Homage to a hero

I managed to reach middle age(yes, smartasses, I do expect to live to be 120,) without even a minor brush with the law, if you don't count that 1970 anti-war demonstration when I, whose most foul words to that date were "damn" and "lousy," repeatedly screamed, "fuck you, Agnew" at the top of my lungs and was forced to run at my top speed of 3 mph to evade arrest, making my first "fuck you" ever particularly memorable. I had intended to go to my heavenly reward sans rapsheet, but Sunday those plans were thwarted. By way of background, let me explain that I have always revered Pete Seeger. So when I heard there was a concert at Damrosch Park to celebrate his life, how could I not go? Pete was the epitome of sincerity and goodness. Would I be able to look at myself in the mirror on Monday if, instead of going to the concert, I stayed home to view cat videos? No. So I and another ardent fan, E, agreed to go. The concert was to begin at 4 p.m. We got there at 2 p.m. The line for seats in front of the stage stretched from 64th Street, up Amsterdam Avenue to 69th Street. Pete was 94 when he died. I presume people began to line up when he turned 90 just in case he might die in the next five years and there would be a memorial concert. It was clear we wouldn't get any of those seats. The area in front of the Beaumont has comfortable, movable woven metal chairs. We sprinted there to grab some. The chairs, although movable, were not exactly easily portable, weighing 20 pounds each and having no hand holds. I had grabbed a smaller chair, which I carried across the front of the Metropolitan Opera to a perfect spot in the shade at the rear of Damrosch Park, without maiming myself or anyone else. E, on the other hand, had taken a winged armchair, which was bigger than she was, and in lugging it to our shady refuge,did not collide with anyone, but may have incurred a latent back sprain. Our spot was delightful. Shady, breezy. We ate our lunch. We chatted. We had been seated no longer that 10 minutes when a uniformed guard approached us. "You have to put those chairs back." Me: "I'm not putting the chairs back. I'm staying right here." Guard: " You have to put the chairs back."Me: "Well I'm not going to." E: "Why should we put them back." Guard: "Because you have to." A round robin of this confrontation ensued. It was evocative of "You must pay the rent." " I can't pay the rent." "You must pay the rent." "I can't pay the rent." The guard walked away, perhaps to get reinforcements. Inspired by the concert honoree, I said to E, "I'm not moving." E agreed and broke out in a hearty rendition of "We shall not be moved," to which I joined in. I like passive resistance because it generally means "sitting," which is something I do well. Unfortunately, this passive resistance created a problem. I couldn't get up to pee because I was afraid either that the guard would take the opportunity to grab the chair or, as there were no other chairs in our vicinity, a standing audience member would grab the chair. I have been to many outdoor concerts, and no matter where I sat, even if it was 12 blocks away, I needed earplugs. And we were perfectly positioned at the rear of the park. At 4 o'clock the concert was to begin. We heard nothing. There was chatter all around us. "Is anyone singing?" "Do you hear anyone?" "I don't hear anything."I should point out that the entire audience was comprised of people who could have been at Woodstock. The woman sitting on the concrete in front of us had her lap top open and was live streaming the video of the concert. "Judy Collins is singing," E said to the people near us. "Oh, Judy Collins," every sighed as they said,"I love her." We saw Arlo's daughter and Harry Chapin and his daughters. We saw people dancing. We heard not a note. This was the only underamplified concert in the annals of concerts. Our seats were terrific though and the audience was very congenial. We would have stayed until the end of the concert, but I was afraid that I might have to pee in situ, which might give the guard good cause to arrest me. We left at 6 and were among the first to leave, which was odd considering, everyone had come for the concert, but no one could hear the concert. We were not arrested, but it was as close as I hope to come to prison. E and I did Pete proud. We stood up for what we thought was right. Well, we didn't exactly stand up, but you get the idea. Had a NYC Police officer asked us to relinquish those chairs, would we have stood our ground? Are you kidding? I'd die if I had to share a bathroom.

