Pool of Drool

 I love waking up in a pool of drool. Right? First thought: I really nailed that REM sleep. What did I do to earn this river of wetness on my cheek? Did I beat Roger Federer in tennis? Did I run a few eight-minute miles? Maybe I painted and wall papered the entire apartment and have no memory of it. More than likely, it was something as mundane as doing that extra load of laundry that exhausted me.

I'm sure when this happens to you, like for me, you think: Wait! Is this a sea of saliva that has me stuck to the bedding or did I get stabbed in the middle of the night? Could this be my blood bubbling out of me onto my freshly laundered, crisp white sheets? Sheet! I mean Shit! 

I do a few concentrated breaths. I slowly move my limbs and joints: finger, toe, elbow, ankle. I feel quite good. I'm pretty confident I've gone off the deep end with this blood idea.  Without even opening my eyes, I dismiss the theory that my husband stabbed me a little in the middle of the night because of the medium-rare chicken cutlets I served for supper. (He spent most of the night in the bathroom, so I don't think he had much strength left.) Full disclosure here, I watch a lot of Law and Order and Happy Valley.

As I lie here a couple more minutes, the wetness kinda starts to gross me out. Ick--my spit slithering all up and down my cheek and temple, even coating some of my eye lashes and a few strands of hair. (I am talking serious REM!) I pull my face off the pillowcase, swipe my hand on the wet mess and caress my husband's side of the bed. Lucky for him, he's not there. 

I just changed the bedding yesterday. I'm not doing it again--and I'm not mixing different sheets with different pillowcases! Don't even go there! I eye the dry pillowcase on the other side of the bed. What the hell! A quick switcheroo, saliva side up so it dries in the next 16 hours and he'll never know (unlike the cutlets last night). Note to you solo sleepers: If you can't stand the thought of laying your head on a pillowcase that was drenched in your drool, simply turn it over. By nighttime, the spittle scenario will be long forgotten and you won't see the slight tell-tale sign of dried spit that resembles a Rorschach ink blot. 

I can't help but think of when my children were babies. They drooled when they were happy. They drooled when they cried. They drooled while having a fitful night's sleep. I guess they pretty much drooled all the time. 

Lying here in bed, all damp and cozy, I like to think I just channeled my inner-infant. And I think that's a good thing. 

Now to get up and go downstairs. Hey, maybe I really did wallpaper the apartment.

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. 

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. 

 

Signs You’ve Stayed Inside Too Long

You tell me: Have I been hunkering down a little too much?

 1) I spy a foreign object on the sofa cushion. Nonchalantly, I pop it into my mouth, assuming it’s a walnut from my chocolate chip cookie. Surprise, it’s not. It’s a sliver of pepperoni from my left-over pizza last week-end.

2) I marvel at the word nonchalantly and roll it around in my mouth for half-a-minute (along with the pepperoni).

3) The word elucidate comes to mind. I think of the person who introduced me to it and marvel (once again) how that word seems to be popping up in my sheltered life. The Covid Virus has turned the world upside down. It needs more elucidating, but that remains elusive.

4) Last week or 70 days ago, I was out convening (walking) on a nature path with my mask securely in place. A mother with two little girls saw me and fumbled to secure over-sized masks to their sweet faces. I gave her the "please don't bother with the masks" wave. All three were happy to engage a stranger, just as I was happy to talk to them. Clearly, this example has nothing to do with the question above. I just wanted to share a warm, fuzzy feeling.

5) I consider my morning run an outing. If I get a nod or wave from a fellow walker or jogger, the status of the outing is elevated to a social event, akin to a first date. Yesterday, a woman with a fabulous hair cut mouthed “good job” as we ran passed each other. It felt like a second date to me! 

6) If I apply mascara before leaving the house it indicates, “Tammy’s going out on the town,” AKA check'in the mailbox. 

