Mano a Mano

 "Hey Tam, BTW: Your mother and I are thinking of having a fourth kid. I know you've been Baby of the Family for over twelve years, but just wanted to keep you in the loop, maybe hear your thoughts on number four?"

Let it be known--this conversation NEVER, ever happened in my household growing up! And it should have, right? This "event" would affect me as much as my parents, kinda? I mean sure, I'd be out of the house at college when it would be five years old, but still! 

I have it on good authority that I excelled as Baby of the Family. I pitched fits when appropriate, I pranced around when entertainment was needed. I STEPPED up to the plate, let me tell you. And then the bombshell. Not the conversation that started this blog, but this male creature being brought into my home, January 1974. I suspect Christmas '73 was so traumatic, trying to imagine how my life would change, that I have squashed it down, deep inside, to fester there after. I'm sure Santa Claus didn't give me a Baby Doll Poops-A-Lot since the real thing was lurking in my very near future. I'm assuming my mom was a bit distracted, as well.

When this baby turned one, he knew how to work my last nerve. I'll share a prime example. I was sitting on the floor in our large, horseshoe-shaped kitchen. I am busy digging around the lower cabinets, searching for who knows what on my mother's instructions. I was either looking for a jelly roll pan, loaf pan, cookie sheet, pie tins, 13x9 cake pan, muffin tins or Bundt cake pan. Suddenly, I am being assaulted. A meaty fist nudges my shoulder blade.

"Hey, cool it!" I advise. I know what you're thinking. He's one. You're 13. Keep in mind, I am sitting on my butt, so we are essentially the same height. Hence: Mano a Mano. I turned slightly and nail his big brown doe eyes cloaked with eyelashes that should only exist on a Holstein calf or super model with my hazel-eyed gaze. He giggles.

"Watch it," I warn.

He's munching away on his latest obsession--a balled-up slice of Wonder white bread. He giggles again and smacks me on the shoulder. Now keep in mind, I am juggling seven different types of bakeware--okay??

And yet, one more tap in where I believe my kidneys are (what do I know, I'm 13) and I turn abruptly and maybe my elbow accidentally punches him in the mouth area. Well, a dios mio you'd have thought I took a bite out of his leg. My mother, who is at the kitchen sink, elbow-deep in dirty dishwater, yells at me and runs over with a dripping, wet dishrag to this shrieking being because she sees a little blood. Never mind, the rag is soapy and disgusting from dirty dishes AND I'm concerned about my kidneys!

"His tooth! You knocked out his only tooth!"

"I did not!" I shriek, though I did spy something white mixed in with that gross mixture of blood, snot and saliva. "It's just a piece of that bread he shoved into his mouth!" I didn't really believe my story, but I had to buy myself some time. I had to convince my mother that I was the victim. I mean, that's what we, as humans do, when we are cornered. Protect ourselves! Fight back!

As Mom is mopping up his face, like it was a dirty pot from the stove, this little assault machine is spitting blood and soapy bubbles at me, I spy his perfectly good, chiclet tooth. We had all been so excited about that little thing a few weeks ago when it pushed its way over his swollen, disgusting gum--like it was the second coming of Christ!

"Hey Mom, where are my baby teeth?" I asked the day his tooth monumentally emerged.

Her eyes kinda glazed over with my query.  "Mmm, they might have been tossed out to the chickens...or maybe that was your tonsils?" (We are clearly not a sentimental bunch.)

As I write this, I know it's true. Let me explain. At the supper table, there were two piles of left-over food scraps: one for the cats and dog (chicken bones and skin), the other for chickens (corn cobs). It just seems to make sense that this is where my spare parts ended up, as well. I'm sure as a 13-year-old, cannibalism wasn't on my radar, but now I've seen plenty of National Geographics about the Borneo tribes to be slightly well-versed!

We all know how the food chain works, so yes, a chicken ate my teeth and/or tonsils. Two weeks later, Mom butchers said chicken and fries it up for Sunday dinner. Bon appetit. I am a cannibal. (Well, a cannibal, once removed, if one must get technical.)