Never Gloat

In zumba class I'm the oldest by 25 years and the fattest by 25 pounds. In ballet class I'm the oldest by 35 years and the fattest by 35 pounds. But water aerobics, as I found out today, is an alternate exercise universe. No one in that class had looked down towards their feet and seen anything past belly since Nixon was in office. And everyone in that class was on social security before the ballet dancers were a twinkle in their parents' eyes. I was Jennifer Aniston in a pool of geriatric Melissa McCarthys. I gloated. The gloating was short lived. The shallow end of the pool had a depth of 4 feet. I'm 4'10". If I stood against the wall at the shallow end, the water was up to my neck. If I stepped two inches away from the wall, the pool's floor dropped off by 6 inches and the water was up my nostrils. Realizing this was a potential problem, I resolved to do all the exercises as close to the wall as I could, moving my legs laterally only, keeping my neck extended upward as if doing the sun salutation. Picture a very short delusional giraffe wearing a shower cap(mandatory for health reasons,) grazing for leaves on a branch no one but she can see. Nathan, the teacher, started us out by jogging. I jogged very well, if I do say so myself. Then we did knee lifts, which I also excelled at. I know these classes are not competitions, but I was certain I was doing better than my classmates. It was only an educated guess, though, because I couldn't risk lowering my head to look around for fear of drowning. Then Nathan said "Grab a noodle." Everyone in the class was using a white noodle. Nathan had provided me with both a white and a yellow noodle. I assumed he thought I was in such good shape that the white noodle would be too easy for me. I grabbed the yellow noodle. We were supposed to push it under water. I couldn't get it to budge from the surface. I stood on my toes and looked around. No one was having trouble with the white noodle, so I reached for it. Nathan, shook his head and handed me an emaciated hot pink noodle. I was pleased that I got it to go under water by heaving my entire body weight on it, but was chagrined that 80 year old two ton Tessie standing next to me who had no difficulty whatever getting the white noodle under water and probably could have pushed a whatle under water said sympathetically, " Go at your own pace. Don't push yourself." The noodle was sufficiently mortifying. I did not need the wuss weights. Everyone was given white weights. Nathan gave me red ones. They were very pretty, but I suspect he didn't give them to me because I was teacher's pet. After ten repetitions, my shoulders were killing me, but no one else seemed to have a problem, so I was too embarrassed to stop. The class lasted 47 hours. Was it fun? Remember when you were in elementary school and there were two reading groups--the robins and the bluebirds? The robins were the good readers and the bluebirds were the, shall we say, dopes. I was always a robin and could not have imagined what it was like to be a bluebird. Now I know.