7) I get fixated by TV reporter's homes. One reporter has his book shelves color coded! One shelf is populated with lime green items--all appearing to be books! Another shelf-orange! Reds live on the bottom! Are these objects videos, books, 8-track tapes?  My gawd! How do I find out? I’ll goggle the reporter and tweet him about his home decor. Is he a designer on the side? I need answers!!!

8) I develop a crush on David Faber, from CNBC. I watch him every morning. Nine months into the pandemic, I still don’t know the difference between a dividend and a stock. But damn, the man never has a hair out of place. If I find out that's a rug on his head, I’m going to dye my own hair red! Oh wait, been there, done that. 

9) I spent $78 on a needle point kit that I will finish around 2045 (only if the pandemic lasts that long). 

10) I have eight new jigsaw puzzles in the closest!  I’m not that bored.....yet!!

11) I dreamt last night I was maneuvering myself on a kiteboard. I caught the wind just right and went flying a couple feet above the Atlantic Ocean, tasting freedom and salt water. Today, a delivery came: a board, kite and a box of gummy edibles. My bank account can't handle any more of these middle-of-the-night Amazon orders. Note to self: Hide the damn phone before bed!

12) I practice walking around the house in my FM stilletos for the day when I actually need them. 

13) I’m having a virtual affair with someone, or a bot, on my WWF app (words with friends). When I notice the board is sprinkled with hotel, affair, knickers and lust, I know it’s time to hit delete.

14) I decide to throw caution to the wind and go on a date with my husband--I mean hurricane force category 5 winds. Meaning: we are going all out! We head to the local indoor gun range for a private introductory and defensive shooting class where no one but us are wearing masks. There are no Purell bottles or Clorox wipes laying about to indicate that work surfaces, bullets or guns are being wiped down. Yes, yes! I see the irony here. We are learning to “protect ourselves” in this unprotected environment. (FYI: We’re in Florida, ok!)

15) I am slowly becoming a vegetarian. Considering that I grew up on a cattle farm and ate beef three times a day, this is a hell of a statement. I've essentially run out of beef (and chicken) recipes. Sorry Dad!

16) I am ironing!  I don’t think I need to expand on that! I have sooo stayed in too long!!

17) Six months ago, a friend pointed out the seam on my shirt had pulled apart. I’m considering stitching it. However, it is under the armpit, so———-.

18) I’m picking snails off the underside of my basil leaves.

19) A friend is fed-exing me his sour dough starter kit. I know, I’m late to the game.

20) I’ve spent so much time binge-watching Netflix and staring at the ceiling, that I’ve noticed a fan up there. I’m sharing a secret here with you all. Ceiling fan blades attract dust, lots and lots of dust. Who knew??

Here’s to seeing each and everyone of you OUT and about when it’s safe to do so! 

Mask Etiquette Or Lack Thereof

Warning: This essay contains disgusting descriptions. Think ten-year-old-boy gross. 

My company just put out a memo that we should should change masks every four hours! Who are they kidding?  When it comes to mask changing, I think like a little kid with dirty underwear. Change those knickers once or twice a week and we’re good to go! I plan on this box of 50 3-ply breathable disposable masks to last well into next year.

Let me describe the “mask scenario” in my household of four, which is my husband and I and our two “kids” that are home from college for their endless break. We come home from our errands, be it the grocery store, walk/run in the park, hanging with friends or most recently, from the office. Most of us will toss our disposable mask on the microwave, the hamper, the dining room table, or the floor. You get the picture. To be honest, it’s pretty convenient. When one of us is in a hurry to leave, there is always a mask to be found or stepped on. 

My husband wears a Marvel characters cloth mask my friend stitched him. He gets so many compliments on it, that he’ll be wearing that thing into the next decade, whether it’s needed or not. (Sure as hell better not be!) The second he walks in the door, the mask goes in his pocket. He does not share! 

My son only throws a mask away if it gets that furry feeling inside. You know, like there’s little caterpillars crawling around on your lips. 

