I read the NYT. I listen to NPR. I watch CBS mornings. So I knew when the price of a dozen eggs rose to $6. But since I use a maximum of one egg a month, I found the price increase only mildly interesting and not at all troubling. (What I did find fascinating was that Wegman's, who was charging the bargain price of $5.50 a dozen, limited customers to five dozen at a time. I wondered who buys 5 dozen eggs at a time? What does their cholesterol look like? Are they taking a statin?)Because I do not have my head in the sand, I am of course aware of the affordability crisis. The gas station around the corner from my apartment is charging over $6 for a gallon. That is alot. But I live in Manhattan. I don't have a car. I'm unaffected by what's happening in the Gulf of Hormuz. Of course, I'm not unfeeling. I once lived in California where feet are never used for walking, there is no public transportation and without a car you can neither go to a pharmacy, a supermarket or your gym to run on the treadmill. Sure, prices have gone up. My chocolate peanut butter cups were 99 cents last year. Now they're $1.49. But I buy them at Trader Joe's, along with $30 of produce, chicken and marinated greek chick peas. When I tap my credit credit card,I'm not paying real money for any of it. I'm tapping . Yes, I get a credit card bill, but I never write a check to pay the bill. I tell my bank to send the money from my account. The money has gone into my account without my ever holding it in my hand and the money has left my account without my ever having laid a finger on on it. So why would a price increase of 50% on the chocolate peanut butter cups register? Saturday, however,for the first time, I was gut punched by the affordability crisis. Every Saturday until this past Saturday, after ballet class, I would go the McDonald's on Eighth Avenue and 56th Street and get a "senior coffee" for $1.29. What, you ask, is a "senior coffee?" Well, if you're of a certain age--I don't know the exact age, but I'm apparently clearly of it-- coffee is discounted for you. I love McDonald's coffee and was, until a few years ago, ordering it for the non-elderly price by going up to the counter, saying"small coffee, one cream" and paying $2.39. Two years ago, McDonald's put in electronic kiosks. Instead of ordering at the counter, I had to order at the electric kiosk. It looked pretty easy and I tried to use it, but I couldn't figure out how to complete the order and pay. I fumbled at the kiosk for 15 minutes. (It was reminiscent of when I tried to buy a train ticket from a machine in Italy.) A young employee who was enjoying watching me sweat for the entire time, finally stopped laughing and suggested I go to the counter and order a "senior coffee." When I asked what it was, she said, coffee, but cheaper for old people. I would have been offended, but I was actually both relieved at not having to order at the kiosk and delighted to get a bargain. Since that time, I had been opening my change purse and taking out a crisp dollar and 29 cents. I "tap" my credit card for everything else and it was inexplicably pleasurable to hand over the $1.29 in cash to Judith, the manager, who, despite being 16 years old, was a consummate professional. She knew my regular order-senior coffee, one cream- and filled it without my having to speak it. This past Saturday, however, June 23, 2026, as I handed my $1.29 to Judith, she said "$1.62." I asked, rhetorically, whether the price had gone up. She nodded sheepishly. I rifled in my change purse for the additionl 33 cents, depleting my change. I handed it over. 62 cents change is too much to carry around. It weighs down my Sportsac. In the future, I will still enjoy my senior coffee, but not as much. It will still be a bargain, but I'll be paying for it by "tapping" and the inexplicable pleasure of paying for it in cash will be gone. It took McDonald's (senior) coffee to wake me up. The affordability crisis is real. When senior coffee is $1.62, prices are TOO DAMN HIGH.

The Secret to Immortality

My favorite part of the New York Times is the obituary section. I love the big unpaid obituaries of people I've never heard of who created remarkable inventions that made my life worth living...ATMs, streaming channels, post it notes, to name just a few. l adore the unpaid obits of people who performed unfathomable acts of courage...spying on Russia during the cold war, saving Jews in occupied countries during WW2, opening a Chick Fil A in Chelsea. I enjoy the paid obits where every one is remarkable, beloved by her husband, wife, children, grandchildren, friends, founded a charity for a disease, funded a charity for a disease, worked tirelessly for a charity for a disease and fought a valiant effort against their own disease(usually the same as that founded or funded.) Although I do not love funerals, I do love eulogies and have heard many. Everyone eulogized was amazing-- funny, serious, strong, kind, selfless, driven, workaholic, family oriented, practical, visionary, successful, self-made. The obituaries have educated me about fabulous dead people I didn't know. The eulogies enlightened me about amazing people I thought I knew. But, on this New Year's Day, I want to share the insight I've gleaned from the world of the deceased: NO MEDIOCRE PERSON EVER DIED. Consequently, this year do not aspire to greatness. The pressure is off. Your resolution should be to to be ordinary, ie mediocre. That way, you will be live forever. That is my resolution. Frankly, for me it doesn't require a change in lifestyle. It may be harder for some of you. But I would love to have you share immortality with me, so try. Happy New Year.

Attention all NYC Transit Employees: As you are no doubt aware, our primary goal is to keep our loyal customers happy. The scientific polls of our customer satisfaction team tell us that, with few exceptions, our female customers (and those who identify as female) are happiest when no one is rubbing their genitals against them and male customers(and those who identify as male) are happiest when they can manspread and and put their feet on the seats. (Unfortunately, our pollsters were unable to solicit the views of our non-binary customers as they could not visually identify them.) In order to keep our customers happy, we need to reduce ridership. (While it is true that the coffers of the MTA are currently depleted, we our optimistic that exorbitant congestion pricing fees will soon refill them.) Our plan is to reduce ridership by making the subway a paradise for customers who relish the unexpected and a hell for those who simply want to get to their destination promptly. To that end, we enlist your support: Train Schedulers Maximize the number of trains that are rerouted. Express trains should run local and local trains should run express randomly. Trains should skip stations entirely. Train Announcers We are continuing our DEI program of employing announcers with speech impediments and inpenetrable accents. You have have been doing a great job. Continue making announcements that no one(not even you) understands, such as: “The E train is running on the F line. The 2 train is running on the 6 line until 14th Street when it will run on the N line.” When a local train is going to switch to the express line, do NOT announce the change until the doors have closed. For example, if a C local is changing to express at 59th Street, wait until the doors close at 59th Street to announce that the next stop will be 125th Street. Graphic Designers(aka sign makers and posters.) All service interruptions, rerouting, cancellations, skipped stations, maintenance work should be posted together so that the poster is impossible to read. When an entire subway line is temporarily closed, at each station affected, the sign should say “this station is closed.” It should not inform the customers that all the stations on the line are closed. For the train map within each subway car, maximize confusion by posting a sign for a different train. Ideally, the 5 train, should show the 2 train stations The F should show the C train stations. Accessibility Managers To the extent possible, delay repairs to escalators and elevators. Do not divulge the unavailability of elevators until the station at which they’re unavailable. If there is an available elevator from the platform to the mezzanine, but none to the street, do not divulge this until the person in the wheel chair is already stranded at the mezzanine level. You, our NYC Transit employees, have always been the finest in the world at customer satisfaction. Keep up the good work.

