DON’T BREAK THE HABIT

     Many years ago in the early halcyon days of my marriage, my then-husband and I were friendly with a Manhattan-based couple.  Time was often spent with them celebrating good wine, food, laughter and the incessant pleasures of the city.  Cris and Janet had just been married and were happyto join us in the care-free, spur of the moment decisions ‘to do somethingfun’---often typical of newlyweds.

     Cris’ father was a tailor, one who was enmeshed in the old-fashioned, old world value of pride in one’s skill.  For him, tailoring was serious business.  He was skilled in many types of fashion but the one he treasured the most was the tailoring he did for a group of Catholic nuns.  You can imagine his horror when his son asked to borrow some of those habits.

      As the day approached, the four of us had agreed to not break the habit of celebrating Halloween, pardon the pun.  We would don the vestments for the festivities.  Definitely having two six feet tall males in such attire would surely help us win a prize or, at the very least, put us in our own spiritual category.

      Halloween morning arrived.  Unfortunately, some  evil witch had put a hexon me and I woke up with nausea of epic proportions.  God was punishing us!  No forays into Manhattan dressed as nuns!  Yet, some kindly saint must have taken pity on me for as the day wore on the nausea subsided.   We would not be dissuaded from our celebration.  Did the fact that we would don our attire and celebrate the next day matter?? NO!  So a new game plan was formulated with a little twist.  “How about hitting some of the bars and discoson Second Avenue and then going to St. Vincent Ferrer’s church on Lex. where we were married, ringing the bell and asking for the monsignor. C’mon, he’s gotta think this is a hoot!, said Cris.

                       Twenty-four hours later, in ready position and fully garbed, we began our pilgrimage.                        What followed were unending waves of laughter, side glances, snickers and one particularly boisterous truck driver shouting out to me, “Hey,sister, you ain’t never  gonna’ get to heaven that way!!”  Bar after bar, disco after disco, we continued out aberrant, hysterical fantasy, laughing until our sides hurt.  This was to be topped off by our final stop, St. Vincent Ferrer’s
rectory.  Standing with my partners-in-crime, I rang the bell near the old wooden door on top of a never-ending staircase.  No one answered.   I rang again.  Slowly, the door opened and a young priest quizzically looked our way then burst out into peals of laughter.  “We’re here to see the monsignor.”
“Oh my God!!   I don’t know if he can handle this” as he ran off to fetch him.

     Out of the shadows slowly emerged a grey haired figure, slightly slouchedover so that his eyes did not meet ours immediately.  He stared.   A little smile started to make his thin lips curl, then it  became wider,  broader  until it finally erupted into a full out, belly shakin’ body laugh.  I thought the man was going to choke.

     Yes, it was funny that there were four people dressed as nuns who weren’t nuns, two of whom were men but would that evoke such a paroxysm of laughter?  I guess it was the one thing I failed to mention.  I was eight and a half months pregnant with my daughter and holding a sign that read, in big
letters,  “NUNS FOR OPTIONAL CELIBACY”.

     I guess the truck driver was right.

the long and the short of it

I have come to the conclusion that curly hair is the abomination of mankind.Now, for those of you who have straight, little or no hair, I realize this is probably falling on deaf ears, but state my case I must.


 Curly locks of golden hue are often something to be admired.  As a young child, thus was I adorned.  Of course, those were the days of Shirley Temple so having this feature was considered a bonus.  A child blessed by the gods with a golden crown.

As the years marched forward, the golden hair color, so shiny and soft, was over-taken by its darker counter-part.  Everything changed; even the level of curliness.  I guess curls are more ornery than hair color because they became more pronounced, more unruly and more independent possibly a metaphor
for life as one ages.  I started to look like the Italian version of little Orphan Annie.

