youthful requisites were were not bona fide job requirements. I had desired someone handsome. What for? I don't need arm candy. A notch above repulsive would be acceptable. I had insisted that he share my religion. Why? I eat spare ribs with gusto. Now, for the right guy, I would don a Burqua. While my intellectual discussions invariably involve clearance racks, I had mandated that he be well educated. Now, if his grunts are recognizable as affirmative or negative, he need not be a philosopher. Wealth was a sine qua non. Now I know that a portfolio of more than ten million simply leads to buying retail.
After carefully examining my values, I drew up a list of the characteristics needed for a boyfriend. He must love to schlep items on command, adore and be talented at repairing electronic and mechanical devices, be besotted by changing light bulbs and hanging pictures and, most of all, be ready, willing and able to drive me anywhere I want to go, even at night. Basically, a live in super who drives.
Two weeks ago, I heard a new word that would forever changed my hopes and dreams. "AVATAR." I initially thought "avatar" was the basis of guacamole. Now, I know it's a blue counterpart of myself who, at my direction, will do everything I can't. I no longer want a boyfriend who, while completing my life, will also take up closet space. I want an avatar, who I'll call Toby. Toby will effortlessly lift my bed with one hand, while vacuuming the 17 year accumulation of cat fur beneath it with the other. She will rid my computer of worms, connect the 6 year old dvd player still in its box and replace the light bulb in my foyer ceiling fixture that's been out for two years. She will drive me to the Hamptons, to the Catskills and finally to Elizabeth, New Jersey. There, she will tie the 400 pound unassembled knotty pine entertainment unit I've purchased at Ikea to the top of the car, drive it to Jane Street, bring it upstairs without complaining of an impending hernia and assemble it patiently for 13 hours, emitting no screams of frustration.
Just as there exists a gap between wanting a boyfriend and getting one, there exists a chasm between desiring an avatar and finding one. I suspect that creating an avatar requires performing a complex computer operation. I limit myself to googling. There may be an i-phone application that would help me, but I don't have an i-phone. Were there such an app, I would buy an i-phone, but I would need someone technologically proficient to show me how to use it. Obviously, I need an avatar to create my avatar. Until I solve this conundrum, I'll resort to bribing the super and dialing 777-7777. I would appreciate any suggestions you may have.
After carefully examining my values, I drew up a list of the characteristics needed for a boyfriend. He must love to schlep items on command, adore and be talented at repairing electronic and mechanical devices, be besotted by changing light bulbs and hanging pictures and, most of all, be ready, willing and able to drive me anywhere I want to go, even at night. Basically, a live in super who drives.
Two weeks ago, I heard a new word that would forever changed my hopes and dreams. "AVATAR." I initially thought "avatar" was the basis of guacamole. Now, I know it's a blue counterpart of myself who, at my direction, will do everything I can't. I no longer want a boyfriend who, while completing my life, will also take up closet space. I want an avatar, who I'll call Toby. Toby will effortlessly lift my bed with one hand, while vacuuming the 17 year accumulation of cat fur beneath it with the other. She will rid my computer of worms, connect the 6 year old dvd player still in its box and replace the light bulb in my foyer ceiling fixture that's been out for two years. She will drive me to the Hamptons, to the Catskills and finally to Elizabeth, New Jersey. There, she will tie the 400 pound unassembled knotty pine entertainment unit I've purchased at Ikea to the top of the car, drive it to Jane Street, bring it upstairs without complaining of an impending hernia and assemble it patiently for 13 hours, emitting no screams of frustration.