I can’t speak for anyone else’s mask, but mine experiences a lot. It has absorbed my tears, my snot, my sweat, my cough and 70 mph sneezes. Most importantly, it absorbs and camouflages my burps. Luckily, I have yet to throw-up in one! (Never say never, though.) One would assume after a day of use, I would come home and dispose of this soiled, disgusting three-layer mass of bodily fluids, right? 

Well. . . by the time I get home from my latest sweat-stained run or crying jag, the mask has gone from being drench in salty, disgusting wetness to spin cycle and is now rather dry. I forget the ordeal my mask has gone through and toss it on the microwave as I pass the kitchen on my way to wash my hands and splash water on my face.

My daughter sails past me on her way out the door. Five minutes later, I hear her stomping back into the  apartment with “that look” on her face. The look every single one of us have worn. It’s the “I forgot my gawd damn mask” look and had to return home. She grabs my overused, germ-ladened (BUT DRY) mask from the microwave. Apparently the one she dropped on the floor the night before got kicked out the door earlier. I open my mouth to suggest a different mask that is laying about, but she exits so quickly that I just shrug my shoulders as she slams the door. 

We are family, after all. It’s not the first time it’s happened and it won’t be the last. These masks have become part of our family attire and we have embraced (knowingly or not) the “share and share alike” mantra.

Disclaimer: The writer is not an advocate of this practice. She is just sharing how things are. Be well everyone. 

I WILL NEVER . . . . .

Must I constantly eat my words--I WILL NEVER  . . . . . 

Be based in Miami

Drive a stick shift again

Step foot on a cardio work-out machine

Ok, well, I'm in Delray Beach for a couple of months. So I might as well attempt to get into shape. I jog on occasion, so last night in bed I started psyching myself up. I basically just berate myself and grab handfuls of my stomach roll. First thing this morning I reach for Steve Jobs off my night table. He informs me it is 77 degrees, yet feels like 82 at 7:45am! (Yes, I know he's dead, but he reaches out to me on a daily basis.) Maybe if I'd gotten up at 3 am, running could have been an option, but now--forget about it!

As I swing my feet out of bed, I literally step on my running gear. Oh my God! What did I do? Some idiotic lifestyle app must have told me to arrange my work-out clothes the night before. I would never have come up with this on my own. Well, lucky me. I have a gym in the building. I mean, it's like twenty steps from my apartment. And those that like gyms, like my husband, say it's a good one. But that's a topic for another blog. I would love to ignore it, but it's on the way to the elevator. If I really want to avoid its taunts, I take the stairs. But, oh, it's the stairs and then I get dumped out into the ugly alley instead of our superhip, cool, south-beach looking lobby.

So after two cups of coffee, I wander into the gym. Ahh, it's fifteen steps, not 21. Thank gawd, no one is here. I get myself set up on some device, a walky-type thing. Not the tread mill. Gag me! Actually, it's a steppy thing. Elliptical-possibly, probably. There's a big green button, "Quick Start." Kinda seems like a Cardio for Dummies type of button, so I press it. Bells and whistles go off. Well, not really. Just some numbers light up. I elevate and start stepping. It registers time elapsed and my distance. There's also something called crossramp and resistance with up and down arrows. I know what resistance is and we aren't friends. I jack it down to 3. I can always go lower. Crossramp (not a word) is set to 7. I leave it be. I like even numbers and 3+7=10.

Crap! Someone is setting up shop next to me, on a similar apparatus. "Oh," I say. "I think that tv screen may not work." Just because I couldn't figure it out certainly doesn't mean anything. I just don't want some stranger, sweating three feet from me and more importantly, spying on my cardio output (or lack thereof).

"I bring my own entertainment." She whips out her phone. Up pops a movie and in go the earbuds. Is she going to step for two hours?

It's actually like being at the 10 a.m. movies. The whole damn place is empty and someone has to sit their ass right next to mine! "Go use the thing with the pedals or that row thingy," the bubble above my head screams.