The fear that dare not speak its name

To young women everywhere: You're terrified to neck with that devastatingly handsome fellow because, if he nicks you with one of his incisors, you may be doomed to live in the twilight forever. You can't sleep for fear of an imminent zombie coup. You're wasting your precious minds dreading metamorphoses that have only a 50% chance of occurring, while ignoring a catastrophic change that will happen with 100% certainty. You will, whether you like it or not, turn into your mother. Behold my story: -It started with the shoes. My mother had walking shoes and sitting shoes. If she was going to a friend's house for mah jongg, she wore her walking shoes to get there and carried her sitting shoes in a special shoe bag to be put on once there. The walking shoes were lace-up oxfords with a low heel. I would rail, "Ma, how can you go out in those old lady shoes." Ma:"They're comfortable." All summer she wore her buffalo hide sandals--platform sandals with broad tan straps crisscrossed in front with a thinner strap that buckled around the ankle. Clodhoppers. Hideous. I was mortified to be seen with those feet. At age 30, I had those feet. I began wearing sneakers to walk to and from work and one of the ten pair of fashionable shoes I kept under my desk to wear at work. I had walking shoes and sitting shoes. Two years ago, I saw my mother's summer clodhoppers in the window at Harry's shoes, only now they were called Kork-ease and cost $140. I had to have them. They looked so comfortable. -Next it was not wanting to acquire possessions that would "show dirt." Growing up, my kitchen floor was dark green linoleum speckled with dots of different colors. The flooring had come with our rent controlled apartment and my mother never changed it, because it didn't "show dirt." When I moved into my current apartment and renovated the kitchen I selected a white formica countertop speckled with irregular black and gray specks. It is quite ugly, but does not "show dirt." Most people think I have two dozen black tops because I'm a sophisticated New Yorker. The real reason is that they don't "show dirt." -Then it was not wanting to use something "good," because I might ruin it. My mother had the "good" china. It was beautiful Bavarian bone china for "company." Although we did sometimes have company, I don't recall the guests ever being important enough to warrant the "good" china. I do use my mother's "good" china for my everyday dishes, but I have never worn the "good" (translation "expensive") pink leather jacket I bought 5 years ago, because it might get ruined. Ditto for the "good" suede shoes and matching"good" suede bag. -It continued with small changes which initially went unnoticed. I stopped buying clothes that needed to be dry cleaned. I started washing everything--silk blouses, cashmere sweaters, wool gabardine pants--rather than "waste money" on the dry cleaners. Was I channeling my mother? Hadn't she, when wash and wear came in, stopped giving my father's shirts to the Chinese laundry so as not to "waste money?" I am using the toast-r-oven my parents got from opening a bank account at Lincoln Savings Bank in 1970, even though the coils on the top don't work, and I have to flip the toast. Why "waste money" on a new toaster oven when this one still works, sort of . Is this my mother again, or is this my own loose screw? -And now, the finale. Did you read about the Korean elderly who went to McDonald's, ordered coffee and sat there for four hours. Ok, that's not me. I'm not Korean and my mother wasn't Korean.(Not that there's anything wrong with being Korean.) But what my mother sometimes did, was take her 1/2 sandwich to McDonald's , order coffee and eat her lunch there. When she told me, I was appalled. Tacky tacky. Worse than old lady shoes. But now I've done it. With my turkey burger. But only when it's raining.

A Question for HGTV

Steve Lerner Programming Director HGTV Dear Steve, I love your programs showing smiling, careful, prompt mid-western contractors delighting clients with brilliant design ideas that they execute them effortlessly in a 1/2 show. I have viewed shabby bedrooms transformed to Roche-Bobois advertising photos for $900, 4 bedroom, 4 bathroom 4700 square colonials gut renovated(including hot tub installation) for $21,000 and underground pits converted into state of the art entertainment centers for $2750. No renovation, no matter how extensive lasted took more than three weeks from start to finish. Suffice it to say, you inspired me to renovate my 1960s era small 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom 900 square feet New York City cooperative Apartment. Steve, I realize that your duties as program director probably do not entail the legal obligation to advise me, but since you were my muse, I hope you will take on the ethical mantle as a kindness to a devoted viewer. You see, Steve, my experience differs substantially from that of your televised homeowners. Please tell me what I'm doing wrong. I retained a architect for 15,000. She had wonderful ideas for which she drew up plans. The drawing and revisions of the plans took three months. During that time, I performed reconaissance with the interior designer for sinks, faucets, refrigerators, cabinets and toilets. Unlike your delighted clients, I found looking at these items both tedious and stressful , requiring 2 ativans. Tedious, because all the appliances looked alike and, unlike a pair of shoes, cannot be worn to brunch and, stressful, because unlike shoes, these appliances cost more than the budget for your $4700 square foot colonial. While watching your shows, I heard no mention of "alteration agreement,""permits," "espeditors," or "asbestos removal," Perhaps my head was in the freezer looking for a pint of Hagen Daz when you mentioned them. My coop requires an alteration agreement to be submitted with plans for the work to be done and detailed fees: $250 for the managing agent to hand the plans to the building architect, $425 to the building architect to review the plans and a $350 additional fee to the architect for I don't know what and a $15,000 deposit. The Board must review the plans, and since it meets once a month, you must time your submission prior to their meeting, but their meeting date is shrouded in secrecy. I submitted the plans in December. The Board approved them in February at which time I received a letter from the managing agent that I owed an additional $450 to someone for something, which I paid. The architect informed me that to do apartment renovations in New York City, I needed permits. "Okay," I said, "I'll go to the building department with the plans to get the permits." "No," she explained, "You need an expeditor.Without an expeditor you'll never get the permits." So I paid the expeditor $2200, only to have him inform me that before he could apply for the permits, I needed to get my apartment tested for asbestos. The asbestos tester and lab report cost $2645. Of course the asbestos tester found asbestos in the glue under 20 tiles on my kitchen floor and just happened to know an asbestos remover who charged $4200. While the asbestos was being removed, an air monitor was required to be present to insure that no one would die in 40 years from the asbestos particles in the 20 floor tiles the workers removed. The air monitor charged $950. Steve, may I take the liberty of describing the asbestos removal process from my kitchen No need to credit me if you use it on an upcoming show. I removed all my cooking and cleaning implements and products from the bottom cabinets. I had so much stored there it made me question why I was renovating to get more storage space. Next,I groveled before the super and handyman so they would accept my $200 to move my refrigerator and stove to the living room in time for the asbestos removers to begin their job. Three men from an unspecified European country arrived and asked where they could set up their 20 by 3 foot decontamination unit. I directed them to the terrace. I asked them to protect the wood floor, which they did by taping construction paper to it. It took them 5 hours to set up the "decon" unit, 3 hours to tent off my kitchen so that the asbestos molecules would be contained and 45 minutes to remove the offending tiles. I thought it was prudent to leave the house until the air monitor called "all clear." When I returned, my apartment looked like a superfund site. The next morning, the men returned to "break down" the work area. When I came home, I saw that the finish was off the wood floor where they had pulled off the tape. I put in a claim to my homeowner's policy , sat on the couch in the living room next to the stove and regrigerator and had a glass of Chardonnay. The unfinished floor in the kitchen was mud colored and so disgusting that it would have killed my appetite had I not realized that I could bypass the kitchen to the relocated refrigerator. I went to Home Depot to get self-stick tiles to cover it. The tiles weighed about 43 pounds and I brought them home on two buses triggering sever tingling in my hands. It had been my intention to save money and install the tiles myself,but when I couldn't open the utility knife, I bit the bullet and asked the super and handyman to do the job. I anticipate $300, but I could be underestimating. Steve, because I do not yet have the permits, I have not yet given the job out to bid. However, without any alterations having begun and not having purchased any of the appliances, I have shelled out $27900, more than the cost of the gut renovation of your 4 bedroom colonial. I would appreciate your advice. Carol