 Yet, like the curls, rebellion was on my agenda.  Rebellion that surfaced during my teen-age years.  I was certainly not going to let these ornery little critters get the best of me!  Consequently, pre-date rituals often involved bending forward with head placed in close proximity to a rickety old ironing
board and ironing those  curls into oblivion.  I had morphed from Shirley Temple into Cher.  Yet, even then, there were drawbacks.  Straight hair comes with its own set of rules.  It couldn’t rain, have the slightest hint of humidity or any air moving faster than the speed of a snail or little Orphan Annie was back again.  But I soon came to realize that the only person at 50+ years who can have hair like Cher’s  and still look good is Cher.  So it was back to the drawing board and not the ironing board.

The next phase involved various hair twists and turns---a cacophony of styles designed to match facial weight gains and losses---Audrey Hepburn pixie haircut, Kate Middleton long haired “do” with barrette at crown, American Indian braids, short, long and everything-in-between bangs and finally, what
I have today, post-menopausal teen-ager with pony tail.  It is like being on a pilgrimage to find the Holy Grail.  My head needs a traffic cop.  Vidal Sasson,where are you when we need you????

 I had resigned myself to being at the mercy of churlish curls but then realized that the longer the hair, the less the curl.  This is the only instance in space and time where, for a woman, weight is a good thing.  And just when the curls and I had made peace with one another, what did I see as I gazed into the mirror?  Was that a grey hair?  Several grey hairs???  Oh, no!! Now that the curl girl had been sent to greener pastures, her kissin’ cousin, color------GREY color had reared its ugly head.  You just can’t seem to win.

through the halls of the Viking king

I never met a Viking I didn't like  .Well, at least in the theoretical sense..  I mean, for a woman what could be better than the thought of some god-like muscle bound man of adventure  and courage  going off into the sunset in a blaze of glory-------  blond- haired blue- eyed Adonises conquering everything within their domain.  How powerful!! How romantic!!   The truth of the matter is most Vikings were farmers and tradesmen ....farmers who resurrected the bounty of the earth and tradesmen  who crafted their wares for trade and profit    I guess the latter is in their DNA.

This sense of craftmanship has traveled over the centuries, hewn from primitive offerings to modern accoutrements.   It has been placed on the altar of a new god....one that can often be unforgiving....the all powerful...all present .....sometimes frustrating  and often infuriating god of  IKEA!!

Are the Viking gods enacting revenge on us mere mortals??....Is the Sweden of a time long gone giving karmic payback for lands unconquered..  ..vanquished kings....unfaithful courtesans??..Things may be 'rotten in Denmark' but Sweden's flaming arrow launched across the seas and landing in veritably every shopping mall in America has caused more angst for more people than any scorch and burn march of a tribe of plundering Vikings

And what is their greatest weapon......??   The Ikea instruction manual!! The clean, crisp, very organized look of their furniture  is really a cover to lure you into their world of missing parts, and unclear diagrams.   Did I know that Gilda Blom and Gilda Kvall were variations of an Ikea rug and not two Swedish cousins?... that Jonsobo Barby was a lamp and not someone Ken was having an affair with ?  or that alsvik is a faucet, fyndig a sink, and ektorp a chair?

So first and foremost IKEA catalogues should come with the service of a personal shopper trained at the Berlitz school of languages.  Anyone who has purchased something at Ikea knows exactly what I am talking about.... Yet there is something  even more paramount than deciphering the language so you're  sure the chair you want  is the chair you're getting.  And that is the need to march up and down the aisles, navigate the territory, find the correct place for your "treasure" and have the strength of 10 men to lug the box to the cashier.    Does this marching along, staking out your territory and claiming your plunder sound familiar? 

 Then ....the moment of truth....the lines are drawn  and.the war begins.... you proceed to carefully review what looks like a  chip laden Las Vegas gaming table.. big screws, little screws...large washers small washers and a garden variety of rounded and   angled pieces. The ever present metal L shaped device to screw items into place awaits and with untold optimism  you begin.