Just as there exists a gap between wanting a boyfriend and getting one, there exists a chasm between desiring an avatar and finding one. I suspect that creating an avatar requires performing a complex computer operation. I limit myself to googling. There may be an i-phone application that would help me, but I don't have an i-phone. Were there such an app, I would buy an i-phone, but I would need someone technologically proficient to show me how to use it. Obviously, I need an avatar to create my avatar. Until I solve this conundrum, I'll resort to bribing the super and dialing 777-7777. I would appreciate any suggestions you may have.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Less is More
I am not one of those whiners who goes to a restaurant, orders pasta, looks at a sixteen inch bowl overflowing with linguine marinara and whimpers," why do they give you so much?" I'm delighted that the restaurant understands that having paid $26 for ingredients that cost them $1.87, I appreciate quantity. On those rare occasions, when, having eaten half a buffalo for lunch, I can't finish my entree, I'm glad to take it home, refrigerate it and toss it in the garbage two months later. Only under threat of torture will I return to an establishment that charges me $30 for three scallops artfully drizzled with truffle oil and festooned with parsley. I go to a museum for art. I go to a restaurant for food. An ancillary benefit of eating out is charming company and scintillating conversation,but, in all honesty, I could have a better conversational experience at the 104 bus stop on Broadway and 43rd Street where there's less ambient noise than at most NYC restaurants. I remember only once being in the whiners' camp. Having just roughed it on a five day white water rafting trip on the Rogue River in Oregon, my friend, Jeanne, and I treated ourselves to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in Medford, Oregon. I ordered roast chicken. The waiter placed a gorgeous, fragrant eight pound emu before me. My eyes widened. In New York, where restaurant chickens could be mistaken for hummingbirds, the Oregon chicken would have fulfilled a culinary fantasy. Here, it was a nightmare. Even I could not eat more than five pounds of chicken at a sitting and, as I was staying in a motel without a refrigerator, I would have to leave over a good three pounds. It was a very upsetting dinner, the upset mitigated only by the fact that the entire chicken, with soup, salad and dessert cost $6.99. But Oregon is the exception that proves the rule, "less is less."
The rule for restaurants should not be confused with the rule that governs movies and plays. There, the rule is "less is more." No one except the film maker's mother wants to sit through a movie longer than 90 minutes and not even the playwright's grandmother wants to endure 3 hours and 20 minutes of brilliant theatre. "La Danse," a critically acclaimed documentary about the Paris Opera Ballet is a perfect example of a film made by a director who ignored the rule. At 90 minutes this work would have been a pleasant cultural experience. After two hours and 40 minutes, it was as appealing as an attack of kidney stones and infinitely more painful. "August Osage County," a Pulitzer prize winning play was, by the third hour, as enjoyable as receiving a tattoo on your nipple. You will note that the critics deemed both of the above, "brilliant," thereby confirming my theory that critics never actually sit through the productions they review. I'm not saying they don't attend performances. That would be fraud. No,they sit in the audience for 90 minutes, revel in the chef d'oeuvre, absorb the zeitgeist of the audience and depart to write the glowing review, unaware that after their departure, 3/4 of the audience will lapse into a defensive coma. Brilliance is simply impossible to sustain for more than 90 minutes. Isaac Newton was a genius, but how long did it take the apple to drop to the ground? Three seconds? And Albert Einstein? E=mc? How long could that have taken? An hour, max?
I am not naive. I know my rules will be ignored. I'd prefer my $14 glass of chardonnay to be filled to the top, but that won't happen. 4 ounces is the standard "pour," so I have to order two glasses and spend $28 for the equivalent of one normal glass whose cost to the restaurant was $1. I would like to go to a play or movie and walk out smiling, saying, "That was terrific. I enjoyed every minute of it." Instead, I will walk out, holding my head in hand, saying, "This movie evoked the three hours of agony immediately following the extraction of my wisdom teeth." But I'm optimistic that if you send this post to 10 of your closest friends and they send it to ten of their closest friends,ad infinitum, and nobody breaks the chain, we'll all have unbelievable luck, full wineglasses and short movies.
The rule for restaurants should not be confused with the rule that governs movies and plays. There, the rule is "less is more." No one except the film maker's mother wants to sit through a movie longer than 90 minutes and not even the playwright's grandmother wants to endure 3 hours and 20 minutes of brilliant theatre. "La Danse," a critically acclaimed documentary about the Paris Opera Ballet is a perfect example of a film made by a director who ignored the rule. At 90 minutes this work would have been a pleasant cultural experience. After two hours and 40 minutes, it was as appealing as an attack of kidney stones and infinitely more painful. "August Osage County," a Pulitzer prize winning play was, by the third hour, as enjoyable as receiving a tattoo on your nipple. You will note that the critics deemed both of the above, "brilliant," thereby confirming my theory that critics never actually sit through the productions they review. I'm not saying they don't attend performances. That would be fraud. No,they sit in the audience for 90 minutes, revel in the chef d'oeuvre, absorb the zeitgeist of the audience and depart to write the glowing review, unaware that after their departure, 3/4 of the audience will lapse into a defensive coma. Brilliance is simply impossible to sustain for more than 90 minutes. Isaac Newton was a genius, but how long did it take the apple to drop to the ground? Three seconds? And Albert Einstein? E=mc? How long could that have taken? An hour, max?