TSA Redux

Having been elevated to Olympus by the TSA at LaGuardia, I was, only 6 days later at the Fort Lauderdale airport, returned by that same agency to Hades. No longer one of the "pre-screened," I was once more shuffling shoe-less on a long slow line. The median age on the line was 86. In front of me was an elderly man in a wheel chair accompanied by an aide. I'm not great at guessing age, but he looked to be about 120. The TSA agent asked, "Are you over 75?" The man said, "101." The TSA agent said, "Over 75 you don't have to remove your shoes. I do need you to take off your belt, stand up and walk through the metal detector." I don't think this man had stood up in 20 years. But he was obedient and shuffled the 5 feet to the metal detector. Both the passengers and the security personnel appeared used to the rhythm and pace of the line: shuffle, shuffle, stop. shuffle, shuffle, shuffle stop. No one complained. Savvy passengers arrived four hours before their departure time. I trust our government. Okay. We were lied to about Vietnam. The government is illegally tapping my calls to the Iraqi podiatrist. The dogs at Abu Graib were over the top. But the government's prime mission, I have no doubt, is our safety. It must have criteria by which it sorts us for screening. Last Thursday and yesterday I wore the identical clothes, so it can't be the apparel. Between Thursday and yesterday,the only nefarious activity I engaged in was staying longer than 20 minutes in the hot tub, so it can't be my conduct. Last Thursday I printed my boarding pass and was pre-screened. Yesterday, I had my boarding pass on my phone and was slow-screened. So it must be the high tech boarding pass. They must deduce that if you can get the boarding pass onto the phone, you are more likely to know how to set off a bomb than someone who prints their boarding pass. That would be sound logic, but for the fact, that I would never have gotten the boarding pass onto my phone had my friend, M., not done it for me. To insure the validity of the boarding pass criterion, the TSA screener should really ask "Did you get the boarding pass on the phone yourself, or did someone do it for you?" Either the AARP has a powerful lobby or the TSA has studied the issue and determined (a) that there are no actual or potential shoe bombers over the age of 75 or (b)that requiring the over 75s to remove their shoes would bring air travel to a standstill. But does the government have an algorithm(whatever that is) that demonstrates that centenarians with aides may actually be terrorists with their accomplices? What appears to be a buckle holding up the gentleman's pants at chest level, may actually hold an elaborate weapon system? It must. As I noted, I trust the government.