Small left screw to left plank...washer and large right screw to metal clamp    ...triangle shaped plastic piece to four corners of base... large tube to .....what!!! what large tube??...you don't remember needing a large tube....and so you scramble through the mess to find the crumpled instructions and the first thing you see is the little instructional figure with a big X over it.  You just did what they told you not to do.

So after carefully  ripping open all those little plastic bags , meticulously laying out  every screw and widget and  spending   hours of trying to figure out why  the chair that you thought you had bought and was  putting together is starting to look  like a table, you have reached the point of  madness.

 Somewhere in Valhalla I can almost hear the sound of Viking laughter.

      

down to the cellular level

"He did WHAT with the chicken??? I can't believe it"  " If she doesn't tell her boss to go F... himself then she deserves the office near the boiler room"    "Leave me alone and don' t call me again....What! two tickets to see Lady Gaga?    weeelllllll, ALRIGHT ,  you can call me!!!......   Somebody free associating???   Somebody having a break with reality???    NO!.... just the garden variety types of conversations you might hear walking anywhere in the city of New York or frankly any city....or any office...or any bus...or any ladies room ...or any church ...or any anywhere....You get my drift???

Why is that most owners of cell phones feel they have to right to bring you into their world kicking and screaming  against your will.......who gives a shit that somebodies great aunt sadie is 85, in a nursing home and running buck naked to the men's floor for a little afternoon delight...or at least a feeble attempt at said activity.  And the quiet little neighbor that  timidly greets you in the hallway when you see her....why does she feel the need to sound like a human boom box the moment she gets on her cell phone.   "Pardon me miss, could you talk louder i just got a call they can't hear you in Wyoming."

I remember once being on a public bus in Italy....and I do not know if people were waiting for the bus to start or it was some pre-planned idea but the moment the driver threw the bus into drive there was a simulateous clicking of flip phones opening which scared the living daylights out of me  and for the next half hour....it was like traveling in a mobile IBM.....there is not an office on this earth that had the chatter level of that bus!!!

Or go to dinner with a group of people....what do you see??? Instead of engaging in conversation with the very people in front of them who are practically sitting on their laps, individuals have this "growth" from their ear that pre-occupies them for most of the meal...   They should have these things lanced!!

Don't get me wrong cell phones serve a useful purpose ..when you are lost...or in an emergency or if you forgot to tell someone something important....or if you are waiting for the results of your pregnancy test or the mechanic to tell you your car is ready and you can stop taking taxis and buses all over the place...they are really there to serve.

but when communication is relegated to a tiny little device  that really on some level separates  rather than connects.. then maybe the yelling into the phone is to prove you are really there.

everybody's got baggage

Getting ready for a trip can be somewhat daunting.  I know.  I've done it often.  But years ago, being unseasoned as a  traveler and not being held hostage by every conceivable airline fee known to man, I had the freedom to pack at will.  To give you an idea of what that meant, think Queen Guenivere treking across the Moors to spend her life with King Arthur.  I mean a gal just can't bring a toothbrush, deodorant and a change of underwear.  It would be safe to say that the number of my suitcases on  every trip rivaled any 19th century immigrant ship crossing the Atlantic.

I do remember only one time on a two month trip to Italy...that one airport agent got a little high handed..picky, picky, picky.  She had the audacity to want to charge me for the extra weight in my suitcase.  Even though I am not a tour type of person, this time, by divine intervention, I happen to be part of a tour.  Using every amount of logic I could muster, I was able to successfully unload part of my suitcase at the counter and convince a few members of the tour group to stuff some of the things in their carry on bags....bras, bags, undies went flying and a few other objects which to this day I still cannot identify.  But at least I was able to get on the plane without spending one extra penny....Oh there is no satisfaction like that in the world!!!

As years went by and the trips increased the number of items got fewer.....but not exponentially.  I mean for me to eliminate one blouse that  I wore in kindergarden was a big deal but at least, I was trimming things down a little bit.  And every so often I added one more item to the minus pile(Oh!... all right, I'll admit it ....the damn thing didn't fit me anymore!!)  But I do know I am getting better at airports.  Perfect example ... the trip from Russia to London.