That's it! I'm just gonna blow this joint. She doesn't know if I've been here for 1/16 of a mile or 20! Oh shit! Yes, she does. It's right there, in red neon lights. Three minutes and .04 miles it advertises. If she can look at my stuff, I'm looking at hers! It's kinda like stalking, but this ain't my first rodeo (re:www.tjtumbleweeds.blogspot.com, Kindles, Nooks and Old-Fashioned Books, 4/28/11). Her numbers are set to 12 and 8. Definitely more impressive than my 7 and 3.

And now, what is she doing? She has her arms at her sides. There's all kinds of hand holds to grasp. One set is right in front of my ribs. It should be labeled: grasp if you think you're going to fall. The other holds are shoulder height and move back and forth. They kinda make me feel like I'm swishing down the Austrian Alps. But I'm not. I'm staring out the window at palm trees and sweating. I furtively rest my arms at my sides. Holy shit! I'm bobbing around like a Weebil! My core is trying to engage! Not the core--this mama don't do core! I swear this work-out freak is working her abs as she steps into oblivion. Weebils may wobble and not fall down, but I am not one of those Playskool plastic creatures from the '70's! I grasp the "grasp if you think you're going to fall" hand holds and uh, grasp.

That bitch!

I stay on this thing dancing like Fred Astaire, Steppin' out with my Baby for the next 32 gawd damn minutes! If I had an umbrella, I'd be using it!  Oops, never mind. Different song and different dancer! Next time I come here (like there's going to be a next time), I will bring Post-It notes and wall-paper every damn red blinking neon light in sight. 

TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT TO DO

Tell me what you want to do

Those seven words put me into a tail spin a la Rod Serling's Twilight Zone for a long several minutes.

Tell me what you want to do

I'm in my husband's home office, sitting at his desk. He has two 30-inch computer monitors staring, unblinkingly at me. The one on the right is solid blue. The one directly in front of me is set to Microsoft Word. On the tool bar are these words:

Tell me what you want to do

Well, in reply: I DON'T KNOW!
Stop asking!
Stop demanding!
If I knew, I'd bloody well be doing it, now wouldn't I? Who are you, OptiPlex 5060 Dell, to demand this of me?

Right now, I could be reading, planting, sweeping, working, biking, swimming, volunteering, eating, tanning, talking, traveling, birding, shopping, flossing, manicuring. There really are an infinite  number of things I could be doing. But you're not wanting that. You are demanding that I be introspective. Maybe what I really want is to do nothing. Yes, I'm breathing. I have thoughts in my head. I worry about my brother's hip replacement. I pray for my girlfriend's cancer. But I'm kinda happy sitting here, doing nothing.

Nothing

Sitting here, doing nothing. Unless me staring at you, Dell, staring back at me, taunting me with those words constitutes something.

Tell me what you want to do

But in our society, doing nothing is just not an acceptable activity.

Oh, I know there are people out there who can answer that question. Not only can they answer it, they can execute it to perfection. Hell, they'd be happy to answer the question for me.

Sometimes, I think maybe that would just be fine and dandy. Sometimes, I think I'd like decisions made for me. And I mean, even the stupidest shit.

The hostess at the restaurant dazzles with her perfect teeth. "Inside or out?" Not only do I have to decide between what I really want (a fillet and bottomless glass of Malbec) vs. what I’ll probably order-seabass and Perrier-but now I have to decide if I want air conditioning, which could be perfect or set to 60 degrees or balmy night-time air, which could be perfect or full of mosquitos.

Tell me what you want to do

A friend wanted my opinion. She's trying to decide between sand stone or travertine for her front porch. She says she's a terrible decision maker. What?! She has two successful careers simultaneously.  She's beautifully busted walls down in her house. How is she a terrible decision maker?

Are all (or most) of us just geared to second- and third-guess ourselves?

Tell me what you want to do

My husband's friend has secured a spot on one of Richard Branson's space flights sometime this decade. It's pretty safe to say this guy can answer that damn Dell request.