TSA

Overnight, I morphed from a potential shoe bomber to a patriotic American. Yesterday, flying mandated a preparatory exercise regimen of 10 minutes per day balancing on my right foot while tying the shoe laces on my left sneaker and then switching sides.(I only toppled twice.)It necessitated decanting my b-curly hair product into a 3 oz. plastic container,buying a microscopic bottle of conditioner costing twice as much as thee 32 oz. economy size and placing them together with my .09 oz toothpaste in a clear plastic baggie. I diligently followed the same regimen before my latest flight. Ready to strut my stuff, I ambled over to the TSA agent.She mumbled something and pointed to another line where I anticipated a cavity search. The TSA agent there said,"you're pre-screened." "What does that mean,"I inquired. ""You don't have to take off your shoes." "Do I have to to put my cosmetics and i pod in the tray?" "No. Just remove your jacket." No longer a terrorist, I was a loyal citizen. Cocky,smiling, I sauntered through the metal detector. Don't judge me by what I'm about to say. You know I abhor racial profiling. But when the swarthy man with the Arafat schmatte on his head and the bulge of an uzi under his djellabah was also directed to the loyal citizen line and boarded my flight, it did give me pause.

Making a Difference

I've always aspired to make a difference. I would have gone to Africa with Bill Gates to eradicate dracunculiasis, but (a) I'd have to take shots; (b) there are no private latrines and (c)ballet classes are reputed to be subpar, although they are alot cheaper than Broadway Dance. I've written checks to worthy causes, but I suspect that my yearly check to Citymeals on Wheels would have to be at least twice as generous to completely eliminate world hunger. I have been troubled by my failure to change the world. What would the New York Times obituary writer say when my time came? "A lawyer for a Verizon,a Fortune 100 company, she saved her client millions of dollars by winning lawsuits against people who were grievously injured when, failing to look where they were going, they tripped over wires." Would that get me into heaven? Into "The Lives They Lived?" Yesterday, I learned that I need no longer be plagued by inadequacy. I have changed one life in a very important way. I didn't preach or lecture. I taught by example. When shopping with "L" in BJ's, she said she was buying herring in cream sauce because hers had expired, I said,"I use mine well past the expiration date and I haven't died yet." Not wanting to appear a know it all, when she replaced her expired tunafish salad with a new container, I remained silent. But, being extremely intelligent and curious, she asked,"Do you think it's safe to eat a few days after the "best by" date. Why she asked me, I don't know, since I'm not a biologist. I do, however, routinely dispense medical opinions,despite my total lack of medical credentials,so her query was reasonable. I opined "Probably." "L" told me I changed her life. She goes to BJ's half as often. She's eating last year's tuna salad. Her expired herring is delicious. I cried. I'm proud to say, I don't just talk the talk. I currently have in my pantry a can of Oceanspray Cranberry sauce stamped "best if used by September 2005." Do I jettison it? Of course not. It's a self serving suggestion by the manufacturer so that I'll toss the can and buy more. I may have reservations about serving it to guests on Thanksgiving, which is why it's been in my pantry since 2003, but one day, when I'm no longer on weight watchers, I'll try it.[If I'm found dead on my floor, please advise the Medical Examiner to check my garbage] This morning, January 8, for breakfast I ate the Acme whitefish salad stamped "best by November 2, 2013." I opened the brand new container because yesterday I finally finished the container stamped "best by September 12, 2013." The Friendship cottage cheese I will eat for lunch has a "use by" date of December 31. Based upon experience, I will be eating it until January 20. I'm not bucking for sainthood, but I'm thrilled to say I can now go to my grave knowing I have made a difference in one person's life.