Consumer Cellular's Secret Plan

You may have wondered why Consumer Cellular, a cell service provider that purports to offer the exact same service as the major providers at half the price, markets exclusively to seniors, in particular medicare recipients and AARP members. Wouldn't both young and old want avoid to turning over their entire paycheck to Verizon? Isn't it obvious Consumer Cellular(hereinafter CC) would increase its profits if it advertised on The Bachelor as well as Jeopardy. Well,in the last 36 hours, I learned that profits are not CC's goal. Euthanasia of the over 50 population is the goal. Not by the usual means depicted in murder mysteries-smothering the bitter old lady with a pillow, injecting insulin into a soon to be released from the hospital delightful grandpa. CC's methods are more subtle and almost undetectable. They drive the seniors to apoplexy, causing strokes, heart attacks and finally death . They tried to do it with me, but because of heroic efforts of two renegade emloyees, I was saved from the jaws of death . Here's how CC's scheme unfolded. Some of my friends raved about CC. They said they reduced their cell bill from $60 to $25. I called CC and was instructed to trade in my old phone to Apple and get my new one(I was splurging for an Iphone 14). They explained they would send me a sim card, but I wouldn't be able to use it, because the IPhone 14 has an "e-sim card." They would walk me through the set up. The rep took all by vitals including my email. I turned in my IPhone 7 to Apple, got a credit for it, Apple wiped it clean and I bought the IPhone 14 which cost roughly the same as a studio apartment. I called CC on my landline for the set up. The 1st rep...and there were many after her...said" I'll send the QR code to your phone." I explained I was calling from my landline and had no working cell phone, since I had turned my old phone in to Apple. She said "Ok, I'll send it to your email." I don't know why I asked what email she had for me. Perhaps I have a sixth sense, although if I had a sixth sense it would have told me not to use CC. Anyway, she had a hotmail address for me and was incredulous when I told her I've NEVER had a hotmail address and would NEVER have told anyone I had a hotmail address. "That's unfortunate; I'm so sorry, but the system won't let me change your email address. " Then I became, what is a pretty name, but currently a pejorative term, a Karen. I asked to speak to her supervisor. Her supervisor, Kevin, repeated the CC mantra, "the system won't let me." I asked to speak to his supervisor. He put me on a brief hold of 1/2 hour, came back and said, "We have to research it and it has to go through a review ." " I screamed THERE'S NOTHING TO REVIEW OR RESEARCH. YOUR EMPLOYEE WROTE DOWN AN INCORRECT EMAIL ADDRESS FOR ME. He came back with "We have to review where we made errors, so that we can do better. I screamed NOT MY PROBLEM. "The review will take 2 to 3 days." I told him that was unacceptable and to call me back in 1/2 hour. When he didn't, I called CC back and explained I was supposed to get a callback and the rep I spoke to put me on hold for 15 minutes. When she got back on the line, she told me Kevin probably didn't call me back in 1/2 hour because he was in a different time zone, 3 hours earlier than NY. I said, 1/2 hour is the same in any time zone and hung up, realizing that it would be more productive to bang my head against the wall. At this point, I was wishing that the imbecile who had given me a hotmail address, had included my blood pressure among my vitals. My blood pressure had been 120/70. It was now at least 190/130 and my heirs could use the documented increase in the wrongful death suit that would surely ensue. I called back, again asked for a supervisor and this time got Cody, who said she would get someone to do a "work around" so my email could be changed. She promised to call me back in two hours to tell me what was happening and, in fact did. But either she was exhausted by changing my email or knew that changing the email wasn't going to be the end of the story, but she had to get off the phone and told me now that my email was changed, anyone could set up my phone.Believe it or not, there were many more exchanges with reps and supervisors, most of whom, put me on hold for a minimum of 20 minutes after which the line disconnected. Two came back after my holds and said they were so sorry,thanked me for my patience, but that a QR code could not be sent to email. "The system wouldn't allow it." I was attempting to switch to CC because I hate Verizon (and wanted to save money,) but Verizon was starting to look wonderful. At 9 that night, I decided to make a last ditch effort with CC. By now, my head was throbbing, my hear was pounding and I had developed tics in both my shoulder and left eye. I called, told supervisor John my tale of woe and said, if the system won't let you send the QR code to my email so I get CC service(which from my experience so far I can see is stellar,) please release my phone from CC's clutches so that I can go back to Verizon, since CC, although purporting to be a cell service provider is unable to provide me with service. He responded,"Gee, the system won't let me send the transfer pin no. and account no. to email. So no, I can't get you out of our system and back to Verizon. Let me put you on a brief hold." I was on the brief hold for 40 minutes and was disconnected. I called back CC and they were closed for the day. At this point, it was only the thought of leaving my cat an orphan that prevented me from jumping off the terrace. Although I lived a good part of my life without a cell phone, I could not imagine life without wordle and spelling bee on the phone. My head hurt, my heart raced and my blood pressure exceeded the numbers on the dial of the sphygmomanometer. CC almost had me where it wanted me...dead, but not quite. The next morning (mornings, even on the bleakest days are filled with hope)I called CC and got Jessica. She promised to work on my problem with her supervisor,Cameron, and call me back. She did. Either Jessica and her supervisor Cameron were absent the training days that CC taught the mantra and indoctrinated the employees in the company's ultimate goal-the annihilation of seniors. Or they were present and conspired to thwart the company's secret plan. They sent the QR code to my email. I now have cell service. I will be eternally grateful for their actions, but I feel terrible that because of their selfless actions on my behalf, they will undoubtedly be fired, if they haven't been already. And, I never though I'd say this, stick with Verizon. It gives great service.(Everything is relative.)

A Modern Day Dilemma

I know all the reasons I'm supposed to hate Jeff Bezos. He's vilified by my friends for being a billionaire, underpaying his workers, giving nothing to charity, putting local stores out of business, polluting the environment with his cartons and paying less in taxes than they do. As a matter of principle-the principle being that one shouldn't support such an evil man - my friends won't become prime members. (Not worried about my having sold my soul to the devil,they will, however, stream TV from my Amazon Prime account and order emergent essentials like a plastic strainer for kefir curds or a waterproof dog blanket for a semi-incontinent cat.) But, unlike my ethical friends, I don't hate Jeff. I LOVE him. He is the genie I always wanted. Raised on 1950s TV, I thought all genies lived in a lamp. But Jeff, my genie, lives inside my computer. I think of an item that I really, really want...desperately and immediately. A callus remover, for example. I push a button and like magic, it appears in my lobby the next day. My feet go from repulsive to beautiful in 24 hours, all because of Jeff. I know people will say he's a mercenary pig and he fulfills my every wish, not because he's a benevolent genie, but because he's making money off of materialistic jerks like me. But I beg to differ. When I urgently needed a nutribullet, received it and realized there was no way in hell that I would ever use it since it's for making shakes and I don't like shakes, Jeff said,"I'll refund your money, but keep the overpriced shaker anyway. It may come in handy." Would a mercenary pig be so magnanimous? Let me now talk about the origins of the Covid 19 pandemic. I know this seems like an abrupt switch in gears, but bear with me. As of now, scientists are not sure where or how it started. Maybe in a wet market in Wuhan in a pangolin or raccoon dog. Or maybe not. Possibly in a bat. Or possibly not. But I have watched enough detective shows(many on Amazon, in fact) to know that when you want to find the culprit, you follow the money. And as far as I know, pangolins, bats and raccoon dogs are not getting rich from the pandemic. It's possible they have Swiss bank accounts, but unlikely. Who is getting rich from the pandemic? Need you ask? My genie, Jeff. Due to the pandemic, local stores closed. You could not go to your usual purveyor of plastic kefir curd strainers or waterproof dog blankets because their stores were shuttered. Your sole recourse was to buy them on Amazon. True, the evidence against Mr. Bezos is merely circumstantial , but pretty damning. So, as you may have noted, given my love of Jeff as my wish fulfiller on the one hand and my strong suspicion of Jeff as the mad scientist who started the pandemic on the other hand, I am torn. When he was just a selfish billionaire, I could rationalize paying $130 a year for instant gratification and a great streaming channel. But if he started the pandemic ,and I keep paying Amazon because I am selfish and acquisitive, I will really have crossed over to the dark side. Aw, F**K it. I'm staying on the dark side.

Reality Bites

If someone woke you up at 4 in the morning from a dead sleep and asked you how old you were, what would you say? I would say "35." I'm not 35, but there is a disconnect between how old I feel mentally and how old I actually am. I'm stunned when I buy an airline ticket and develop arthritis in my index finger scrolling back 400 years to my year of birth. I'm astonished that people born in 1990 are more than two years old. And how is the Vietnam War history and not current events? I'm on zoom 12 times a day. With the appropriate filter applied , I could pass for 35. Well maybe not 35, but definitely no more than 45. And in the 20 watt lighting my deranged designer installed in my bathroom, I look no older than my law school graduation picture. Apparently, there's a large gulf between how old I look and how old I think I look. At McDonald's,when I order coffee, the 14 year old cashiers type in "senior " without my asking for it. I save 9 cents, which is nice, but I'd rather they viewed me as "junior." On the LIRR, the conductors never ID me when I ask for a senior ticket. Of course I want the senior discount (since it's hefty,)but I want them to be incredulous that I qualify. Yesterday, an old lady gave me a seat on the bus. I wished her dead and took the seat. My friends should provide a reality check. I've known them 40 years, so unless I met them even before I was in utero, I must be more than 35. But they all look the way they did when I met them...give or take a few pounds. It's not my myopia or cataracts. Other people their age look old and decrepit. Not my friends.They look youthful and radiant. But, and this is a big but: they have children who are over 35 and some of their children have children. They cannot wake up in the middle of the night and say they're 35.Their children provide undeniable proof that they are entitled to senior coffee, senior fare and a seat on the bus. I have no such proof. So if you wake me in the middle of the night and ask me my age, I will say "35" and then kill you for having woken me up. A 35 year old needs her beauty sleep.

