Not So Precious Moment

I'm devastatated. My intended, that is to say, my betrothed, that is to say, the person I had hoped to spend the rest of my days with, colors his hair. Robert, my Robert Redford, 77 years old with that beautiful visage of a walnut, or if you, as I do, prefer, a prune, hits the bottle. I could rationalize. I could say, "I never caught him in the act," "blonds don't gray until their 100s," "At least it's not plugs." But I'm not that kind of woman. I calls it as I sees it. So Robert and I, we're kaput. My profound depression is mitigated by the fact that he was my second choice. Paul was my first love. Need you ask? Paul Newman, of course. Paul had everything. Beautiful blue eyes. A gorgeous body. A Bar Mitzvah. But when I was eight years old, he betrayed me, running off with that trollop, Joanne. I was certain he'd tire of her after 50 years and come running to me. I was partially right. He was so tired of her that he lay down and died after their 50th year together. But for his death and lack of running shoes we'd be stirring puttanesca sauce and shaking balsamic vinaigrette in Westport. Not one to wallow in misery, or waste my time fantasizing, I'm texting George. George who? Clooney of course. You just have to get back on the horse.

Precious Moment III

"There are four phases of sex : excitement, plateau, orgasm and resolution." Masters and Johnson. Yesterday I observed a woman go through all of the above phases without ever touching herself or another human being. She panted. She groaned with ecstasy. Her face flushed with pleasure. Her hair glistened with sweat. She finished, exhausted. I was a participant in an experiment in which I hoped, by imitating her every move, I would feel what she felt. To the beat of blaring music that was unidentifiable but hinted of melodies that were by turn Hindi, Latin, Jamaican or Chassidic, she moved to the right, rotating her shoulders backwards and jiggling her breasts. I moved to the right. She rhythmically moved to the left, thrusting her pelvis to the front, to the back, to the left side, to the right side. I moved to the left. She bent over, thrusting her buttocks out, forcing her right buttock ceilingward, then her left buttock ceilingward. I bent over. She arched her back and neck in the limbo position, her pelvis perpendicular to the floor while her palms gestured to some invisible lover, "come get me." I performed the palm gesture perfectly. She did the basic salsa sidestep, tossing her long hair back, caressing it as she swayed her hips from side to side. I tossed my highlighted hair back to remove it from under my contact lense. Was the experiment a success? Well, I definitely panted due to the exertion of trying to rotate my shoulders while jiggling my breasts. I was able to accomplish neither, but I did groan during the shoulder rotation as it reactivated my left shoulder impingement. My face was flushed, but it was less pleasure and more high blood pressure. My hair glistened with sweat as did every part of me including my molars. I finished, exhausted, but less a post coital exhaustion and much more a "read me my last rites, I'm about to die" exhaustion. In science, success does not come without pain. In order to invent the smallpox vaccine,Edward Jenner had to inject himself with cowpox. As a result of her work on radiation, Marie Curie, died of radiation induced cancer. Although it may required a shoulder sling and I may die trying, I will return to Zumba class. I want to have what she's having and I don't mean a tuna sandwich.

Precious Moments II

Have you ever looked at a close friend and thought, "She looks different. I don't know how exactly, but definitely different." You , always tactful, say, "You look great. Did you do something to your hair.?" Or, "Your make-up is different. I love it." You may suspect your friend had a bit of work done, but you can't ask. Asking would be breaching an age old social contract that reads: an individual who has had plastic surgery may freely disclose it to whomever she chooses, but you may NEVER inquire of anyone whether they have succumbed to the knife. You may speculate with other friends as to whether or not there's been an eye lift and, if so, whether it was a good one or a bad one,but asking is taboo. As young as sixteen, we knew the rules. When Merel and Andrea returned from summer vacation with pig snouts, we giggled, but never asked. When undershirt Libby disappeared from class and returned 3 weeks later with perfect C cups, we remained mum (and envious.) In case you're wondering, the above is a lead in to a "precious moment." My close friend, T., whom I've know for 25 years, met me for lunch. She ordered the tilapia with black bean sauce that she had been raving about for days. The server put it in front of her and she ignored it. Instead, she stared at me as if seeing me for the first time. For a second she said nothing. Never letting her gaze depart from my face, she said, "Did you have a nose job?" I wasn't sure whether to be more flabbergasted by the question or by the fact that her tilapia was getting cold. I have nothing against plastic surgery for others. Those who have it it(Mary Tyler Moore and Joan Rivers aside) look better and younger. I, on the other hand, am peculiarly averse to pain. And to endure pain to look like a younger version of me, seems particularly pointless. If plastic surgery could make me look like Scarlet Johansson, I'd willingly become a morphine addict. Back to my nose. I wasn't sure if she was asking me if I'd ever had a nose job or had recently had a nose job. I didn't ask. Either way the answer was "no." What I did say was "Why do you ask?" I knew there were several possible answers to this question and I was angling for the one that said, "Because you have such a cute little nose." The one I got, however, was, "Because your upper lip goes up and your nostrils are long. I never noticed before." Tact and social contracts serve a purpose.

