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. 

SCORING THE COVID VAX!

New Yorkers are competitive about everything! Restaurant reservations! Parking spots! Even Covid-19 vaccines!

I have a couple of friends (along with myself) that have turned getting the jab into a competitive game. We want the vaccine for the right reasons, but we want it ASAP and geographically convenient. Is that too much to ask for??

I know people living in rural areas and small towns have no idea what I'm talking about. How do I know this? I grew up in Kansas in a town of 1,200. In February 2021, I called the county health nurse where I grew up to ask about an appointment for my mother. I identified myself and asked if Mom could get on the VAX list. "Of course she can Tammy! I'll give her a call in a couple weeks." The jab happened, just like that!

A few weeks later, my sister informed me agricultural workers (AKA farmers) were eligible. I excitedly contacted my younger brother. I had the impression he was slightly reticent to jump on the vaccine band wagon. So, me being the older sister, decided he needed a virtual kick in the pants. A few calls and texts later, he reluctantly said I could make him an appointment. I held my tongue and gladly placed the call. I identified myself and could hear the puzzlement in the nurse's voice. "Didn't your Mom already get the vaccine, Tammy?"

 "Yes, but now I'm making an appointment for my little brother. I know. It's silly, me calling, considering he's 20 miles away and I'm 3,000!"

She paused and chuckled. "Oh yes, I know him. I'll give him a call soon."

THAT WAS IT! Done. Over. He walked into the clinic three weeks later and was back in his pick-up truck before the engine got cold.

SO: Here's my Covid Vaccine Saga! I didn't get "VAX" fever for myself until mid-February. I heard some of my colleagues had not only scored one jab, but both! I'd been on leave from work as a flight attendant, so I was out of the loop and not paying much attention to anything! 

One of my friends has her pulse on everything, including all things Covid-related. First off, she's in her 50's and doesn't fit any of the criteria for getting the shot early. She just collects information to dispense to others. She turns me on to various websites and phone numbers. I get my name on a stand-by list for "ready-to-be-discarded" vaccines. I get a confirmation text. I am 199,243rd on the list. I kid you not! 

I set criteria for myself. I'll travel to all five boroughs of New York City, Long Island and Westchester County. I wanted to keep my travel time below two hours, regardless if it's a drive or subway ride. The NY Vaccine Finder Website is populated with about 55 location sites. Fifty-two of the sites have the word "Fully Booked" next to them. I look at a map of New York State to see where all the cities and towns are. I've never heard of Potsdam, but it has vaccines. I consult Google Maps. It's over a six hour drive! Another town is offering shots at their airport! How efficient is that! But I don't want to expose myself even more to the virus by getting on a plane to get the vax! There's something wrong with that logic, right?? 

As I hit "refresh" on my screen, good things happen! The Javits Center in mid-town Manhattan changes from "Fully Booked" to "Available." I punch away. March 5: 2:45 pm, two appointments. I press continue. The slot disappears. Another date opens with three time slots. I pray and press. They disappear! I do this for 30 more minutes. It's like Whack-A-Mole and I am losing! 

My brother calls, trying to get sympathy because his arm is a little sore from the vaccine appointment that I made for him! I say nothing and take a break for the rest of the day from vaccine hunting.

Next morning, I wake up and decide to broaden my horizons, so to speak. Syracuse pops up as a vaccine site. My daughter attends college there. Let's think abut that: Mid-March in Syracuse, NY. Is there any possibility it won't be snowing? Oh, what the hell! I secure the appointment in two weeks and cross my fingers

A few days later, my husband and I are heading out the door to visit his dad. He admires punctuality above all else. Not surprisingly, so does my husband. I notice a text from my always-informed girlfriend.

Massive vaccine slots at Javits! Get on your computer!

"Eric! OPEN THE DOOR! I can get you an appointment!" His age group had recently opened up.

He grudgingly unlocks the door and I scramble to get my i-Pad and phone fired up to do some tag teaming.

"Text your dad. Tell him we'll be a few minutes late and WHY!" Of course, he already had.

While I'm securing an appointment, I decide to "improve" on my own vax status. Instead of a four hour drive, I'll make it a short subway ride!

My fingers fly over the keyboard, answering questions meant for my husband. Any optional questions get ignored. I get the phone going to secure my appointment for the same time slot.

SCORE! Two appointments in two days at the Javits Center!

An aside here--my husband commented while we were in line for 90 minutes, that he felt like we were in the sci-fi movie, Logan's Run. I had to agree.