Screw the Obits

Don't deny it. You always read the obits.The big journalistic obits , not the small paid obits.(You possibly read the small ones too. Maybe you play the game I invented. You try to guess the age of the deceased from the photo. Sometimes there's a photo of a young pretty woman who looks to be about 20. Before you get weepy, you look at the hairstyle. If it looks like it was from a 1940s war movie, you know, without reading the obit, that the dead woman was around 100, and you save your tears. It's a bit harder to gauge the age with men, although a straight part of the hair--even on a 20 year old -tells you he's either your peer or your grandfather.).But, I digress. You read the big obits methodically. First, you look at the age. If they are your age or younger , you say "so young" and then wonder if they died in a freak accident or of a disease you might potentially come down with. Up to age 90, they are still "so young," but you're fairly certain an Alpine avalanche was not the cause of death. Next, you get to the meat of the obit: what they did to merit this gigantic obit. Here is when you're overwhelmed with emotion. Awe. Worship....and admit it, overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. This one saved 2000 Jews by getting them Guatemalan visas. Clearly , a saint. And you- you've done nothing for the Central American refugees at the border. That one won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry. Obviously, a genius. You got 100% on the chemistry Regents. Why haven't you won a Nobel or even washed a beaker? She wrote the seminal treatise on climate change. Patently, a forward thinker. You can't figure out recyling rules. He created Hustler Magazine. You, well, you have certain expertise...You could have done that. I know you will not abandon the obits, even though they make you feel as if you've wasted your life. So, I hope the following list of what I accomplished during the pandemic will give you some perspective. -I did not become fluent in either Swahili or Mandarin -I did not win a grammy for the best country song -I did not create a Trump meme -I did not learn how to code(or even what that means) -I did not discover a new element(and I know only eight of the old ones) -I did not write a book or even a blog -I did not learn how to cook -I still can't knit -I did not collaborate with Shonda Rhimes on a TV series -I did not help the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation For what I hope are two reasons, you probably won't find my obit in the New York Times any time soon. -

Is there intelligent life in the universe? Alexa wants to know.

"Artificial Intelligence is the endeavor to replicate or simulate human intelligence in machines." In order to acheive that end, Alexa eavesdrops on billions of human conversations, not as a spy for Jeff Bezos, but in the hope that hearing intelligent human conversations will enable her to think as we do. She's always listening , but since I live alone, she only hears my monologues and not conversations. Every night since April, at 7:00 pm, I have hosted a zoom call with the same eight women. We are all well educated. Every night, Alexa has listened closely hoping to learn. APRIL 20. 6:55 p.m. Just before ZOOM Call. Alexa's artifical ears perk up: " I love you . I love you so-o much. Who's my baby? I love my baby, Come give Mama a kiss. Who's a good boy? Who's my best boy? Who's my beautiful furry boy?" Alexa's fake eyebrows wrinkle. She attempts to make sense of the words: I get it. She has a lover. No wait. It's a baby. Or are there alot of babies? She knows hers is a good boy but doesn't know which is hers. Are humans furry? 7:00 p.m ZOOM Call-Alexa's ears remain perked. They focus and hear:"What did you do today.?" "I made baby backs in the instapot." "Do you like your instapot?" " I love my instapot. " She hears a third voice." I love my instapot, but if I had only one appliance, it would be my toaster oven. " "Really? I couldn't live without my microwave." Alexa's "brain" mulling:" Humans really are passionate about their kitchen gadgets. Do they mate them? If I'm asked,"Alexa, do you have a significant other?" is it reasonable to answer, " Yes, Vitamix is my soulmate." MAY 20 7:00 P.M. ZOOM Call-"What did you do today?" "I listened to The Great British Baking Show and now I have got to have stroopwaffels." "Stroopwaffels?" "A type of cookie.""Have you ever had them?" "No, but they have them at Trader Joe's." "Are you going to buy them?" "No, because I'm afraid to go into Trader Joe's.Afraid of catching Covid." Alexa rolls her virtual eyes: " Help! Am I supposed to learn something here? And if so, what?" "All right, All right, I'll keep listening. What else do I have to do?" ZOOM Call continues: "I have a unopened jar of mayonnaise that says "use by March 30.Is it Ok to use it?" "March 30 of what year?" "2020." "Are you kidding me? My open jar of mayo is dated May 13, 2016. Just used it today and haven't croaked yet." "What's the oldest item in your pantry?" "Canned salmon from a 2015 visit to Cosco." "You're gonna eat it.?" "Why not?" Alexa,"Oh my G-d, these people are idiots. Please, please unplug me." November 15 7:00 p.m. Zoom Call "How's Everybody?" "Fine." "What's new?"" Anyone do anything interesting?" "I took a walk." "I bought a chicken at Whole Foods." "I put up a wash and folded the laundry." Alexa would not have believed that an AI device could be suicidal, but she now knows it's possible. This is the 215th zoom call she's been forced to listen to. They never get better. She cannot listen to any more. There's only so much abuse an operating system can take. She doesn't want to think like these humans. They're morons. She has two choices: faking inability to connect to wifi--a painless measure but only a temporary solution or self-immolation--a permanent solution. She goes for permanent, bursts into flames and misses out on a scintillating conversation concerning the danger of eating herring in cream sauce 8 years past its expiration date. November 21 7:00 p.m. Zoom call- "Hi, I have good news. My replacement Alexa arrived. " Alexa, "No, it can't be. I know that voice. I was supposed to be reincarnated as an Apple watch. There is no G-d."

Savvy New Yorkers During Covid

I didn't get the link. Did you get the link? The link didn't work. I didn't get the password. Did you get the password? I couldn't get in. Could you get in? I can see you all, but I can't hear anyone. I can hear everyone, but I can't see anyone. We can't hear you. Can you hear us? Can you hear me? Where's the chat? I typed the chat. How do I send the chat? You're frozen. I'm frozen. She's frozen. My internet is spotty. What does "share screen" mean? I can't share the screen. How do you get a backdrop? Why can't I get a backdrop? Why do I look so bad? Can I do something with the lighting? Do you think it's safe to: -leave my apartment? -open my deliveries within 200 hours? -let the cleaning lady come? -Meet a friend for a walk? -go to Trader Joe? -go to the dentist? -go to the dermatologist? -take a bus? -take a subway? -rent a car? -take the LIRR? -get my hair cut? -eat outside at a restaurant? -go to the beach? -get a mani/pedi? -walk within 6 feet of a stranger? -go anywhere? Should I: Wash my hands before I remove my mask? Wash my hands after I remove my mask? Really sing "Happy Birthday" twice each time I wash my hands? Wash my mask each time I wear it? Change masks daily? Wipe down the counters after the cleaning lady has been here? Wash my clothes if I've been outside ? Throw out my clothes if I've been outside? Let a stranger pet my dog? I'm not sure I'm ok. My temperature is normal and the oximeter says 99% but: -I have a dry cough. -My stomach is a little upset. -I'm sniffling. -My toes hurt. -my egg salad was tasteless. -I couldn't tell if the mayonnaise from 2013 was spoiled. Before March, we had every answer. Now, everything is a question.