Precious Moments I

If you woke me in the middle of the night and asked me how old I was, I would blurt out, "thirty." "Thirty" would also be my answer if you asked me the maximum price I would would pay for a dress. Both answers would make the needle rise on a polygraph. When I was thirty, Paul Newman was not known for salad dressing. And thirty dollars for a dress? Do I look like a Rockefeller? If you're reading this because you thought I would divulge my age, read 100 Years of Solitude. I assume it's about a centenarian, but since I couldn't get passed page 6, I don't really know. I'm writing this because, having reached an age that certain governmental agencies deem venerable, I have decided to both cherish and share with you several precious moments of each day. Due to my busy schedule as a retiree, I cannot promise to share with you daily. After my morning coffee,which, as you may recall takes me two hours to drink, I have medical appointments and zumba classes to attend. That said, I hope that my act of sharing these moments will cause you to appreciate your life in a new and wonderful way. Precious Moment The following is actually a stream of precious moments culminating in a Niagara. Each deserves its own detailed description, but I have a mani-pedi appointment, so I'll condense. Maurice, the exterminator came at 10:35 this morning. This was his third visit and we're bonding. He's a very pleasant fellow, especially when you consider his job involves searching for mouse droppings. On his first visit, the day after my birthday, he found no droppings. But I insisted he put down glue traps, since my guests, depending upon their state of inebriation, saw either one mouse traversing the living room twice ,or two mice, each traversing the living room once. I myself saw something out of the corner of my eye, but thought it was a floater. A week later, there were no mice in the traps, but the night before my book club met at my house, I saw one dart into my coat closet. As we were discussing The Finkler Question, I went to serve the Dorito Chips which I had stored in the coat closet and I saw that the mouse had eaten through the bottom of the bag. (Did I serve the chips from the top of the bag? I leave that to you to decide.) Maurice returned the following Monday, and, when I told him about the purloined chips, he got serious, pulling out his secret weapon: Skippy. He baited the two traps under the piano, one behind the couch, one in the kitchen and two in the closet with Skippy(smooth.) He promised I'd find a mouse in its death throws or screaming for jelly in 28 to 48 hours. Thinking he might be considering job security, I made him swear on a stack of Haggadahs(who has bibles?) that I wouldn't get roaches from the peanut butter. The peanut butter did not lure the mouse. Perhaps it had a peanut allergy. Perhaps it was looking for medium salsa to accompany the chips. In any event, I asked Maurice to remove the traps. While attempting to remove the trap behind the couch, Maurice took a header over the end table and broke my vintage lazy Susan. While he was destroying my house, I tried to expedite matters by removing the glue traps from the closet. The wheel of the shopping cart I use yearly rolled into a glue trap. Not realizing that a glue trap was filled with glue, I stuck my newly manicured hand in it to extricate the wheel. I then called Maurice to extricate my hand and cart wheel from the trip. He did, but glue covered my right hand up to the wrist. Maurice told me to use alcohol to get it off. I had no alcohol other than Trader Joe's Sauvignon Blanc which I would have guzzled had it not been 10:40am, so I tried soap and steel wool. That was definitely not a good idea, because the tiny wires of the steel wool adhered to the glue. I begged him for advice. He suggested a brush, so I tried an old tooth brush with dish washing liquid. With much back and forth effort, the steel wool particles came off, but, in retrospect, neither Maurice nor I had been thinking clearly. The wheel of the cart, you see, was still dripping glue and after having de-glued myself, I now had to de-glue the wheel, which meant I re-glued myself. Maurice would have stayed to help me, but the bedbugs on the 16th floor consituted a greater emergency. Years ago, I would not have considered these "precious moments." I would have thought, "Shit, I live in an expensive coop in the West Village and I have a fuckin' mouse?" But as I think of the mouse sighting and its aftermath, I feel incredibly happy. No harm was done to me other than the small financial cost of a bag of Dorito Chips and a manicure(although it was a gel manicure which gets pretty pricey). And no harm came to the mouse, who is now probably chomping on chips and drinking tequila in my neighbot's apartment. And Maurice will always have employment.