Fast forward 2 1/2 weeks. My husband and I are in Florida and getting ready to return to NY for our next shot. I lament in my yoga class that I have to get on a plane to get the shot.

"Oh, no you don't," replies a fellow yogi. "I got my first one in Indiana and my second one down here in Florida."

"What??!!" It has been stressed over and over that we all must get the second shot where the first one is administered.

She gives me a couple of phone numbers. Well, one was for the Indiana Health Department, so that didn't help. While web-surfing, CVS Pharmacy popped up. "Do you need a first or second vaccine?" it inquires. Bingo!!

The closest available appointment is a three hour drive. I grab it. The next morning, I get back on the website and Lake Okeechobee pops up, a 1 1/2 hours drive. On the map, this lake is huge! I've been wanting to see it, plus I love saying "Okeechobee." I punch away on my keyboard and get awarded a time slot. My husband kept his NY appointment, so I am solo. Four days later: Road Trip! I pack my beef jerky and Life is a Highway blasts from my stereo! My second vaccine will soon be in my rearview mirror!

April 2021 rolls around. I mark my calendar and set the alarm for the morning my kids qualify to get their vax appointments. I get my daughter one in Syracuse, a few miles from her apartment. My son's criteria was: ASAP and any one of the boroughs.

"You have an appointment tomorrow." I pause for effect, "in Staten Island." He was thrilled! Then he google mapped the location. Let's just say if I write a blog about his vaccine day, it will be entitled: Xander's Vaccine Odyssey Into The Outer Depths of Staten Island.

May we all cast our masks aside by 2022!

When Can I Wear My Cheery Cherry Chip Lipstick Again?

 I miss wearing lipstick. Does that sound feminist (or anti-feminist)—wanting to alter or enhance my looks? I know it’s trivial, considering the Covid World we’re struggling to exit. 

Nevertheless, lipstick is the finishing touch to a canvas. And that canvas is my face. Pre-Covid, I would apply base make-up on my chin, cheeks forehead, etc. A slash of a contouring stick is dabbed (not rubbed!) under the cheek bones. You-Tube make-up tutorials swear this gives the illusion of thinness (envision Gisele Bündchen here).  A caress of blush/rouge on the apple of the cheeks give me a naturally healthy glow. Either that or I look like Bette Davis, circa 1962–Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I even have a make-up stick that I rub into the area above my eye brows! I have no idea what this accomplishes, other than less money in my bank account. Eye shadow, for me, has gone the way of the shoulder pad. I stroke mascara on my eyelashes and pause before the piéce de résistance!

I dramatically open my lipstick drawer. I mean all things related to lips: lipsticks, glosses and tints, lip shimmers and pastes, lip pencils and liners, lip crayons and filers, even lip masks and sugar rubs for maintenance. Date range of items is 2004-present. Except the Dr. Pepper lip smacker. That is circa 1979! No item ever gets tossed. One never knows when Exotic Raisin Mole or Cheery Cherry Chip Lips will be the antidote to a dreary mouth.

Christmas 2019, my older sister gives me a rectangular white tin box from Avon. You know—Avon, the cosmetic company that has been around for more than a century that brings beauty to every woman in America. For those of you that don’t know, Avon has employed saleswomen for decades that go door to door to offer their product to whomever will open that door. An aside here: my mother disliked the Avon lady. Well, that’s not true. Mom is a farmer, farmer’s wife and mother to four. She had no time to sit and peruse the glitzy Avon catalog and play with the samples the Avon lady brought to entice. But my ten-year-old sister and I adored all this fancy stuff, so we’d always let the lady in the house and go find Mom, whether she was on a tractor in the corn field or hiding out downstairs.

So, January 2020. Here I am  with a rainbow array of 50 itty, bitty trial-sized lipsticks in a white tin box labeled “Mistletoe Minis.” I can wear  a different color every day to work, to dinner, to the grocery store! The names made my lips quiver. Lollipop Lavender, Rougy Rosy Red, Misunderstood Merlot. Needless to say, I could go on and on forty-seven more times like this. As 2020 was ushered in, my lips were all dressed up with no place to go. For the remainder of the year, I did embrace the no make-up look.  I mean, what was the point?  Huey, my cat, appeared nonchalant whether I had make-up on or not to watch Netflix with him. 

My lipstick tin has been sitting on the counter, collecting a year’s worth of dust. Surely, we are just a few months away from disposing of our masks, right? When I say a few months, I know it could be fall, or winter even. 