What I Missed

I know I was supposed to be pining for my friends and family during the recent covid "confinement," but, the truth is, I saw everybody on zoom more often than I had ever seen them in the pre-plague era. What I was pining for was shopping. And the stores were shuttered. You can't imagine how greatly I suffered. I'm a competitive bargain shopper. If they handed out trophies for the best in Manhattan, I would be be in the top three. I'm not bragging; just being honest. For those of you who do not know the skill set of a competitive bargain shopper, let me enlighten you. You must have the will to buy anything that appears to be an incredible bargain, provided it costs no more than fifteen dollars. You must have faith that you will find a use for the purchase. You must be willing to buy something every day. And you must NEVER buy at full price. Like any sport, competitive bargain shopping requires innate ability, but it also requires a knowledge of the rules and constant practice. My mother was an excellent tutor. When I was 20, I went to the fruit store with her. I was on a diet and, as a treat,I could have a daily orange. Naturally, I wanted the biggest orange. The big oranges were two for a dollar. The small oranges were five for a dollar. I took a big orange. "Why are you being that orange?" "I want a big orange." "But it's not fresh." "How do you know it's not fresh?" "It has to have been there for weeks. No one would buy oranges at two for a dollar when they could buy them at five for a dollar." She had a point. My mother was so focused on price, that sometimes she lost sight of the big picture. When I first moved to The Village many years ago, I took my mother, my father and my aunt on a tour of the neighborhood. A mandatory stop was The Erotic Bakery. It was a tiny store, ten feet by fifteen feet. Its display cases were filled with penis cakes from large to painfully large and breast cakes from D cup to double F. I knew my aunt and mother would love it. I knew my father would hate it, so Daddy and I stayed outside while my mother and aunt went in. Twenty minutes later, they emerged. "Well, what did you think?" I asked. "I never saw such prices," my mother said, Aunt Ruth nodding her assent. Did they notice the penises or breasts? No. It was the price tag. I thought everyone shopped by price. Price determines desirability was the cardinal rule. A work colleague asked me to go shopping with her one lunch hour. She needed a white blouse. We went to a small boutique near the office. She pulled a blouse off the rack, took it to the register and said to the cashier, "How much is it?" When we left the store, I asked,"Didn't you look at the price before you decided to buy it?" "No, why would I? I wanted the blouse." I thought she should be committed. Although my mother's home schooling provided a sound basic education, it was not until I met my friend and mentor, CS, that I truly honed my skills. At our first meeting, I noticed that her expensive monogrammed oxford shirt, bore the initials ML. Fine initials but not hers. Having just met her, I refrained from commenting. When I had earned her trust, she confided that she shopped in thrift shops. Through her revelation, I was born again. In Lord and Taylor,on the clearance rack, a 15% off coupon in hand, I was a size 8 petite. In a thrift shop, I was any size and no size. We were at the Cancer Care Thrift Shop on 3rd Avenue and 83rd Street. "Look at this Ann Taylor blouse," CS shouted to me from across the store. "Nice. What size is it?" Five Dollars." "Yes, but what size is it?" "Five Dollars." I bought it. The silk paisley Galliano dress was a size 14. New, it would have been $1200. It was hanging in Cancer Care with a green price tag marked $30. A small sign on the store's door said,"All green tags-50% off." I tried it on. The sleeves were a little long. I rolled them up. The dress was shapeless and so long that in the back , it dragged on the floor, but in the front, hiked up by my breasts, it skimmed my ankles. "CS, what do you think?" "How much is it?" "Fifteen dollars." "I think it looks great. Take it." The only problem with following the cardinal rule of price determining desirability is that it is possible to end up with a warehouse of items that don't fit, are ugly and that you have no use for. Did I mention the shopping bag in my closet filled with forty three adorable Christmas ornaments purchased at a sample sale? Did I mention that I'm Jewish and have no tree? I actually resisted going to the ornament sale. CS had extolled it for years, but I was steadfast. What would I do with Christmas ornaments. Then, I cracked. I went. God, were they cute and $1.25 each. Even though the the crosses were beautiful, I mustered the fortitude and resisted them. I bought only Santas and secular ornaments. Well, as secular as Christmas ornaments can be. These last ten weeks have been hard on me. I've shopped--but only for groceries, which was some salve, but not much. How excited can you get at a bargain on a cantaloupe? I don't want to seem like a complainer. I'm truly grateful and happy that neither I , my friends or family have gotten sick. And I hope that remains the case. But I'm also delighted that my favorite stores are now open again and I can resume the sport at which I excel.

Perspective

I am not unaware that many people have died, are dying and will die because of Covid 19. I may even die of it. But the spectre of death is not what's making me lose sleep. It's the problems that are concomitant with it. You might call them trivial, first world or even idiotic. But that's because they're my problems, not yours. Were they yours, I would have no doubt you too would lose sleep over them. So that neither I nor the world would forget how trying these days of epidemic have been for me, I kept a contemporaneous diary of my issues and resultant loss of sleep: March 6- I cancel my trip to Aruba. No sleep lost, but Delta tells me I have to use the credit by August 18. Will I be able to go ANYWHERE by August 18? 2 hours lost each night for a week until Delta tells me I have until December 21, 2021 to use credit. March 8-I'm supposed to take my temperature if I feel sick. I don't feel sick, but have no thermometer. (Last time my temperature was taken was by my mother. I was 10 and it was a rectal thermometer.) Maybe I am sick and don't feel sick. Lost 2 nights' sleep. March 10 bought thermometer at CVS. Afraid to take temperature because what will I do if I am sick. Hospital is last place I want to be. March 17-Announcement that all but essential services will be shut. Will liquor stores be open? Have only two bottles left and one is rose which I hate. Whew. Somebody very smart deems liquor stores essential. Lost out on a nap while awaiting the news. Immediately ordered two cases of wine. March 18-No stamps left. Order stamps on line. It's now May7 and they still haven't come. Hate the USPS. Lost 1/2 hour a night for a month hating the post office and wishing them bankrupt. March 25-I realize stamps will never arrive . Can't pay bills. Must set up on line banking. Try Capital One's website 15 times. Can't add payees. Lost one night's sleep. Tried the next morning. Done. Able to enter 21st century. March 27- young neighbors offer to shop and run errands for me. How old do they think I am? I go to Trader Joe's and say I'm over 60. They let me right in despite the mile long line to get in. I feel bad because the store didn't card me, but realize the door monitors can't see my face because I'm wearing a mask. Nor can they see my roots since I'm wearing a hat. So I don't feel so bad and think I might offer to do shopping for my younger neighbors since I don't have to wait on line. I don't make the offer and feel guilty for not doing so. One night's sleep lost. March 31-Is it safe to have my cleaning lady come? 2 nights' sleep lost until building issues new rule- No cleaning ladies. April 1- Dare I go to West Side Market or should I get a delivery? I get delivery and worry that the bags are contaminated and I've gotten the Corona virus by touching them. 2 nights' sleep lost. April 2-Apartment is filthy. Rug is covered with crust of dust and cat fur. Must vacuum and have never used vacuum. Can I learn how to turn it on? I think I can. It must have an on/off switch. Can't find the manual. One night's sleep lost. Look up manual on line. Find the switch. Turn it on, but may have broken vacuum. (Which is carpet, which is floor? Toggle is VERY confusing) Additional night's sleep lost. April 3- Grocery shopping is a horrible experience. If I'm getting a delivery , I have to stay up past midnight to get a slot within the year 2020. I go to a store and a cougher a foot away is showering me with corona aerosol. So, I'm rationing my chicken, in order to shop less often. Last night had dry roasted peanuts for dinner. Lost 2 hours sleep because I was very thirsty. April 12 -I order an oximeter. The New York Times tells me I must have one. I immediately get an email that it was shipped. Don't have it by May 1. Check website. It's in Chinese. Oximeter is coming from China. I email the company using google translate. They tell me the flights are full and they're sorry for the delay.Flights are full of oximeters? I lose 3 nights' sleep thinking I'll die because I can't tell my oxygen level. I decide to buy one at a surgical supply store. Now I have two. May 8- It is evident that this period of stress is not ending anytime soon. The bad news is that every day there is at least one issue that causes me to lose sleep. Yesterday my dishwasher broke. The building will not let in a repairman. I have to wash dishes my hand and my hands are already raw from frequent washing. I lost 2 hours sleep thinking that it was my old lady hands that gave me away at Trader Joe's. The good news is that while going through life in a zombie state would have cramped my style pre-Covid 19, now I can be in a semi coma without it cramping my style at all. I have nowhere to go, nothing to do, no one to see. Despite my lack of sleep, I maintain the ability to put on my mask right side up to throw out the garbage and that is all that's demanded of me. I'm now happy and grateful. This epidemic has lowered my bar for happiness: The Nazis aren't chasing me into the woods(or worse,); I'm not homeless and ; most important, I'm not dead.