On that trip I had hurt my knee so had to go through security in a wheelchair.  When the security guard patted me down with a little white cloth (believe it or not, they use this to test for explosives) all I could think of  was "Lady, after eating some of that Russian food, if you are looking for explosives you are testing the wrong end!!  No one gave  thought to the big bottle of  Russian vodka stuffed into my bag.  I guess Russians consider traveling with this a necessity.

Unfortunately , the English do not.  Soooooooo when I got to Heathrow airport, I was told, because of some customs issue, to throw it out or drink it. Well you know how I am about discarding anything from my luggage!!  But with a little ingenuity and charm, I was able to convince the agent that this was needed for "medicinal"purposes.  Guess who got to take her vodka on board?

I guess my days of being a traveling pack rat are not over; now let's see..... do you think I can still get that small ironing board into my suitcase????

the wash and goulash

I, like many individuals live in an apartment building where the ebb and flow of the laundry room can change on any given day.  Sometimes you are peacefully alone reading a good book to the rhythm of the washing machine and sometimes, usually Monday or Friday, the place is jam-packed and the only thing missing is a take-a-number machine.  I try to avoid both days. Tuesday or Wednesday sounded like a good option so that is when I attempt to make a foray into the land of stains and socks and not-enough-quarters.

This day was a Tuesday and for some unknown reason the place was rockin' ...I mean it was like almost being in a Waring blender; people were coming and going, going and coming and you had to have the speed of an Olympic runner to get to the machine if you were next in line.  Things were cool...no problems...everybody's rhythms were in sync and the wash was loaded and unloaded in an almost choreographed fashion.....however, there were a few dryers in particular where the party in question did not come back in a timely fashion and as I am usually prone to do I waited for a 5 to 10 minute grace period.  In 21 years in this building,it was not uncommon to see others, myself included remove clothes when a machine is finished and neatly put them in a laundry cart so as to keep all machines going. Never a problem....after waiting the appropriate time, I took out one machine;s worth of dried clothing.   Fifteen minutes later,  a woman enters and yells at the top of her foreign accent  " WHO TOOK MY CLOTHES OUT OF THE MACHINE"!!!!!! Of course, knowing that this was common practice and heretofore had never been an issue I said "I did"........big mistake....

What followed was a tirade of epic proportions.  I tried to keep her calm but on and on she went until, having had enough, I said in my most soft, professional and firm voice..."Madam, you are just stupid"
Hold onto your girdles as that unleashed round two!! Finally she left, only to return 15 minutes later and without provocation from me,,,,started in again...Now, I  thought to myself we have a nut on our hands. But that wasn't the half of it, as before she left the second time, she issued an omninous threat.

I understood from the doorman, Tuesday is her favorite washday....so no more Tuesday washes for me but it was still unnerving and I kept looking over my shoulder whenever I went to the laundry room.  She and her family were renters and were to move on June 15th...all I had to do was hold my breath and stay out of her path.

But one still has to go get the mail, which I did, and again in the presence of the mailman and out of the blue she started a tirade in the lobby in full view of others.  Now, I was getting nervous..When is this nut going to leave? and what do I do in the meantime?  go down to the river and beat my clothes against a  rock to do the laundry?  So I reported her to management and told them they better beef up their vetting process as we don't need any more UFL's in the building(Unidentified Flying Laundress).

Between this and several other stresses in the last few months I thought it was time to plan a vacation  for the end of June.....a real get-away-from-it-all.   Something interesting and far away. That is what I did which provided some amount of good news in the midst of weeks of various types of stress.

Yesterday......the doorman greets me with  "Jackie, do you want to hear some good news?" " Of course," I responded....."Your crazy neighbor left today lock, stock and barrel"  "Did she also take her devil horns with her"? I joked outwardly ....but inwardly was filled with a real sense of relief.