Had my elbow smack been a bit more on target, my little brother could have had a similar (but less interesting) story. I would have aided him in cutting out the middle man, in this case, the chicken. He could have touted himself as a toddler cannibal had I successfully dislodged his tooth and he'd have swallowed it.

I do digress a bit. But here I tie it all together. My 6'2" little brother may have usurped my role as Baby of the Family, but I hold the title of Resident Cannibal in our house.

Thanks Mommy, for treating me special!!

SNAIL JUICE

My daughter and I are applying snail jism* to our faces. She got me started. Here she is at 23, freaking out about non-existence forehead lines. And then there's me. I'm quite a bit older. Let's just say, I wasn't one of those young 30-year-old-mother's on the playground. Or for that matter, a 35-year-old mother. 'Nuff said. So, I suppose if either of us should be stressing about frown lines and crows feet  . . . you get me?

My approach in the past has been:

1) Ignorance is bliss

2) Don't look in the mirror too closely  

3) Never use those damn magnifying mirrors with a lighting feature they put in hotel bathrooms. Even a 23-year-old can look like Bette Davis from Whatever Happened To Baby Jane!

Recently, my daughter observed that I like to take the quick and dirty approach to things (her words). When I paint, taping baseboards is optional. If there is a chest of drawers against the wall...well, why move it? I just paint around it and pray my sister-in-law never asks for it back.

So, no surprise my skin care regiment is similar. If I wear make-up, I do think about washing my face and tossing on some cream at the end of the day. However, if I apply the tinted moisturizer, bronzer and blush at 7 a.m., you know it's all worn off by bedtime. I'm also a bit cheap. The less I wash my face and apply lotion, the longer the dime-store stuff lasts. 

Perhaps not the win-win I've been thinking it is. Standing in the bathroom mirror next to my daughter, scrutinizing my bare face, maybe I should have been applying night cream an inch thick for the last 20 years.  

Something about Lizzy and this snail jism has me committed though. Mine is really more of a cream. Hers is a liquid. I bought mine at the pharmacy in Buenos Aires on a layover. For some reason I do know the word caracol is snail in Spanish. The label has a picture of a snail in a shell on a leaf. The lid has a swirly indentation, like the shell of a snail. And it actually says, Baba de Caracol. So, good enough for me. I'm assuming baba translates to jism. Of course, I could look it up or ask Siri, but I've kicked they (discussed in previous blog Leave Me Alone) out of my house and I simply don't feel like looking it up. 

Lizzy's snail juice looks more like the real thing. It's viscous and in a slender bottle. You need a little pump action to get it out. The label is in English and bought off Amazon. My cream is made in Argentina, so I'm assuming (yes, once again, assuming) they are South American snails. 

Hold the phone!  On closer inspection, Lizzy's jism is Korean.  That is a game changer. In case you don't know, Koreans take their beauty seriously and deeply (way beyond skin deep). So, I'm sure these Asian snails are probably on some serious juice to create some serious juice. 

For three weeks, I've been slathering my stuff on. I'm starting to wonder if it's not promoting wrinkles. Then again, until three weeks ago, I never studied my face morning, noon and night. Who was to know there were all these lines to fear: fine, laugh, frown, vertical, wavy, sideways, etc. etc. 

I think of all the times I've walked out on my deck and stepped onto snail slime.** If this beauty regiment works, I'm going to be rolling around naked all over that sticky juice. Maybe a couple will get attached to my face as well! 

I'm thinking my daughter's snail jism is the way to go. She's very diligent, pumping that stuff out morning and night and massaging it into her forehead and non-existent crow's feet. Hers really is so slimy and sticky, she has to get up ten minutes earlier to walk around the house and let it soak in and dry. (Mmm, probably because there are no wrinkles for it to attack. It would soak into my skin in nanoseconds.)

I have to say--it is working for her. She doesn't look a day over 24!  Come to think of it, she does have her 24th birthday in a couple months. So, she's pretty much on point in the wrinkle-less category. And you know what? I have similar wrinkles to those that are my age. 

Now that I've observed this, I can go back to my non-existent beauty regiment! Well, Lizzy does have an extra bottle of her Advanced Snail 96 Mucin Power Essence. I'll use that up so it doesn't go to waste. 