There is a looking-glass icon next to the request of:
Tell me what you want to do

For those of us not sure, we simply can click.
Instructions pop up: Just start typing here to bring features to your fingertips and get help
A second tool bar invites: Type here to search

ME: Dell, can you tell me what I want to do?

No, I didn't think so.

I'll sit here and do nothing until something pops into my head. If it does.

PYROTECHNICS AND THE SOFT SHOE SHUFFLE

                                     

                                 

I soft-shoe shuffle in my patent leather pumps up to the entrance of the Wick Theatre in Boca Raton. And why not? Tonight's show, Hot Shoe Shuffle, is dubbed a tap dance extravaganza. My husband, Eric, hangs back and rolls his eyes as someone stops me. "They want to keep this area clear," he informs me. "They're bring in pyrotechnics." My brow furrows, as I think of the odd combination of tap dance and fireworks.  "Oh," I nod slightly and reply questioningly. "Uh, cool?" In turn, his white bushy brows shoot up and he shakes his head. I overhear an usher telling someone, "seating in the theatre has been halted temporarily."

The large foyer of the theatre has café tables with spray-painted gold bamboo chairs scattered about. Eric, who is gawking at the over-sized crystal chandelier, leads me to a chair.

"Did you hear that? Pyrotechnics!" I tell him excitedly, now warming to the idea of Roman candles, M-80's, and tap dancing. Had my teacher used this combination 40 years ago for my dance recitals, the audiences might have consisted of more than just guilty parents and cranky siblings!

Eric gives me the same look as the old man, manning the entrance. "Par-a-med-ics!" He stretches out the word like I'm a five-year-old child. "Not pyrotechnics!"

"Oh, I see." I nod my head slowly, disappointed. "Paramedics." I glance around the room at the blue-haired, white-haired, and no-haired patrons milling about. "Mmm, that makes more sense." I knew when Eric and I decided to try "Florida Living" for a couple of months that it would be different than the Upper West Side. In New York, I dance around Bugaboo baby strollers and e-bikes. Here, I run interference with wheelchairs and walkers.

"Everyone seems pretty calm," I say, as I look at the clock on my phone. "Show time is in twelve minutes. Not good." Eric is eye-balling an appetizer menu on the table. "We just ate! Is this place a restaurant or theatre?" I wonder out loud.

He sets the meu down. "Well, it probably happens often," he says quietly. "You know...the paramedic thing."

I watch a woman in a silky, colorful dress, draped in pearls, but wearing sensible shoes, maneuvering her walker across the faded, red carpet. "Yeah, I suppose so." I sigh, wondering about my own future.

I grab Eric's arm in alarm. "Geeze, we're thinking it's one of these old people. What if it's one of the dancers? Do they have understudies?"

He doesn't respond as we watch the paramedics wheel the stretcher into the theatre. After several minutes tick by, the usher announces, "We will continue seating people." I spy the paramedics with a patron on the gurney, exiting stage left.

The show goes on.

I Think We’re Beyond That

I was rushing out the rental beach house when Cindy, my sister-in-law, walked in from her spin class. Her face was aglow and had a look of triumph as she gave me the once over.  Busted! Had I slithered out the door twenty seconds sooner, I wouldn’t be standing here, stumbling over my words.

“Hey Cindy. I, uh. . . this damp beach towel that I’ve already used at the pool  . . .”

“Yes?”

“And is now wrapped around my waist to go to the beach, uh . . . might be yours.”

She nonchalantly lifts her sunglasses.  “Yes, Tammy. It’s mine. We’ve known each other 25 years. I think we're beyond that!”  How great are those words? Now, I do believe the subtext here is, “mi casa es su casa.” That’s what I’m going for anyway. I can use all her stuff for the whole week! Her Mac Pro makes my Dell laptop look like Grandpa from the Munsters. Her sunglasses are shadier than mine. Her Honda Pilot is bigger than my rental. Hell! Even her kids are more polite than mine.