I am not naive. I know my rules will be ignored. I'd prefer my $14 glass of chardonnay to be filled to the top, but that won't happen. 4 ounces is the standard "pour," so I have to order two glasses and spend $28 for the equivalent of one normal glass whose cost to the restaurant was $1. I would like to go to a play or movie and walk out smiling, saying, "That was terrific. I enjoyed every minute of it." Instead, I will walk out, holding my head in hand, saying, "This movie evoked the three hours of agony immediately following the extraction of my wisdom teeth." But I'm optimistic that if you send this post to 10 of your closest friends and they send it to ten of their closest friends,ad infinitum, and nobody breaks the chain, we'll all have unbelievable luck, full wineglasses and short movies.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The New Leather
January 1, many people vow to improve themselves in the coming year. These resolutions are virtually never kept, but are extremely important to the financial well being of health clubs. Having joined a health club on January 1, 2001 in order to strengthen my abdominals, I attended one Pilates class, pulled a trapezius muscle while planking and never returned. That class cost me $860, not counting the co-pays on my subsequent physical therapy. Accordingly, I no longer make new years resolutions.
However, January 1 marks a new beginning. These first weeks of January, I decided to devote myself to considering the kind of person I am. I hate to think of myself as superficial, materialistic and acquisitive. I prefer to believe I am deep , contemplative and could be happy living in a yurt. I performed my self analysis exclusively in Lord and Taylor,Filene's Basement and Fabulous Footwear, three venues most conducive to introspection.
In the Lord and Taylor shoe department, I asked the salesman, Trevor, for a pair of Steve Madden black boots in size 6. He input my request into his handheld computer and disappeared. While he was gone, I congratulated myself on my choice. It demonstrated a clear victory of the contemplative over the materialistic. Steve Madden-contemplative. Donna Karan-materialistic. After ten minutes he returned with light brown boots in size 8. "Trevor," I said placidly, raising my voice only slightly, " These are not black boots in size 6." Trevor agreed reluctantly, but asked if I might not like to try them on anyway. "They run small." I declined and he retreated to the stock room returning some time later with black boots in size 9. I screamed profuse thanks for his trouble,wished him a nice day and departed the store, basking in my self denial. If I had harbored any doubts of my unacquisitive nature, they had been laid to rest.
While I could lead a rich life without the Steve Madden black knee-high boots, even Karl Marx would concede that brown leather ankle boots are de rigeur. Fabulous Footwear's ear-splitting techno music would be conducive to reflection and as I had previously purchased my black leather Sporto ankle boots there eight years before, it was a perfect destination.
I went up and down the aisles. There were plastic high boots, plastic ankle boots, fake suede high boots, fake suede low boots. Although there was no exculpatory sign, it was apparent that no animals had died in the making of these boots. I asked a salesperson if they carried leather Sporto ankle boots. "Leather?" she said as if I had asked if the Pope was Catholic. "We don't carry leather. Plastic is the new leather."
Although disappointed that my entire shoe wardrobe was at worst "passe" and at best "retro," I was secretly pleased that I had left two stores without a purchase. I was practically Amish.
Today, in my continued quest for self awareness and boots, I went to Filene's Basement. I found black knee high Anne Klein boots in size 6 on sale for forty percent off. I brought them to the check out line, stopping briefly to paw through two seventy-five percent off racks on the way. While standing on the line, my head aching from my laborious self examination, I brought my ruminations to a self satisfied close. I concluded I am not a vapid, greedy materialist. I am a profound intellectual with boots appropriate for any yurt.
However, January 1 marks a new beginning. These first weeks of January, I decided to devote myself to considering the kind of person I am. I hate to think of myself as superficial, materialistic and acquisitive. I prefer to believe I am deep , contemplative and could be happy living in a yurt. I performed my self analysis exclusively in Lord and Taylor,Filene's Basement and Fabulous Footwear, three venues most conducive to introspection.