In the meantime, I grab a tissue. I methodically wipe away the year’s worth of neglect and ease the tin open. Purple Party Passion, Sinfully Sinnamon, Raunchy Rust, and Marilyn Monroe Red greet my eyes. Finally, I spy an appropriate name for the evening, Cat’s Meow. I scrutinize my naked lips in the mirror. I bring the waxy stick to them and color like a six-year-old drawing a picture for her Mother’s birthday. I smile at myself. It is the little things in life after all, isn’t it? 

“Huey, what’s on Netflix tonight?”

Needlepoint Etiquette--Who Knew?

The Delray Beach Men's Professional Tennis Open happened this January! Take that Covid! Social distancing and masks required, but we tennis fans are known for manners and adhering to simple rules. (It’s not that hard!)

I'm a fan. I jump at the chance to go the US Open in Queens and Wimbledon in London. I have high hopes to see the French Open in Paris and the Rio Open (Hint: It’s not in Kansas City). In case you don't know, Reader, I’m a flight attendant, not a millionaire. I finagle  my work trips to these locales when the events occur. Most tournaments last two weeks and I’m thrilled to attend for a day or two. Any more than that, I get tennis neck (and a tad bored). I have two friends that, I’ll fictitiously call Rane and Jane.(I did not obtain their permission to be mentioned in my much-read blog.) They ADORE tennis. Jane works at the US Open, while her sister Rane, volunteers. When they aren’t assisting fans with seats or answering questions, they are watching matches. Any match. A player with no vowels in her name and seeded #222 gets as much of their adoration as Serena. (Well, not really true, but for this story, that’s what I’m saying). They may disown me for my recent activity at the courts. 

Back to Delray and the tournament. I slather myself with sun screen, turn my phone to vibrate, and pack my needlepoint (a kitschy project featuring an air stream trailer, palm tree, and flamingo-trés Florida). I like the 10 minute walk from my apartment to the tournament. I will admit, lots of heat or threat of rain keeps me home. During the first week, social distancing is not a problem. . .whatsoever. 

I sadly reiterate that tennis can be slightly boring. (Not golf boring! Lord! Nothing rivals that). Left. Right. Left. Right. My neck cramps! I know it’s bad when my inner dialogue debates which player sweats more. My neck needed a break (figuratively speaking), so I quietly slide out my needlepoint, lick the thread and feed it into the needle eye and stitch away. Just to educate you, the players have 25 seconds to serve the ball, 90 seconds between games, and two minutes between sets. (Now you know!) So, needlepoint really is a productive, unobtrusive activity that pairs nicely with rooting for your favorite player and contributing to the local economy. Right?

The challenge comes when I decide to move from the grandstands where there are about 20 people to the doubles match. Here, there are four fans scattered amongst three benches. The players are resting on chairs between sets on either side of the umpire’s raised throne. I reach to retrieve my needle point and make eye contact with one of the players. I mean, my hazel eyes lock on his lovely blue ones. That’s how close I am to the action (and consequently, inaction)!  I put myself in this player’s tennis shoes. How would I feel if I were out here getting chaffed and sunburnt for the crowd (us 4) and someone went to task on her stitching? I let my beakless flamingo sit quietly on the bench while I cheer for my favorite team. 

When I get home, I excitedly show my husband my needlepoint progress (accomplished during the grandstand match).

“I thought you were at the tennis?”

“I did, but you know—I got bored.”

“What!?? You did that during a match??!” He looks horrified at the canvas on the 2’ x 3’ wooden frame like it’s covered with flamingo droppings. His mouth opens to continue, but he's interrupted by a knock on the door. He shakes his head at me. “I hope it’s the tennis officials baring you from attending any more matches!”

“But I didn’t do it during the doubles!” I retort, defensively. I slide the needlepoint under the sofa cushion as the door swings open. 

2021 Calendar-Please Be Different Than 2020!

“Donna!” I gasp in a controlled panic. “When are the new calendars coming in?”

“Honey, you mean for the year that is still four months away?” She asks, incredulously. 

 For the last 30 years, every September, I start bugging the owner of my Mom and Pop store on the Upper West Side with the same plea.

The calendars sell out quickly, so I truly do need to stay on top of this!  We people in Manhattan are planners and apparently very busy. Well, until 2020 came to a screeching halt!  Dreamed-of vacations, dreaded doctor’s appointments, promised concerts and coffee dates were all crossed out and inserted into another month. And then scratched out, and penned onto yet another date and then another and . . .I know you know that you know that I know what I’m talking about!!!  