Location, location, location

Hackers broke into my e-mail, hijacked my e-mail address and informed most of my contacts that "sadly, I had been mugged in Wales and all my money had been taken."
Some might view having their e-mail pirated as a negative; I found it enlightening.
I was at work when I received the first of 273 calls from the e-mail's recipients. 15 called to tell me I'd been hacked. Three, having just seen me the previous day, wanted to know how I got to Wales and back so fast. Had they reinstated the Concord? 252 others whined that I hadn't told them I was going to Wales. National Public Radio, United Jewish Appeal and New York Law School called to ask if I would still honor my pledge.
No one sent "me" money. Frankly, that made me feel a little bad. Don't my nearest and dearest care about me? I'm stranded in a foreign country where they barely speak English and have no vowels. Do they want me to get a job as a shepherd?
If you ever receive an e-mail from me, saying "I have been mugged in India.., " stand forewarned that the e-mail is not from me and that I have again been hacked. I understand from many of you that India is fascinating, but the sub-continent ranks just below Somalia on my list of must-see places to visit.
I have had only pleasant experiences with Indians in the U.S. I love curry. A little dysentery might be good for the waistline. I will never go to India because there is not enough blood pressure medicine in all the CVSs and Duane Reades combined to keep me from getting a stroke there. A billion people speaking what they believe to be English and I believe to be gibberish, instructing me on how to repair my computer.Their instructions unintelligible. My computer ornamental, Lest you think me nuts, I do realize that the entire population of India is a)unlikely to speak English; b) to provide me with unsolicited computer instruction. But, "May I help you Madam," said with a polite Indian accent is only slightly more pleasing to my ear that my doctor saying,"Now we're going to stick this tube up your rectum."
Saturday night I was out to dinner with my cousins. You know how people in a movie theatre loudly comment to their bffs about the on the action on the screen? You think they're inconsiderate morons and want them dead. They are morons and I still want them dead, but I've come to learn they are not inconsiderate. They're sick. They have location amnesia ("LA".) They think they're home with friends watching Netflix. I succumbed to LA Saturday. Performing a stellar rant about call center employees in India, I was startled by my cousin D reprimanding me with "Sh-h. Remember where you are." Oh right. An Indian restaurant.
After the 2000 election, Florida was on my no-fly-to list. Bill, from Verizon's Flordia fix-it location, restored my e-mail. Want to come with me to Ket West?

"Nothing" is harder than "Something"

I have been jealous of Verlyn Klinkenborg for years. For those of you who think Verlyn was the character with the ear piece on Star Trek--The Next Generation, stand corrected. Verlyn is a member of the New York Times Editorial Board who writes a weekly editorial on nothing. Really nothing-- the grass in his pasture, how his horse feels. For these ruminations, Verlyn is allocated prime real estate on the New York Times editorial page. And he's not even funny. I could so do better.
Or so I thought until this a.m., when I sat down to write and could think of nothing to say about "nothing." I had plenty to say about "something," but my subject matter is circumscribed by this blog's title. So I scrapped the following:

Dear Mayor Bloomberg,

Your construction of bike lanes on the north-south Avenues is nothing short of brilliant. Living as I do near the intersection of Jane Street and Eighth Avenue, I have the daily pleasure of observing the benefits the bike lane has conferred on the City. Thousands of deliverymen fly south on this northbound street, with undisguised glee. The civilian bike owners-- all 67 of them pitifully handicapped by color-blindness-- forget their incapacitating infirmity and speed joyously through red lights. Motorized vehicles flow through traffic signals and crosswalks unimpeded by pesky pedestrians. Pedestrians have disappeared entirely. Although I have not made a scientific study of the matter, my hypothesis is that they a) have been mowed down by cyclists or b) have seen others mowed down by cyclists and are in terror of leaving their homes.
Thanks to bike lanes, we are rethinking transportation options. Taxis are out of the question. Where do you stand to hail one? In the middle of the street? On the corner of the block? Drivers are surely abandoning their vehicles, mystified by the parking in the middle of the Avenue and left turns from a bike lane.
Your bike lanes are not only a paragon of urban planning, but a paean to the altruism of New Yorkers. Although only .000000015% of us own bikes and only .01% of bike owners have actually ridden them in the last 10 years, recent polls show 66% of New Yorkers favor bike lanes. I'm sure there are some cynics who question the poll numbers, but they're probably just newly homebound or crippled pedestrians. You know: sour grapes.
Best of luck always,

Carol

Verlyn, your job's secure.

Sharing my secret realm

My freezer is a private shameful realm whose inner reaches not even my closest friends are permitted to enter. I have a recurrent nightmare that I am being robbed by a thief who believes women hide their jewelry in ice cube trays. He'll open the freezer door and before he encounters the ice cube trays(which, for any potential burglars who are reading this, contain no baubles whatever,) he'll confront 240 turkey meatballs, 1 pair of pink cropped pants, 1 plaid cotton jacket, one white eyelet blazer, and a lined L.L. Bean raincoat and 37 irregularly shaped, opaque bags. Terrified that he's broken into the apartment of a deranged drug dealer, he'll flee, and rat me out to Alexis, the doorman. Alexis and I have not been on good terms since I told him politely that every once in a while it might behoove him, as doorman, to open the door. Alexis will tell John, the super,(who also doesn't like me because he thinks I'm a bad tipper) who'll tell the Board, who will serve me with eviction papers. In court, nobody will believe my explanations and Mozart, my cat, and I will be on the street.
As all nightmares do, this one starts with a drop of reality. Actually, more of
waterfall than a drop. Come to think of it, the only fictional elements are the thief and the eviction. You can probably guess why I have 240 turkey meatballs. Right! I was at BJ's. Also thanks to BJ's, I have 8 pounds of whitefish salad in the refrigerator and six 3 pound jars of Ragu spaghetti sauce, two sixteen ounce jars of dijon mustard and a carton of Panko crumbs in my pantry.Although I may not live long enough to finish the meatballs, I don't know when I'll get to BJ's again. If I die with 10 or 20 meatballs left over, so be it and help yourself. If you're pondering about the contents of the opaque bags--ponder no more. They contain either uncooked chicken legs, salmon burgers, lasagna, broccoli, chicken parmagiana, vegetable eggrolls, chana masala or spanikopita. Some of the items owe their presence in my freezer to their having been on a very good sale. Others to the fact that I often bring home half of my restaurant dinner.Unfortunately,no matter the source, I neglected to label the bags with either their contents or vintage, so even were I to open them and identify their contents, they would be more suited as specimens for the Center for Disease Control than for comestibles.
Why the apparel? It's not obvious? Hint: I shop in thrift shops. Still don't get it? Okay, I'll tell you. Just in case there's a hidden bed bug or two on my gently worn cropped pants, jacket, raincoat or blazer, the cold treatment will send them to bedbug heaven. At least that's what the New York Times told me. I know my cropped pants will be bedbug free, but I admit to being a little nervous that the bedbugs will put on the jacket, layer it with the blazer and wrap themselves with the L.L. Bean coat. The L.L. Bean catalog guarantees the coat will stand up to a Maine winter. Let's hope it doesn't stand up to a NYC freezer.