In the Lord and Taylor shoe department, I asked the salesman, Trevor, for a pair of Steve Madden black boots in size 6. He input my request into his handheld computer and disappeared. While he was gone, I congratulated myself on my choice. It demonstrated a clear victory of the contemplative over the materialistic. Steve Madden-contemplative. Donna Karan-materialistic. After ten minutes he returned with light brown boots in size 8. "Trevor," I said placidly, raising my voice only slightly, " These are not black boots in size 6." Trevor agreed reluctantly, but asked if I might not like to try them on anyway. "They run small." I declined and he retreated to the stock room returning some time later with black boots in size 9. I screamed profuse thanks for his trouble,wished him a nice day and departed the store, basking in my self denial. If I had harbored any doubts of my unacquisitive nature, they had been laid to rest.
While I could lead a rich life without the Steve Madden black knee-high boots, even Karl Marx would concede that brown leather ankle boots are de rigeur. Fabulous Footwear's ear-splitting techno music would be conducive to reflection and as I had previously purchased my black leather Sporto ankle boots there eight years before, it was a perfect destination.
I went up and down the aisles. There were plastic high boots, plastic ankle boots, fake suede high boots, fake suede low boots. Although there was no exculpatory sign, it was apparent that no animals had died in the making of these boots. I asked a salesperson if they carried leather Sporto ankle boots. "Leather?" she said as if I had asked if the Pope was Catholic. "We don't carry leather. Plastic is the new leather."
Although disappointed that my entire shoe wardrobe was at worst "passe" and at best "retro," I was secretly pleased that I had left two stores without a purchase. I was practically Amish.
Today, in my continued quest for self awareness and boots, I went to Filene's Basement. I found black knee high Anne Klein boots in size 6 on sale for forty percent off. I brought them to the check out line, stopping briefly to paw through two seventy-five percent off racks on the way. While standing on the line, my head aching from my laborious self examination, I brought my ruminations to a self satisfied close. I concluded I am not a vapid, greedy materialist. I am a profound intellectual with boots appropriate for any yurt.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Miracle of Flight
I know people who are terrified of flying. They spend seven days puking over the railing of the Queen Mary to see Big Ben. "The buffets were phenomenal," they rave. They drive 30 hours straight on Highway 1 to Miami to escape the cold. They pee into a cup, eat at drive- thrus for fear someone will steal the luggage and sleep sitting up because hotels are pricey. Having seen nothing but billboards advertising the University of Phoenix, they advise you, "That's the way to really see the country." They fork over their life savings to ride the rails to San Francisco. After sleeping in the top bunk of a cubicle with a toilet in the center and watching corn grow for four days,they lie through their teeth, "It was so interesting."
I was never scared of flying, but I never particularly liked the experience either. I always disliked being forced to sit for six hours next to someone with ebola. I hated not being able to open a window. And I particularly detested being prevented from peeing at will by the seat belt sign, the comatose passenger in the aisle seat and the food trolleys. However, I love to travel and the quickest way of getting to my destination was by plane.
Now,I'm reconsidering my travel options. Before I go on a plane trip, I have nightmares for a week. They're never about the plane crashing or a terrorist attack. That would be crazy. Instead, I wake up in a sweat, terrified that I won't have enough room in my one quart clear plastic resealable bag for all my 3 ounce liquid containers. Should I take my special hypoallergenic shampoo or should I use the hotel shampoo and risk terminal eczema. Is toothpaste a liquid that has to go in the baggie or can I pack it with my toothbrush and tweezer? Is contact lens solution for medical use and, if so, can I take more than three ounces? What if the TSA makes me open the bag and I can't reseal it? Will they confiscate my $50 Laura Mercier makeup? If I'm luck enough to fall back to sleep, I'm startled awake by the terrifying thought that I booked the flight for 8 p.m. rather than 8 a.m. I'd made that mistake before, missed my flight, felt like a moron and had to pay an additional $250 for a flight which originally cost $125.
The night before my flight, I'm frantic. My flight's at 8 a.m. If I am supposed to be there two hours prior to take off, I have to get there at 6 a.m. That means I have to get a taxi at 5 a.m. If I want to economize and take Supershuttle, I have to leave at 3 a.m. Does it pay to go to bed? Maybe I should just repack my baggie.