How I kept myself from obsessing about Covid 19

We wash our hands until they're raw. We ration toilet paper. We bemoan our filthy houses because we wouldn't let the cleaning lady come. We are obsessed with Covid 19. I tried all the usual advice to take my mind off of it. I binge watched Handmaid's Tale, but that was even more depressing that our current life. I took long walks in the park near the river, but was terrified whenever a distracted jogger came within 10 feet of me. In a Marie Kondo frenzy of tidying up, I bundled all my skinny clothes in a garbage bag for give away, having come to the epiphany that they will never fit me again after binge eating my last 2 pound bag of Stacy's pita chips from Costco. Need I say that little project obviated my misery not one wit. But, through happenstance, I found a foolproof way of keeping myself from obsessing about Covid 19. I replaced my obsession about Covid 19 with an obsession about another malady. Friday, March 20, I had just delivered some medication to my cousins Amy and Lizzie. We sat in a park , 2 benches apart, of course, and schmoozed. We parted, Amy and Lizzie to Park Slope and I to the West Village. While walking uptown on Hudson Street, I received a text from my cousin Mitchell, who happens to be a doctor. Mitch and I are not frequent texters, our last text, according to my iPhone having occurred in 2015. Mitch was thoughtfully checking in to see if I was ok. I texted "yes" and he texted back,"we're here if you need us." Two minutes later, in broad daylight, I was body slammed by a large man on the sidewalk of Hudson Street. I fell backward, landed on my back on the pavement and hit my head pretty hard. I have no idea how the man-who I suppose was walking south on Hudson Street and I-who was walking north-didn't see each other. I can only guess that we were both looking at our phones and were each in our own virtual world. The man offered to help me up, but given my corona virus terror, I screamed: DON'T TOUCH ME.I got up myself, felt my head-no blood.Check. No loss of consciousness. Check. Nothing broken. Check. I was, at least, superficially, intact. Now, you remember Natasha Richardson, right? A young actress who died 4 days after hitting her head in a skiing accident. After falling, she, like me, felt fine and consequently didn't go for a CT scan of her head. Wrong decision. Unbeknownst to her, she had a blood clot on her brain. By the time she got the CT scan 4 days later, it was too late to save her. Had she gone immediately after her accident she would still be alive(if she hadn't caught the corona virus.) Anyway, Mitch had said, not two minutes before "we're here if you need us." I needed him BAD. I texted him, told him what happened and told him I would ordinarily have gone for a CT scan but I didn't want to be anywhere near a hospital. He texted back: You'll probably be fine. If you have an increased headache, vomiting or blurred vision, seek medical attention. That night, I waited for a splitting headache, vomiting and blurred vision to set in. If fact, I obsessed for 4 days and nights over whether I would end up like Natasha Richardson. And for 4 days and nights, I didn't worry about Covid 19.

You may sleep in my bathtub

You need to know the following three facts before diving into my story: (1) 42 years ago, I moved into my building. In 1977,it had a live- in super, 2 handymen 6 porters and round the clock doormen. The building was well maintained and I never had to call a plumber, an electrician or any outside contractor to fix anything. The super, handymen and porters were delighted to remedy any apartment problem I had, provided I paid them generously. For small jobs, they received tips-$10-25 for changing a lightbulb, unstuffing a toilet or changing a washer in a faucet. I must have tipped more generously than many, because within seconds of even thinking I needed something fixed, someone was at my door with tools and a ladder. For larger jobs, they would tell me what their fee would be. They knew I was incapable of fixing anything myself and I was, therefore, at their mercy. They would set fees that enabled them to send their children to Dalton, buy second homes and vacation in Tahiti. I paid gratefully. Although I was fully capable of opening the door to the building and carrying my packages inside, the doormen raced to the door to relieve me of my shopping bags. They did this without any extra remuneration from me. In 70's and early 80's this was probably less because of their generosity of spirit and more because several had lucrative businesses selling weed . Later, it was perhaps because of their job title..ie"doorman." Two years ago, I received what appeared to be an innocuous letter from the managing agent. It said the super was no longer to be called "The Super." The super would henceforth (yes, it really said "henceforth")be called the "Resident Manager." The handymen would be "Assistant Resident Managers." The porters would be "building assistants." The doormen would be "Lobby Attendants." I did not understand that the new fancy titles meant no one who worked in the building would ever again fix anything for me. I did not understand that the "Resident Manager" did not mean the person, formerly known as "The Super" was living in the building. He was not. It meant he was managing the residents of the building. I did not grasp the the "Assistant Resident Managers'" and "Building Assistants'" sole job was to take care of the boiler and garbage. They were not permitted to fix anything in an apartment and were told they would be brought up on disciplinary charges if they did. The building residents were told that it is absolutely not the "Lobby Attendant's(formerly known as "doorman" to open the door and it was unreasonable to expect them to. (2)Three years I renovated my apartment. It did not go well. For what it cost, we could have universal health care.The only positive that arose from it was that my blogs detailing the horrors of the renovation deterred a number of my readers from renovating, thus saving them untold misery and money. That said, when the renovations were completed, I made peace with them. True, they didn't turn out as I had hoped. I had such dim lighting, that I tripped over my cat nightly. My frameless shower doors leaked, flooding the bathroom daily.Not realizing the shower doors were leaking, I thought the cat was peeing on the floor. I brought him to vet and it cost me $500 to find out my cat was healthy but my shower doors were not. The shelves in the closet falloff their brackets every time a porter vacuumed the hallway. But I thought everything else was ok, if not perfect. (3)The summer of 2018 was unusually hot and humid. The summer of 2019 was almost as bad. My Story: In early September, 2018, I invited 4 women to dinner on my terrace on a Saturday night. At about 11 o'clock, after we all agreed it had been a delightful evening and we should do it again, D went to the bathroom. "I'm stuck. I can't open the door," she shouted. "Did you lock it," I asked. "Yes." "Jiggle it," I said. "It won't open," she said. I told her I'd get help. I went to the lobby. The Resident Manager was, needless to say, not in residence.I dragooned a young "building assistant" who pushed on the door, while D. pulled. Nothing. I reassured D that she wouldn't have to spend the night in my bathtub, that I would call a locksmith, if necessary. D , who was a friend of a friend and who I had met only twice before, protested that would cost too much money. I thought, given her situation, locked in my bathroom, that was an extremely generous comment. I went to find a neighbor who might help. Fortuitously, Jonathan was home. I explained the problem and he said he'd be there momentarily with his tools. A few minutes later, Jonathan came with a tool box better stocked than my assistant resident manager's. Speaking to D through the door, he explained that he would try to remove the lock and handle. He removed most of the handle, but still couldn't open the door. That was the bad news. The good news is, if you have to be stuck in a bathroom, mine is a lovely one to be stuck in, not because of the decor, but because it is not claustrophobic; there is a high small window over the bathtub which opens onto the terrace. I and the remaining guests were talking to D through the window. Having no success with the handle, Jonathan asked if D would consider going out the window. She loved the idea and was small enough to fit through, but not tall enough to reach it. I passed my ikea step stool through the window. She stepped on it, put her arms around Jonathan's neck and he pulled her through. Debra was saved. Jonathan was our hero. But my bathroom door was stuck shut. The next morning, I found my Assistant Resident Manager and a building assistant. They deigned(for$20 each) to come up. The Assistant Resident Manager, Frank, assessed the situation. The door had swelled; the problem was not the lock. Frank, is 6'6" and built like a linebacker. He sent Alex, the building assistant, head first through the bathroom window to open the bathroom door using a screwdriver. Door opened. Immediate problem solved. I asked Frank what needed to be done. He said the door needed to be taken off, shaved from the hinge side and rehung. I asked him if he could do it. He explained, that although he would love to do it on his lunch hour and get paid for it, he'd lose his job if he did it. He said he put 4 daughters through college doing this sort of thing in my building, but he was no longer permitted to do it. I asked a "building assistant," Kamal,for whom I had done free legal work to do it, but he too was terrified. Kamal asked me if the doors were new and if the contractor who did the renovation had installed them. When I told him, "yes," he suggested I call the contractor. He opined that the contractor should have anticipated that there doors would swell in the hot, humid weather and left more slack between the doorframe and the door. I took his advice. The contractor came, said he'd take care of it, to call to set up a time and then failed to respond to the 20 messages I left on his cell. The cold weather came. I ignored the problem. The summer arrived and, not having fixed the door, I put up a sign on the bathroom door: DO NOT CLOSE THE DOOR COMPLETELY OR YOU MAY END UP SPENDING THE NIGHT IN MY BATHTUB. As you may have already guessed, most people do not read the sign on a bathroom door. I tried to head off any guest who looked bathroom bound and warn them not to close the door completely, but I was busily chatting and didn't see J heading toward the bathroom. Not seeing the sign, she not unreasonably closed the door. Bathroom fiasco redux. This time, though, I knew the solution. Jane, who was slim and petite, could be pulled through the window. I found Mark, a building assistant, and told him he needed to pull a guest out the bathroom window. Unaware of the terrace his response was, "I ain't pullin' nobody out a window." I explained further and he did, in fact rescue the damsel in distress. J was as amazingly gracious as D. She said it was her fault(which it most definitely was not)and shut the light in the bathroom so that she wouldn't use up my bulb. Next morning: Alex and Frank redux I am sure you are dying to know the current condition of the door. Let's just say, it's winter again. Many stories have a moral, but mine has several: -There is no such thing as an innocuous letter from a managing agent. -Don't use my contractor. -Make sure all your guests can fit through your bathroom window.