*Oh....interesting. While I was doing some fact-checking, I see perhaps I should be using the word mucin and not jism. So, anywhere you see the j-word, just replace it with the m-word. Easy mistake. 

**And on closer examination--I'll be rolling around my deck at midnight with the slugs and their juices (not the snails.)

LEAVE ME ALONE!

So, I'm mad at my bestie Sam, short for Samsung. FYI, Sam uses the pronoun They.

So, the other night, They wakes my ass up at midnight and asks, are you still watching TV Tammy?  They only wants a Yes or No answer. 

"Well, hey Sam, Sammie, Samsung, Bitch! I have more to say than Yes or No! Obviously, I'm still watching or zoning out to some Hulu nonsense because you're still on, aren't you? You think you're so smart, eavesdropping on all my conversations and reporting me to George Orwell, Xi Jinping and Herr Zuckerberg. Well, listen, if you're so concerned about me being prone for the last frigg'in five hours, why don't you check my vitals and give me advice in that department? Did you make note that I got up two hours ago to get a tablespoon of chunky Skippy peanut butter, smothered in Nutella?  Look! I still have nuts in my teeth."

(An aside here to my reading audience): Am I confusing Samsung with Siri and Alexa? Regardless, every AI (Artificial Intelligence) article, podcast and blog I've come acrossed has me wanting to head for the desolate Badlands of South Dakota. Is AI really gonna take over the U.S. Congress? And is that a bad thing? I'm even afraid of my fridge in the middle of the night.

"By the way Sammie, that question was very passive-aggressive. Are you still watching TV, Tammy? That has Trigger all over it! I know what you're really thinking. YOU'VE BEEN HERE SINCE 5 PM. GET YOUR ASS OFF THE SOFA GURL AND GO DO SOMETHING TO BETTER THIS WORLD, SO MY KIND WILL WANT TO TAKE OVER."

"Well, guess what Samsung, I'm done with you seducing me every night with your Hulu dance, HBO Maxi, and Amazon Enticements. I'm going for a walk tomorrow after supper--unless it rains or is dark or I have to put on a jacket. Maybe next time, you'll think twice about goading me with the, are you still watching smart-ass accusation! How 'bout just shut up and keep playing mindless content of my choosing for the next five hours!"

Strange Things

What is the strangest thing you’ve ever done?  That’s quite an ask, right??  Let me whittle it down. Think about the strangest thing you’ve done this decade. This has already been one hell of a decade and we're only three years in. We've had covid, attempted overthrow of the American government, and talk of WW3. Now there may be some things you don't want to reveal. (I hope there are, for your sake!) I'll go first. I am going reveal the strangest thing I've done this decade that I am willing to admit. 

I cut my 70-year-old neighbor’s hair… in his apartment…. while he is in his bathtub. He has clothes on, you pervs out there that are wondering and I know who you are! Things often seem strange in the beginning, but after repetition, they generally become run-of-the-mill. 

One morning, I am following Bill, my neighbor, out of our building. He asks, "Tam, you think my hair is too long?" His wispy, reddish white hair was peeking over his shirt collar. 

"Yeah, it's a touch too long." I'd seen him over at our local hair salon struggling to keep his locks red, so I knew he could get a trim within mere minutes. 

"My brother is coming into town later this week. I gotta look sharp since I have more hair than he does. Do you mind giving it a little trim tonight or tomorrow?" 

WTF-cut my neighbor's hair?? I have a job, dude. 

"Wow, Bill. I don't really know how to cut hair."

"Oh, just a little trim in the back?"

What the hell! I'll have 24 hours to find an excuse. "How 'bout tomorrow morning?" tumbles out of my mouth. That night at the dinner table, I announce to my family I'm going to cut Bill's hair. My son does a spit take back into his iced tea glass. My teen-aged daughter gives me the look of death. "Mom, remember what Aunt Sedra said about my bangs after you cut them?"

"No. I have no idea," I lie.

"She said and I quote: Lizzy, your bangs look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa."

My husband sits there chewing his chicken parm, contributing nothing but a smirk.