This certainly isn't the first time I've been busted. My husband and I have a yearly summer party, maybe 25-30 guests. Now, if you leave something of yours and you want it back, just call. It's even possible I may go out of my way to drop it off the next day or month.

Well, a couple summers ago, a fabulous pair of designer sunglasses appeared at one of our parties and never left. I called at least two friends to see if they were missing a pair of shades. Nope! They weren’t. So, September rolls around. And yes, I’m going to start wearing them. I’m not about to pay $300 for a pair of Burberry sunglasses, (I thought they only made rain coats—who knew!) but the least I can do is get some use out of them for someone else.

Then one sunny, autumn day, my friend Michelle and I meet for lunch. As I recall, she was a guest at our party and perhaps was one that didn’t get called. She takes one look and compliments me, “You look fabulous. I lost a pair of Burberrys just like that.” Now, she and I have been friends since 2002. She is being 100% sincere and not angling to find out if I stole her glasses. (When my other friends meet her, they are, like, "Wow, Tammy! She's friends with you??") I quickly evaluate how important our relationship is. Our children grew up together, we’d throw each other under the bus to sleep with Jake Gyllenhaal, and she can afford Burberrys (the glasses and the slickers).

A decision has been made. “Michelle, thank you." I touch her hand for added sincerity.  "I guess we both just have fabulous taste.”

I am kidding! I did not say that, only the bubble above my head reflects that.

I whip those glasses off my face and stick the end of the temple in my mouth.

“Michelle! These are yours. I called around after the party, but couldn’t reach you! Please! You must take them back. I mean it!”

I chew on the end of that temple like it was one of the tentacles from our calamari salad.

“That’s okay,” she sighs, eyeing the temple in my mouth. “Your birthday’s in six months. Consider them an early present.”

Just like my sister-in-law at the beach. I guess that was her way of saying, "I think we're beyond that!"

“Well, okay.  Let me get lunch.” Now, I was really happy we had shared that calamari salad. But damn! Why did I have to chew so hard on that temple?!

Chicken Shit

I just discovered something about myself. Isn't that what life is all about--being pleasantly surprised, or horrified, to discover a buried piece of your psyche?

I like the smell of chicken shit. I mean, I'm sitting one foot away from a chicken coop and I'm taking yoga-style, lung-expanding deep breaths to enjoy the aroma--the shit. I wish there were an exotic name for it, but there isn't. Bats have the corner on guano. Cattle have cow pies. Hen dung just doesn't roll of the tongue.

Full disclosure here. I'll mention my surroundings other than the chicken coop. I'm a stone's throw away from a medieval Italian village staying at a friend's farmhouse/villa. It's possible the chicken shit aroma might be intermingled with Chianti grapes that are on the vine a few yards away. The chickens peck away at a few olives that have fallen into their enclosure from the branches that hang overhead.

Nevertheless, it seems the smell of chicken shit is the same no matter where one is. This morning, I realize the aroma is one of those smells that remind me of Kansas and my childhood. As I breathe in the scent, time rolls backwards to when I was 10 years old on an airless, hot summer day. I’m outside, in the yard and the buzzing flies are so lethargic, I can swat at them on the back of my leg and smash their guts into my skin. I'm wondering where the nasty black and white spotted rooster is. He lives to terrorize me. He waits until I've come from the hen house with my yellow, rubber-coated metal basket full of gathered eggs. Only then does he charge. The basket bangs against my leg as I scream and run. Eggs break, yellow yolks intermingle with the fly guts stuck to my skin.

The Italian rooster crows, shaking me back to the present.

Here's the long and short of this. I’m here, in Tuscany, gazing at rows of grape vines, olive and cypress trees. Nothing familiar, except the clucking of  chickens and smell of their shit. My childhood follows me, no matter.

Distracted

I’m up early on this quiet Sunday morning, sitting on the screened-in porch, mesmerized by the dancing of the rain, the fluttering of the leaves, and the chatttering of the birds. What a perfect day to reread Shantaram, binge watch “Sneaky Pete” or work on a dusty blog.

