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.