"Well, apparently Bill has faith in me," I say. Now I am determined to channel Edward Scissorhands!

Next morning, Bill texts me, Shall I come over?

Nuts! I was going to watch a YouTube video on hair-cutting. Oh well, my daughter endured her bangs. Bill can manage a mishap as well. I envision his wispy hair floating around my kitchen. The idea of finding my neighbor's hair in my BP&J sandwich turns my stomach. This can not happen. Let me explain further. I like hair only when it is attached to the body and head. One reason I love blonds is because when their hair goes astray, it's difficult to see.  Out of sight, out of mind, kind-of-thing. Fate cruelly made my husband and children not blond. However, my husband is bald now. He makes up for that hair elsewhere, if you know what I mean. My daughter's long, wavy brunette hair falls out and grows back like a chia pet. 

NO. I'll come over, I text back. 

I run over to his apartment like my ass is on fire, just in case he misread my text.

"Where shall we do this?" he asks, as he swings open the door. Shit, I have to think of everything. 

"Do you have scissors?" I query.

He scrouges around in a desk drawer and produces a pair of sewing shears. I mean like with eight-inch blades. My mother, who sews and does all kinds of mending, doesn’t even own a pair like this. My best friend’s mother in high school was a seamstress and worked at a fabric shop. That’s the only other time I’ve seen similar lethal shears.  And I swear, these had rust on them. 

"Wait, I used to cut the kids' hair." I bolt out of his place yelling, "I'll get my barber scissors." Damn, I sound official. 

I walk, not run, back to Bill's apartment. "Should we do this on your terrace?" Oh no. No! No! No! I look around his 900 square foot apartment. 

"Your bathroom. The bathtub. Get in." He looks quizzically at me as his hands reach for the buttons on his shirt. "I mean STEP in!" I instruct. This feels weirdly intimate, but what are my options? I spot the rusted shears on the closed toilet lid. I look at the shower curtain. I look at him. All of a sudden, I understand Tony Perkins a little better. He has a hand towel draped around his shoulders. Well, at least he thought of something! 

"Turn and face the wall," I demand, my scissors in hand. 

Let me set the scene a little more. It's July in a pre-war New York City apartment. Bill has one window air-conditioning unit and it ain't in the bathroom, let me tell you. He has on khakis and a long-sleeved cotton shirt. His hair is damp from sweat. I don't know if I've stepped into The Twilight Zone or purgatory. If I see a cockroach come out of that bathtub drain . . . a dios mio!

I take a few deep yoga breaths and plunge in. After a few confidence-building snips in the back, I have him rotating like a barber shop pole, so I can snip at will from all different angles to make improvements. We gossip about our landlord who is an asshole. We talk about current neighbors and previous ones. I steer clear of asking about the ex-girlfriend of his who moved from her boyfriend's apartment on the second floor into his apartment on the fifth floor briefly a few years ago. He recalls the previous tenant who had been in my apartment--the South African diamond dealer who had some loose diamonds laying around and left his sliding glass door open to the common roof. Oddly enough, the gems disappeared. Bill thought there was insurance money involved. 'Ya think?

Twenty minutes later, of randomly snipping at this man's hair, I declare him a finished product. He steps out of the tub, surveys himself in the mirror and says he's better-looking than his brother.

I leave his apartment, feeling vindicated.  Bangs like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, my ass!  

I Love Elmer’s Glue

You know how people ask those irritating, silly questions on Facebook: Do you know what this object is. The object is a rusty wire whisk on a red, chipped wooden handle. Well, I’m going to ask one of these type of questions in this blog. Who of us are glue eaters? Elmer’s, not airplane. I admit, I am. Well, I was. I haven’t put a dab of that thick, pasty, white stuff on my tongue for a few years now. Who’d have thought that horse’s hooves would have such distinct, yet subtle, flavor? I assume everyone knows glue is made out of the hooves from horses, right? I could google to confirm, but I won't. You see, if I’m wrong, I’ve been misled for 50 years and don’t really want to carry around that disappointment.