For the previous twenty-nine years, when the calendars do arrive in October, it’s a happy day! I am confident my type is the most popular so I live in fear of it selling out. I see My-Day-At-A-Glance and My-Week-At-A-Glance. Finally, I spy mine: My-Month-At-A-Glance! I pick it up excitedly, gasp at the price, but nevertheless, literally embrace it!  Don’t even suggest I go elsewhere to purchase my calendar. Or worse, order it on-line. My calendars must be purchased from Stationery and Toy World, UWS from Donna or her dad, Larry.

Little insight into my calendar and me. Remember that stuffed animal or scrap of blanket you had as a kid? Well, my calendar has replaced  my teddy and everyone around me knows it. Co-workers know not to engage me if they see my calendar in hand. My friends no longer snicker when I drag it out from my over-sized purse (to accommodate the calendar) to arrange our next outing. Now they just raise their eyebrows at each other.

Well, 2020 rolls around and I'm in a pickle. You see, my husband and I are part of the flock that migrated south due to covid. Frankly, we went from one shit show (NYC in March to Florida), to another. Unfortunately, the whole country and world managed to get wrapped up in the Corona manure pile. When October finally crawled into existence, I thought about asking my son who lives in NY to walk by the stationery store and buy my calendar. I didn’t even know if it was open! I envisioned his reaction. He’d roll his eyes as I dab mine and blab on about store loyalty and tradition. I don’t doubt that My-Month-At-A-Glance would have been delivered to my door, compliments of my son and Amazon. 

Well, NO THANK YOU!

I tearfully eyeball my local shops on Atlantic Avenue in Delray, where I am temporarily. I did a reconnaissance mission to one stationery store back in November. I was still hoping to return to NYC before the New Year, so I didn't make a purchase. I know you’re wondering what I've mixed into my Florida orange juice to consider going north. Eventually, (around Dec. 28) I decided to stay out of Cuomo-Land a while longer. 

One balmy January day in Delray, I put on my big girl panties and announce to my husband that I am going calendar shopping. He knows the solemnity of this outing (or he simply wants me out of the house) and wishes me luck.  

With trepidation, I push the door open to Hands Stationers. I appreciate the many useful and kitschy items on the shelves. A little kitsch is mandatory for it to qualify as a Mom & Pop store, as well as age (1934). Tucked away in a corner, I spy the upscale paper and calendar display. They even have a separate desk with an employee to assist if you’re purchasing engraved stationary. (Lovely to know there’s still a market!) 

As always, my heart starts to pound a little more quickly. Twelve whole months of mystery. Will I make it to Lake Como this year and chat up George? Is this the year I get my teeth cleaned? In six months, will these thirty extra pounds have melted away? It’s the excitement of the unknown! I scan the leather and non-leather covers, Helvetica and Courier fonts, worrying if mine is in stock. 

A teen-age girl squeal escapes my lips. I snatch up My-Month-At-A-Glance, check the price (another squeal because it’s cheaper than NY prices), and bring it quickly to my chest like a pair of Jimmy Choo’s unearthed at Filene’s Basement, circa 1988.  Having met my goal, I quickly turn the corner and see the woman who is in charge of engraving look at me quizzically. I briefly (I hope) share with her my happiness at buying a 2021 calendar and what it all means to me.

“Now what?” She asks kindly and shrugs. “What are you going to put into it?” 

I thought of covid. I thought of the elections. I thought of all the dusty, corked wine bottles that never got drank with my friends. “Well,” I said encouragingly. “I am scheduled to return to work sometime this year. I have a doctor’s appointment in February and I’m sure some sibling has a birthday in the next few months!” 

When I get home, instead of rushing to record all two entries, I lay my prized possession on my bedside table. Today, I finally sit down to make my first entry. January 25: Take Liz to college in my barely legible handwriting. A text from my daughter pops up as the ink is drying. School’s been pushed back til Feb! 

“Not again!” I shout to the heavens! I scratch out my first 2021 entry. How much of '20 is going to permeate into '21? This is a rhetorical question. Reader, do not respond! I take a deep breath and turn to the inside cover of my new My-Month-At-A-Glance 2021 calendar: And this too, shall f**king pass, I write with fingers crossed!

An aside: 2020 could have been so much worse for my family and me. I’m truly saddened it has been tragic for so many.  As always, be well.