I spring for a taxi and worry all the way to the airport that they'll make me check my bag. Since American Airlines lost my friend E..'s luggage when she was on her way to a Caribbean cruise and she had to wear her underwear as a bathing suit in San Juan, I never check my luggage. I have a problem even if they don't make me check my luggage. My carry on weighs 35 pounds and, despite my numerous aerobics classes, I am incapable of hoisting it into the overhead bin. I've been lucky in the past. I stand in the aisle, look at my bag, look up at the bin and look at the bag again. I do this until someone offers to place it in the bin for me. I learned this technique from my cat. When he wants me to open the closet door, he stares at it, looks at me, stares back at the door and magically, the door opens.
Once on board, baggage stowed by someone else, I finally relax. I have fewer complaints than I did in the past. The flight attendants used to be solicitous and gorgeous, making me feel like a nasty, mutant Tasmanian devil. Now the airlines have recruited nasty, mutant Tasmanian devils as flight attendants. I no longer feel inferior. The food used to be gelatinous, tasteless and fattening. Now it's non-existent. I can stick to my diet. If there's any food to be had, it's because I brought it myself. I can't complain about my own p,b and j sandwich.(Although once the bread was stale.) And now that there's no food service, I don't have to worry about the food trolleys in the aisle. I can pee at will.
So, I probably will continue to fly. But if the airlines implement a no pee zone for the last hour of a flight, I am so taking driving lessons.
Happy New Year to all.
I was never scared of flying, but I never particularly liked the experience either. I always disliked being forced to sit for six hours next to someone with ebola. I hated not being able to open a window. And I particularly detested being prevented from peeing at will by the seat belt sign, the comatose passenger in the aisle seat and the food trolleys. However, I love to travel and the quickest way of getting to my destination was by plane.
Now,I'm reconsidering my travel options. Before I go on a plane trip, I have nightmares for a week. They're never about the plane crashing or a terrorist attack. That would be crazy. Instead, I wake up in a sweat, terrified that I won't have enough room in my one quart clear plastic resealable bag for all my 3 ounce liquid containers. Should I take my special hypoallergenic shampoo or should I use the hotel shampoo and risk terminal eczema. Is toothpaste a liquid that has to go in the baggie or can I pack it with my toothbrush and tweezer? Is contact lens solution for medical use and, if so, can I take more than three ounces? What if the TSA makes me open the bag and I can't reseal it? Will they confiscate my $50 Laura Mercier makeup? If I'm luck enough to fall back to sleep, I'm startled awake by the terrifying thought that I booked the flight for 8 p.m. rather than 8 a.m. I'd made that mistake before, missed my flight, felt like a moron and had to pay an additional $250 for a flight which originally cost $125.
The night before my flight, I'm frantic. My flight's at 8 a.m. If I am supposed to be there two hours prior to take off, I have to get there at 6 a.m. That means I have to get a taxi at 5 a.m. If I want to economize and take Supershuttle, I have to leave at 3 a.m. Does it pay to go to bed? Maybe I should just repack my baggie.
I spring for a taxi and worry all the way to the airport that they'll make me check my bag. Since American Airlines lost my friend E..'s luggage when she was on her way to a Caribbean cruise and she had to wear her underwear as a bathing suit in San Juan, I never check my luggage. I have a problem even if they don't make me check my luggage. My carry on weighs 35 pounds and, despite my numerous aerobics classes, I am incapable of hoisting it into the overhead bin. I've been lucky in the past. I stand in the aisle, look at my bag, look up at the bin and look at the bag again. I do this until someone offers to place it in the bin for me. I learned this technique from my cat. When he wants me to open the closet door, he stares at it, looks at me, stares back at the door and magically, the door opens.
Once on board, baggage stowed by someone else, I finally relax. I have fewer complaints than I did in the past. The flight attendants used to be solicitous and gorgeous, making me feel like a nasty, mutant Tasmanian devil. Now the airlines have recruited nasty, mutant Tasmanian devils as flight attendants. I no longer feel inferior. The food used to be gelatinous, tasteless and fattening. Now it's non-existent. I can stick to my diet. If there's any food to be had, it's because I brought it myself. I can't complain about my own p,b and j sandwich.(Although once the bread was stale.) And now that there's no food service, I don't have to worry about the food trolleys in the aisle. I can pee at will.
So, I probably will continue to fly. But if the airlines implement a no pee zone for the last hour of a flight, I am so taking driving lessons.
Happy New Year to all.
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