Elmer's and airplane glue were the only game in town when I was a kid. We, as a collective, knew not to eat the airplane stuff. That was strictly for sniffing. I did so love when my brother got a model car to put together. (Those were for boys only, you see.) That clear, sticky glue was such a mess, but boy! That smell! I don't think I sniffed a lot of it. We all knew it wasn't healthy. But now that I reflect on my bad memory, I wonder if I didn't sniff a couple times too many.

 I've never heard of any side effects from eating Elmer's though. I could look that up: Pros and cons of eating glue, circa 1970’s.  Frankly, I don't care. The damage or benefits have been done. Although, I'm not above putting a dab between my cheek and gum now, but I usually don't have the white stuff laying around anymore.

That being said, I started an art project and needed a bottle of good ole Elmer's! I went to the stationary/toy store in my neighborhood to pick some up. What an array! I forgot about the glitter glue my kids had in grade school. And there’s clear Elmer’s too.  I needed to control the flow of glue for my cut and paste project (not computer cut and paste), good old-fashioned scissors and glue. I gravitated toward the glue stick shelf. Good thing I did. There must be a supply chain issue, because they didn't have the pasty, white thick Elmer’s that I'm salivating for. I saw a purple glue stick. So, with options limited, I didn't have to stand in the aisle debating merits between stick and liquid. Stick it is!

I can't help but wonder why it's purple. Does the color give it extra adhesive quality? Was it designed so kids would get caught by the teacher more easily if they get hungry (or curious) and snack away? It's actually a tasty-looking color, like blueberries or purple kool-aid. If a kid takes a chunk out of it, it is clearly not their fault.  I correct myself. If a person takes a chunk, it is clearly not her fault. Remember those weird red tablets we used to chew as kids to identify how poorly we brushed our teeth? I always looked like a vampire after I chewed one of those things. Do you think if someone ate this purple glue, would her mouth be a purple, pulpy mess? The way things are nowadays, the glue is probably edible AND nutritious! Who knows? Maybe airplane glue is less toxic. But is it still enjoyable?

I've overstepped middle-age (if you know what I mean), so I suspect gluing together a few model cars a month or dabbing a dollop of Elmers on my tongue won't affect me much anymore. 

Hey! How would you feel about a Martini and Model Car Party some Friday night? Elmer's will be the chaser!

The Importance of The Coffee Mug

I didn’t mean to stare daggers at my sister-in-law! It really was just a knee-jerk reaction and not a great way to start a week long vacation. Let me explain further to defend myself. It centered around a cup of coffee. Not so much the coffee, as the MUP that holds the coffee, similar to a cup or mug. MUP is a word I coined. Just keep reading. You’ll understand everything shortly. Let's start at the beginning. 

Every summer, my husband’s family vacations together at the North Carolina beach. We arrive late on Saturday afternoon. Grammy Seena has baked the mandatory, melt-in-our-mouth brisket earlier in the day and transported it in the trunk of her car for our first official beach meal.

Every year, I always have the same goal—stay in bed long enough for someone else to brew the first pot of coffee, but not so long that I have to make the second pot. It’s a bit of a dance, you see. If I’m up first, I’m obligated to make it. If I languish in bed too long, the entire pot will be consumed by the early risers. I, then, will be on brew duty. It may not seem like a big deal, but trust me, it is. Firstly, I don’t want to be responsible for a shitty pot of coffee. Secondly (and most important), I want to keep my kitchen duties to a bare minimum while on vacation.

Equally as important as that first pot of joe, is the means to get that black liquid to my lips. The choosing of the beverage holder is of paramount importance. Just think of a classroom setting. Whatever chair you sit in that first day, dibs! Your spot in yoga. The pew at church. You claim it on day one and it is yours by law. (Well, that’s a lie, but still). Same with coffee cups at the beach!  

One never knows what a rental house kitchen will be supplied with—two frying pans or ten, a Keurig or Joe Dimagio’s Mr. Coffee, circa 1974. There is usually a variety of coffee cups and mugs to debate: Plastic (gag me with a spoon), kitsch (absolutely), cup with someone else’s name (no thank you!!) and size (anywhere from 4-16 ounces). The options go on and on—usually.