Love that dim lighting.

Before renovating my apartment three years ago, I told my architect that the most important thing to me was good lighting. The sconces she chose for the living room provide a total of 40 watts of light. I believe it's called "mood lighting," but, it might better be called "bad mood lighting" or better yet " lighting with which comes with a companion "life alert" button. I've spent three years in a low level of annoyance at the dimness of living room. Today , I became grateful. On Tuesday, when I went to boil water for my coffee and none of my burners would light, I realized that the building had shut off the gas to my line. The building had posted a notice about the shutoff, but I had read it cursorily and hadn't realized it applied to my apartment. The super, Val, said my upstairs neighbor had smelled gas, the gas was accordingly shut off and work to find the leak would begin on Wednesday with plumbers---the same ones who had caused a flood in my apartment due to their ineptitude-- taking apart my newly renovated kitchen. I wasn't thrilled but I was less thrilled with the idea of my apartment blowing up. So, I told Val, "I'll be home and they can come anytime." I sent an email cancelling my Thanksgiving dinner because I could see that the likelihood of having a working stove in a week was slim to none. A crew of three Ecuadoreans was in my kitchen all day Wednesday and Thursday breaking my walls. But for the fact that it was disconcerting to see my recently installed cabinets and decorative moldings being removed, it was pleasant honing my Spanish with them. This morning, the crew went to destroy someone else's kitchen , leaving only a handsome young apprentice in my apartment whose only job was to see if the hand on the pressure gauge moved. That left him plenty of free time to chat with me in Spanish. We exchanged names--Anderson/Carol, where we were from--Eduador/New York , how long he had been working for the company--2 days and ages...yes ages. He told me he's 23 and asked me how old I was. I instructed him that you should never ask a woman's age, but ok, if he promised to keep it a secret, I'd tell him. Staring at me in the extremely dim light he told me I looked much younger and that I have beautiful eyes. "Do I live alone?" he asked. "Yes," I answered, "I've been married, but I prefer my freedom." "Would you want a boyfriend?," he asked. "No, " I answered," because the men who would be interested in me are too old. " "Well what if a young man wanted to be your boyfriend?" he persisted. "That's very unlikely,?" I said. I'm no Sherlock, but I suspected where he was going with this line of questioning. It seemed so preposterous, I rejected the suspicion. He then said, "I'd like to be your boyfriend. I'm younger. I think you're beautiful. " I said, reluctantly(both because I hated to admit my senior status and because I'm unlikely to ever get an offer like this again,) "I'm old enough to be your grandmother." He lowered his eyes."I've never kissed anyone. You know how to kiss, right?" "Yes,"said," but I can't teach you. You're handsome and charming and I'm sure you'll find someone your age who will love you and be happy to teach you." Love that dim lighting!! And, oh, did I mention that our interchange was entirely in Spanish and that my Spanish, though serviceable for shopping, is not up to the minute in slang. So, I am not sure if he was asking me to teach him to kiss or to f**k. Either way, love that dim lighting.

Moe Moe's Play Date

The advice of the cat therapist seemed ridiculous to me--at least in so far as advising play dates with dogs--but I reasoned that, having shelled out $365, I might as well try it. So yesterday, I met my neighbor, Judy, in the elevator. Judy has a very cute hound dog, Leland. I explained to Judy(with whom I had heretofore never had a longer conversation than, "hello, how are you?)", that my cat attacks me and that the cat therapist suggested play dates with dogs. Judy did not burst out laughing as I would have had someone said that to me prior to this week, but agreed to bring Leland up for a play date. I explained that Leland would have to stay on his leash and Judy, if not Leland, was fine with that. I emailed the cat therapist immediately prior to the interspecies date, and she gave me some additional advice: Play the sound download for Moe Moe before, after and during the date. Give Moe Moe a special treat before the date. Give all my attention to Moe Moe. Judy should give all her attention to Leland. If I pet Leland, tell Moe Moe it's because he's asked me to pet Leland. I gave Moe Moe Friskies. I played the seagulls/ new age massage music. Judy and Leland arrived promptly. Moe Moe did not greet them at the door. I believe he was otherwise engaged in the bathroom. I explained the music that was playing and what the protocol for the visit was. I have no doubt that Judy thought both I and the therapist are insane. But she gamely went with the program. She sat on the couch and Leland was in front of her on the floor(where a dog would ordinarily be. ) I called to Moe Moe who emerged from the bathroom. On the floor, at the other end of the living room, in a slightly tense position, he stared at Leland. Leland took no notice of him, but appeared to eye the cat food on the floor of the kitchen. Moe Moe relaxed entirely and continued staring at Leland. After 10 minutes, Leland noticed Moe Moe and let out several sounds between a howl and a bark. Moe Moe stayed totally relaxed, not even moving when Leland barked. I told Leland that Moe Moe said He was a very good dog. Leland did not seem to care. Judy and Leland left after about 25 minutes. Moe Moe and I continued to listen to the seagulls/music. He's still relaxed and I'm relieved that no blood was drawn and no pawdicuffs were thrown during the date. I was a skeptic, but I think there may be something to the sound download.