I peruse some old titles from my half-baked writings:  Smok’in in the Girls Room, Gwyneth Paltrow, Shanghai Pajamas, The Importance of Being a Catchy Title, Oddness of Life, The Weight of Time, Power of Prayer, Eclectic vs. Archaic, Where Are You Candy Man, Janus, and Potato/Potato-Tomato/Tomato to just list a few of the 101 blogs I have begun over the years since I started this endeavor.  I think it’s safe to say I have a focus issue or a stick to the project at hand issue. Maybe those are very similar issues!

I was at my parent’s farm in Kansas recently. Tucked away in the old milk barn, almost hidden by boxes of Mason jars were a couple of old dining room chairs I had rescued from some dump. They were nicely sanded,  just waiting for the next step towards completion. Had I wanted to simply sand and stain them 20 years ago when I was visiting for Christmas? Was I hoping to decoupage them a la "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds" motif? Who knows? What I do know, is there they sit, assisting my mother’s Mason jars as a shelf until next canning season.

When I’m home on the farm, I also peruse not-often used rooms and drawers. I only open two or three drawers a visit because I quickly find some "treasure" that distracts me from the original intent of snooping, discarding, or simply wiling away the time. Last time I visited, I was on a mission. I wanted to find Simplicity, Butterick and McCalls sewing patterns—not of mine growing up, but of my mother’s. I love the summer seersucker and cotton eyelet dresses from the 1950’s and I recall seeing her patterns as a child. Instead, I found swatches of fabric from outfits my sister and I sewed for our 4-H projects in the 1970's. I fondly ran my hand over a piece of bright, cotton red fabric with those omnipresent yellow smiley faces. Ouch! A pin stuck me. I pulled out the fabric and spread it open. Attached with pins, was a paper pattern. I had made a one-piece jumpsuit from the fabric and had enough left over to make a pair of culottes. As I discovered, the shorts were never finished, or even started, for that matter. As I gazed at the material, maybe it was for the best. Maybe its even for the best that some of my blogs stay hidden in a virtual drawer for all time, as well. I think one of those is “Gwyneth Paltrow.”

The "Gwyneth Paltrow" blog, not oddly enough, was about Gwyneth Paltrow. Sometimes, my titles aren't so catchy! I started it about eleven years ago. I jumped on the "Hate Gwyneth Paltrow Bandwagon" before most, but I never followed through with it. I knew once she started GOOP  (her lifestyle website), her real haters came out to bash her and I didn't want to be in that group. Is it fair to hate her just because she is a quintessential beauty and making millions of dollars?? For those unfamiliar with Gwyneth's lifestyle website, it's rather new agey, mixed with things we don't want to hear, like the truth. Find a physical activity you love and do it fives times a week. Avoid white flour and sugar. But if we avoid sugar, what about yet another unfinished blog, "Where Are You Candy Man?"

"Where Are You Candy Man?" was about the lyrics to the 1970's hit sung by Sammy Davis, Jr. Of course, as a child, I loved that song.  Rainbows, chocolates, sprinkles! No mention of dentists or ruining one's appetite! Sing along with me!

Who can take a sunrise(who can take a sunrise)
Sprinkle it with dew(sprinkle it with dew)
Cover it with choc'late and a miracle or two
The Candy Man(the Candy Man)
Oh, the Candy Man can
The Candy Man can
"Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good

Who can take rainbow(who can take a rainbow)
Wrap it in a sigh(wrap it in a sigh)
Soak it in the sun and make a groovy lemon pie
The Candy Man(the Candy Man)
The Candy Man can
The Candy Man can
'Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good

Who can take tomorrow(who can take tomorrow)
Dip in a dream(dip it in a dream)
Separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream.......

Seems like the Candy Man can do everything! 
Am I right?
Everything!

OK--I have a crazy idea.


Candy Man for President!!!!
Gwyneth Paltrow as FLOTUS!!!