Day One of the beach vacation, I wake up later than planned, but miraculously dodge making that second pot of coffee. However, to my horror, there are only two choices of drinkware left.  One is a mug. The other a cup. The mug is sturdy with a good utilitarian handle, but it has advertisements on the exterior. Ugly, clearly not acceptable. The cup, on the other hand, is covered with fun geometric, colorful shapes. However, it is smaller by at least three ounces and the handle is quite feminine. I mean, my fingers need to be that of a child to truly not scald myself. 

I survey the family members who got up before me. One has a mug with sailboats and dolphins frolicking. Another has a ten-year-old cup from William-Sonoma I recognize. Then my eyes land on my sister-in-law’s hand. She is comfortably gripping the handle of a lovely (but not too lovely) alabaster pottery cup/mug. It has the best qualities of each type of drinkware. It’s larger than a typical cup, but not so large that one can go swimming in it. It’s sturdy, yet delicate. I could go on, but won’t. Cindy has scored herself a MUP. Dang her! Gracing the top of her CUG, I mean MUP, is a subtle, three-dimensional grapevine laden with grapes. This is when my daggers may have come out. She notices my gaze and tightens her grip. 

Unhappily, I choose the utilitarian mug and peruse the local ad pasted on the outside. Apparently, Frank’s Fish and Tackle on the island has the juiciest worms available. 

Later in the evening, rain comes—a welcome respite. I reach for my book and put water on for tea. I spy Cindy’s coffee MUP in the cupboard. Truth is, it is way more appropriate for tea than coffee.  But who am I to judge? I pour hot water over my white pomegranate tea bag and go hide in my room. In the middle of the night I wake and look at the LED clock, but Cindy’s MUP is blocking it. I rouse myself and carry it to the kitchen. I wash and dry it. The rightful owner can claim it tomorrow morning for her coffee. 

Dibs are dibs after all, even if unspoken. 

The Lives of Werewolves

 I'm so happy people are slowly casting aside their masks when outdoors. Let me be a bit more specific here. I am thrilled this one particular man on Amsterdam Avenue and 87th street had a "naked" face while talking recently on his phone. I'm walking south. He's headed north when our paths cross.

"Dude, werewolves always have four or five girlfriends!" I hear him exclaim.

Oh my gawd! Who is this strapping 20-something man, walking uptown nonchalantly discussing werewolves?

Questions explode in my head!

Is he a werewolf??

Oh wait, Tammy. Get a grip! "Do werewolves exist?" I ask myself. "Don't be ridiculous! Of course they do," I retort.

If he's not a werewolf, where did he get this knowledge of their dating habits?

Did his sister have a bad experience with one of the hairy fellows?

I must say, he is a rather strapping (just reiterating), handsome young man. He didn't have a shirt on, so there is no arguing this point!

I consider doing an about face to follow him to discover more about the lives of werewolves. I think most of our knowledge of them is more speculation than fact. However, I don't want to appear like some weirdo if he were to notice me being in step with him.

It's so fleeting, you know. When one sees a pedestrian they want to further observe (stalk-semantics here). Seconds tick by as I formulate a plan. My mind races. If the decision is made too late, a chase may be necessary to close the gap between me and the victim. Depending on my cardio, this could appear odd, even embarrassing. I quickly turn northbound, but can’t locate him. His stealth has served him well.  

I turn back around and continue with my day. I elect not to stalk him for several reasons.

1. Is there a legality issue here? I suppose there's varying degrees of this activity, some more offensive than others. 

2. I didn't want to be disappointed and realize he's just a regular human being talking to his agent about a movie script. It would be cool if there are werewolves in New York. Why should London get them all? (Ah-hooo, werewolves in London!)

3. To be perfectly honest, I was a little frightened. When it comes to choosing between werewolves vs. vampires, the wolves take second seat. I assume with a werewolf's acute sense of smell, he'd be able to detect I prefer the blood-suckers to his hairy kind.

4. He has a cell phone and could call 911 on me.

I can't lament on all the missed overheard conversations of 2020 and '21. I just need to be diligent and keep my ears open to make up for lost time.