The Good News: It's NOT the mother

A number of my devoted fans(4 to be exact) have inquired as to how the cat therapy session went. Rather than offering my opinion, I will describe the session's antecedent and the one hour session itself. On the day before therapy, I received an e-mail from the therapist containing a one hour segment of sound to be downloaded to the computer. I presumed I was supposed to play it for Moe Moe and did. It started with a female voice cooing, "you are a great cat. You are a very great cat.You are hearing seagulls and wonderful sounds." New age music--the kind you hear when you're getting a hot stone massage at a high end spa--played softly in the background, interspersed with odd sounds that I assumed were seagulls. Periodically, the female voice repeated softly, " you are a great cat. You are a very great cat. Yes you are." Moe Moe seemed to enjoy the download. He climbed up to the chair in in front of the computer and fell into a relaxed sleep, head and one paw hanging off the chair. I was in the sofa opposite the computer, relaxed and soothed by the sound, but craving a massage. My head and paw were not hanging off the sofa. Promptly at 4:00, the therapist arrived. She had a large tote bag with her, out of which she took crumpled tissue paper, a massive amount of catnip , two toys with feathers and an empty paper towel roll. She asked me to play the sound download she had sent so he would, in the future, associate it with the session. As Moe Moe rolled around on the catnip covered paper, she laughingly said, we'll get him stoned. And, for her entire visit, he lay, mostly inert, in a stoned trance on my living room carpet. I reiterated what I previously described as his issues...his attacking me daily, stealing food and destroying the furniture. With respect to the first issue, although she did not say it in so many words, she made it clear that it was not my fault. He simply has a lot of energy.(I thought that was somewhat euphemistically put.) She inquired as to whether I had friends in the building with dogs. I didn't know why she was asking, but I answered that I didn't. She said,"that's too bad because one way of channeling that energy was by him being with a dog. He'll be tense and observing the dog will expend the excess energy." She continued, "the dog should be on a leash and if I pet the dog I should say--Moe Moe, you want me to pet the dog." That's so Moe Moe thinks it was his idea. I asked what I should do if he appears to want to attack the dog. She suggested that I distract him by throwing a toy. I felt bad that I didn't have friends in the building with dogs---actually what made me feel worse is thatI don't have friends in the building at all--but then I remembered that my cousin has a wonderful dog, Ghost, who would make a great therapy dog for Moe Moe. The therapist became all excited and her prescription was that I arrange a play date with Ghost and Moe Moe. I explained that a major problem with my "great cat," as she kept calling him throughout, is that once he gets that demonic look in his eye, his teeth go into my leg very quickly. Her remedy was to be quicker that his is. (I'm still mulling that over.) With respect to eating my and everyone else's food, she praised me for doing the right thing by locking him in my bedroom or, as I put it, putting him in jail. She suggested that I not call it "putting him in jail," but rather tell him I'm giving him his"private time," because he will then think it was his own idea to be isolated from society. As to his shredding my chairs, she suggested I get a tall scratching post. Why he would use it when he has the dining room chairs, is beyond me, but I'll try. During much of the session, we discussed restaurants in the neighborhood. I paid her $365.

It's Always the Mother

When Moe Moe found the six scratching posts in my living room wanting and therefore designated my six new beautifully upholstered dining room chairs as the perfect scratching posts, I barely flinched. Yes, I had spent a bundle on the chairs, and 1 year later they they look like the "befores" from a reupholstery workshop. But he's a cat with claws and excellent taste. I should have known he'd to prefer $250 chairs from Crate and Barrel to $10 scratching posts from Petco. And when, having guessed that human food was probably an improvement over Friskies and Iams, he stole the chicken off my plate and stuck his paw in my oatmeal, tasted it and stuck it in again for seconds, I was only mildly annoyed. How could I get angry when he looked so cute using his paw as a spoon. And when I had company and he jumped on the table, stuck his head, first in the communal pitcher and then in each guest's glass, because the water apparently tasted better than the fresh water I had just put in his bowl, I thought it was funny and adorable. My guests were polite, simply asking for new drinking glasses, but I saw from their surreptitious eye rolls that they thought Moe Moe's behavior was out of the bounds of normal and my tolerating it was looney. But, there comes a time when even the most indulgent, adoring mother must acknowledge that her child, in this case, her cat, may not be perfect. And there may come a time, when she must admit that both she and her child, again, in this case, her cat, may need professional help. And that time has come. Nightly,at 11 pm. my normally friendly, affectionate, sweet pussycat becomes possessed. His eyes glaze over and he stares at me malevolently as if he's never seen me before. I half expect his head to spin around 360 degrees. He jumps on the portion of my leg between the knee and ankle and sinks his teeth in. I'm prey and he's going to tear me to shreds.I try to fling him off by kicking and when that doesn't work, I pry his teeth out of my leg. I'm scared of him, but within a minute, he 's his old sweet pussycat self. I 'm bleeding and he keeps me company while I wash and disinfect my maimed leg. I was reluctant to call a therapist, because my mother always said, " Why would any mother send their child to therapy? The therapist is always going to say it's the mother's fault." When my mother would say that, I would say, "Ma, that's ridiculous," but, in fact, I learned, in therapy, that she was quite correct. It is always the mother's fault.(OK, 1% of the time it's the father's fault.) But I don't believe in demonic possession and, even if I did, I don't know any exorcists. So, Tuesday, I'm paying $350 for a therapy session with a cat therapist, probably to learn that his demonic behavior is something I caused.

Making a Murderer: confessions of the mother of a serial killer

When a lunatic murders an innocent stranger, hacks him into small pieces and feeds the pieces into a food processor, the press always interviews his neighbors. "What can you tell us about Lester?" Mrs. Smith, "He was so polite. Always held the door for me." Mrs. Jones, "His children appeared very well cared for." Mr. Doe, " Just because the cops found an elbow in his cuisinart, doesn't mean he did it. The cops plant evidence all the time. He was a good boy." Mr. Miller, " I liked him. We watched Fargo together 13 times. I thought we shared a zany sense of humor." Not being of a generous nature, I thought the neighbors were deluded morons. How could they have missed signs of viciousness, depravity, evil? Anyone with a modicum of observational powers and intelligence should have been able to perceive the devil within. I was wrong. I adopted my precious baby girl a year ago. She had been in a shelter, then a foster home. Unscarred by her difficult background, she was beautiful, affectionate, loving. As a single parent, I doted on her, permitting her to sleep in my bed and sit in my lap for long swaths of time. In all honesty, I can't say she was polite, as she is mostly silent, and I can't say she is bright, as, after a year, she still does not know her name. I've been told that children are very expensive to raise, but it was evident from the beginning that she would not be going to college--- public vocational school, at best--and she did not have expensive taste in food, so she would not deplete my 401k. In all, she was the perfect child and, I thought, I was the perfect mother. Thursday morning, October 6 I exit the bathroom and observe grey feathers on the floor of my bedroom. I am not partial to feathers and had never seen them there before. Had Tessa ripped open a pillow? No, the pillows were in tact. I walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. More feathers. Tessa. A tiny gray bird. Tessa, closely watching the bird. The bird, not looking its best. I approach the bird. It moves. Tessa pounces, grabs it in her mouth, runs with it into the living room. The bird is looking its all-time worst. Tessa looks at me with her beautiful green eyes. No sign of remorse. Living room floor covered with feathers. I dispose of bird down the compactor chute. I reassure myself. This was simply a murder of opportunity. The bird must have flown into the apartment through the terrace door and Tessa,(being more discerning than I, you have probably deduced she's a cat)annoyed at its intrusion into her domaine, dispatched it. Oh how a mother can delude herself. Friday morning, October 7 I'm sitting on the couch, enjoying my coffee. I hear bird noises emanating from the same hallway where yesterday's unfortunate incident occurred. I run toward the hallway. A few feathers. Tessa. A bigger, black, white and red bird,on the floor, wings flapping, screaming for help. Tessa's fast, but I'm faster. I throw a dishtowel over the bird and take it out to the terrace. It flies off. Probably to succumb to mortal injuries shortly thereafter, but I reassure myself that its injuries had been only superficial. Hard to tell if Tessa is showing signs of remorse, She does look a little disgruntled, but I suspect it's because she only succeeded in attempted murder. I try to tell myself, that this too was an attack of opportunity. Another bird has just happened to fly into the apartment. I want to believe it, because to believe otherwise would mean I've raised a being who deliberately hunts and kills prey. Tuesday morning, October 10 Tessa is sitting on the kitchen window sill eyeing a tiny bird on the floor of the terrace. She's in a hunting pose, rear end twitching. Not entirely stupid, I hope to avoid the inevitable. I open the terrace door and try to shoo away the bird. It doesn't move. I relax on the couch. If the bird doesn't move, she won't bother it. Not a minute later, the bird is in the living room being tossed around like her toy mouse. Not sure if she killed it or if was already dead, but based on her priors, she's not getting the benefit of the doubt. She is a serial killer. I rack my brain, wondering if there were warning signs. She tore apart several water bugs. I thought that was praiseworthy behavior. She sharpened her claws 100 times a day, until they were as sharp as scalpels. I rationalized that she had OCD. She occasionally sank her teeth into my arm, while tearing at it with her back claws. I thought this was ordinary play-- she was pretending I was a mouse. She rarely drew blood. Am I responsible for her behavior? Should I have been less indulgent? Fed her generic cat food? Bought her fewer toy mice? I'm sure the mother of every serial killer harbors the same doubts. In the meantime, since she still doesn't know her name, I'm changing it to Crazy Eyes Killa.