"Where are they moving go"? I asked further hoping that it was nowhere near the Bronx.  "Oh, they are going to live permanently in their new house upstate, but in the meantime while her husband sets it up, she  took her daughter back to her original home for two months to visit relatives"   Remembering her accent I asked "Where is that?"  "Budapest, Hungary"

Guess where I made my vacation plans.

the moons' effect

You know what they say about people when the moon is full...."all the crazies are out"..I never really believed that until I worked as an administrator for psychiatry in a public hospital OR until last Tuesday.  24 hours of pure unadulterated lunacy!!

They also say "things happen in threes" ...I  MUST find out who "THEY" are because "they" are right on both counts.

Scenario #1... was.in a local bank patiently waiting my turn in line when  the woman ahead of me starts complaining about  "Why did I get off this line? that woman got in front of me!! why do I always choose the wrong line?"  Well, in my most compassionate voice and in an effort to calm her down, I said.."Miss, I hope that this is the worst thing that ever happens to you "  .   Usually that is met with .."You're right" and the offended party immediately gets a heavy dose of perspective.  But, OH NO!! not this nut, who immediately started yelling "Dont teach me anything....I don't need any lessons from YOU "  to which my knee jerk answer was...OH BUT YOU DO!!! you are rude"   ...... as she stormed off into the sunset...I thought that was the end of it until a few days later when I  went to the gym to de stress......... guess who was next to  the only machine available? Now what is the likelihood of that!

Scenario # 2 I am in Staples buying some items and I see a woman slip something in her purse after which I asked "Is that yours?: fully expecting John Quinones from channel 7's "What Would You Do?" to come out with microphone and cameras blazing and complimenting me at my effort regarding moral rectitude. But, is that what happened?  Not on your life!! What happened was that I unleashed a Pandora's Box of  exponential lunacy that continued unabated as this woman followed me around the store, yelling and screaming as I tried to shop...Just visualize a mother duck followed closely by a duckling and you get the picture. However in this case the duckling was the AFLAC duck ranting and raving right to the check out line.  All of a sudden I remembered that no one else but me was in the aisle when she was doing her dirty deed and so I said to her, in front of the small crowd that had gathered.."Lady I do not know what you are talking about . I have never seen you before. Why on earth do they let crazy people in this store?"........ She stopped....but only for minutes as she waited for me at the door.  To delay my exit I pretended  to be looking at something at which point she accused ME of stealing..  First the bank lady now this!!!  'Yes, you're right I'm stealing!  Hey, everybody look at me, I'm stealing" were words I heard coming out of my mouth.  Well, she must have thought I was crazier than she was and so she left.....must remember that tactic for the future.

Scenario #3.   I like to do the laundry...sit quietly in the laundry room when , hopefully no one is there and read a book..it is relaxing....It is also perfectly acceptable when all the machines are in use to remove clothing if the party in question is not there and their laundry is done....acceptable that is,only if the launderer in question is normal and not some wild Hungarian woman BELLOWING in a 2x4 space labeled a laundry room.. After 10 minutes of attempting to ignore her, I did feel compelled to inform her ...solely for purposes of clarification...of the nature of her behavior.  But I guess telling her she was stupid  may not have been the best use of a  word.  I always carry my cell phone there but in an attempt to get the doorman to my rescue,  the cell phone was nowhere to be found ....things got a little dicey and  she exited  with very threatening words as to 'I should wait to see what she is going to do etc etc.'.....in moments like this when the safest place is to jump into the washing machine and slam the lid over your head...it is never never good to get mad.............................................just get even. So Miss Hungarian Crazy Renter will be the subject of the next board meeting to wit a beautifully, skillfully and silently tendered letter has been sent  describing her in all her glory....put that in your goulash sister and smoke it !!!

And to think this all happened in the space of 24 hours!!......Could the moon be that powerful??...unless of course these three are genetically tied to the same family tree in which case it is time to call in a gardener to do some serious pruning.