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!"
Friday, February 19, 2010
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.
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