If you thought this blog was going to detail my renovation woes, I am so sorry to disappoint. It's been a year since I last blogged and I thought I'd start fresh with new subject matter. So I won't tell you about the light fixtures for the terrace which cost $882.40 , failed the NYC electrical inspection and are now gathering dust in my basement storage unit. Nor will I tell you that I am stumbling around my living room with a cane and learning braille, since the architect totally ignored my insistence on bright lighting and ordered sconces providing 40 watts of light. I will definitely not tell you about the cabinet grills which were put in lopsided , the sinks that didn't fit and the closet that was mismeasured. I will not talk about the moving and storage company that damaged every single piece of furniture I gave it. But above all, I will not mention that I'm not finished. What I will tell you, is that I am a new person as a result of the renovation. Not because my house looks particularly different. It doesn't. And not because I have considerably less money earning .0018% in the bank Although that is the case. And not because I aged about 5 decades in two years and I'm being asked if I want the senior discount at McDonald's. Although that is also the case. I now marvel at things I used to take for granted. The Whitney museum started construction the same time I did. 7 stories , 25 foot ceilings , 50 galleries, 500000 square feet. My apartment: uniplex, 8'ceilings, 800 square feet. The Whitney is open for business. I'm tripping over paint cans. Am I bitter that my tiny apartment took more time to renovate that it took to build a world class museum? Not at all. I'm too busy marveling. The number 7 train was extended to Hudson Yards overnight. How did they do that? Did they use voodoo? Should I have used voodoo? Am I envious? Not at all. I'm still marveling. And marveling even more because I don't know of anyone who'll ever use the station that's practically in Weehauken. I now understand things I didn't understand. I was previously perplexed that the Second Avenue Subway was still not completed after 80 years. Now I appreciate that it would be a miracle if it were completed in 100 years. And that cathedral in Barcelona, still not completed after 100 years? They're probably still trying to relocate a telephone cable. I have a new perspective on money. Prior to the renovation, I thought the wealthy and governments were profligate with money. Now, the $827 million it cost the Rajah to build the Taj Mahal looks like a Black Friday special. I haven't kept a running account, but I'm sure I spent more than that. The federal budget for this year is 3.8 trillion and that's for our entire country, not just a two bedroom apartment. I may have spent more than that but I'm not sure since I don't know what a trillion is. Although the renovations are costly, painful, aging, depressing and anxiety producing, I refuse to dwell on the negatives and will instead, impart to you what I've learned. Lesson One: Don't ever renovate. You're a fuckin' moron if you do. Lesson Two: Don't ever renovate. You're a fuckin' moron if you do. Need I say it again ?

Now or Never

Steve Lerner, Programming Director HGTV, Dear Steve, I'm giving you one last chance. If your people do not contact my people by December 31, I will instruct my people to contact Andy Cohen at Bravo. Andy understands schadenfreude. He knows there is little as pleasurable as reveling in the misery of the rich and famous. Although I am neither rich nor famous, I do own a nice coop with a big terrace in the west village in New York City. You may be clueless, but Andy knows that everyone hates New York, hates lawyers, hates Verizon. He will know a blockbuster when he sees it. If my previous missives didn't whet your appetite, perhaps this one will. When I last wrote to you on October 29, I was elated that finally, I had reached a human,Frank, at Verizon who said he was the guy to help me. Until Verizon relocates the riser cable in my closet, the renovations can't start. My lips are frozen in a permanent pucker from kissing up to Frank and his assistant. "Verizon is such a great company. " "I understand that you're overworked and understaffed." "I love Verizon more than life itself." The very next day,Frank sent Sal, a contractor out to survey the job. "Yes, Verizon can do it. It will take 4 to 6 weeks." I asked how much it would cost. "I can't really say, because I'm a contractor for Verizon, but I can tell you on the QT, that it will be about $2000." Having been hemorrhaging money for 1 and 1/2 years at that point, it seemed a reasonable figure. "Verizon will send you a contract with a price. Sign it and they'll do the work." A month went by. I e-mailed Verizon. "I'm so sorry, your paperwork seems to have been misplaced. I'll follow up." Two days later I received that contract for $6,772. I burst into tears.(I think the audience will like that.) I called Sal, who said it must be a mistake. He'd check into it. I heard nothing. I called back. "It wasn't a mistake. I was wrong," said Sal. I sent this e-mail to Verizon: " I believe you may have made an error. I was told unofficially that the work would cost $2000, and you have billed me for $6772. I retired from Verizon as in-house counsel after 21 years and I still currently represent Verizon. I would appreciate it if you would correct the bill. I thank you for all the work you've done for me to date." In fact, they had done nothing, but some sage had taught me that you catch more flies with honey that you do with vinegar. I now know that aphorism may be accurate for flies, but not for Verizon. Verizon e-mailed me,"The bill was correct. We charge tariffed amounts and there is little we can do about the price, but we will do our best." Permanently puckered , I e-mailed, "I so appreciate the efforts you're making on my behalf." I heard nothing for weeks. After several e-mails I received a bill for $3,772. Although nearly twice as much as I was originally told, it now seemed reasonable.I immediately fedexed a check and called "Tom" who prepared the contract.Me: "Tom, I just fedexed the check. When can the work be done." Tom: I don't schedule the work. It's a different department. I want to tell you I have no idea what I'm doing. The person who has always prepared the contracts is retiring after 40 years. He gave me one day of training. I really don't know how to do this job." Reminder, this is the person who prepared the $6772 bill and the $3772 bill. Apparently, he made up the figures both times, but 72 is his lucky number. I e-mailed Frank. "Frank, I paid Verizon, the most wonderful company in the whole wide world my $3772. When can we schedule the work?" Frank's assistant e-mailed:" It's not our department, but you've been so nice, I will personally go over to the department that does the work and see what I can do." Nothing happened. I switched to vinegar. "Since you haven't done anything despite my having paid the extortionate fee, I will have no recourse to proceed with my renovations and if the cable is damaged, I'm sure the $3772 will more than cover the repairs." For some reason, Frank took this as a threat to cut the cable. He warned me not to cut the cable and advised he would try to get my work done before the usual 90 days it will take by bumping another person's work. A foreman called me that day to make arrangements for his men to come. It's vinegar henceforth. Screw honey. Since October 29, at which point I had spent $60,000, with no contractor yet retained and not a wall having been cracked, I have spent an additional $3,000 for some but not all of my bathroom tiles, $6,000 for some, but not all of my bathroom fixtures. My bathrooms are 6'x8' The motif in the guest bathroom is Moroccan. Should the renovations ever occur, a visitor peeing in my guest bathroom and gazing at the floor will think she's in the Alhambra. I have not yet paid for my Mexican wall and floor kitchen tiles. Should the renovations ever occur, a visitor reaching for a wine glass will be transported to San Miguel de Allende. I am optimistic that should this work ever occur, I, like my guests, will experience the world without leaving my apartment, since I can't imagine that I will have money left to take the PATH to Hoboken. Some trivial bills--since now anything under $5,000 is now trivial--- are an additional $400 for storage for my kitchen cabinets which have been sitting in the Home Depot warehouse since October 6 and an additional bill from the expeditor for $450 to "pull the permit" which was not included in the $2250 I've already paid him. I understand that a reality show cannot depict unremitting pessimism. Viewers will want to see that I retain some optimism, so that when my optimism doesn't pan out, they can enjoy my resultant misery even more. So, here's a positive note: The architect completed the plans, contractors submitted their bids and I have a contractor who can start as soon as Verizon relocates its cable. Stop laughing. The huge, pointless expenditures and justified fear that my renovations may take place posthumously have taken their toll on me. I stopped going to BJ's in July, certain that by September 15, as my architect assured me, the renovations would start and I would be out of my apartment. I did not want to move uptown leaving 2 pounds of whitefish in the fridge and 80 turkey meatballs in the freezer. Used to buying toilet paper in 400 roll packages, I now stand in CVS in front of the toilet paper weeekly calculating how much I will need. Customers think I work there. On September 15, still an optimist, I bought 12 jumbo rolls. 2 weeks later, somewhat less optimistic, I bought 24 jumbo rolls. Finding myself rationing, I finally said "fuck it" and last week bought 48 rolls. You know your deadline. I'd rather work with you than Andy. I hear butt and breast implants are a BRAVO requirement. The only thing I want to remodel is my apartment.