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.