I've Been Tagged

Thanks, Debbie. This was actually a fun way to spend my morning while waiting for the cable guy to show. Everyone reading this, play along.

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Go to Wikipedia.
2. In the Search box, type your birth month and day (but not year).
3. List three events that happened on your birthday.
4. List two important birthdays and one interesting death.
5. One holiday or observance (if any).

MY EVENTS: (November 27)

1. 1924 - In New York City the first Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is held.
2. 1934 - Bank robber Baby Face Nelson dies in a shoot-out with the FBI.
3. 1965 - Vietnam War: The Pentagon tells U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson that if planned operations were to succeed, the number of American troops in Vietnam has to be increased from 120,000 to 400,000.

SHARING MY BIRTHDAY:
1. 1940 - Bruce Lee, American actor and martial artist (d. 1973)
2. 1942 - Jimi Hendrix, American singer, guitarist and songwriter (d. 1970)

DIED ON THAT DAY (besides Baby Face Nelson, as sited above):
1. 1953 - Eugene O'Neill, American writer and Nobel Prize laureate (b. *1955 - Arthur Honegger, French-born Swiss composer (b. 1892)

HOLIDAY:
Sometimes Thanksgiving

I Have a Math Problem

I am not good at math. I never have been. I am great at spelling and I love words. I was an English major in college and continue to love reading, crossword puzzles, writing, playing G-H-O-S-T (a fun little spelling game) and anything else word-related.

When it comes time to pay a bill at a restaurant, the tip computation causes me to freeze. I will rely on whomever I am with to tell me what I owe. If I am with somebody just as incompetent as myself, I will stare at them as if I am trying to figure it out in my head and hope they offer up an amount before I do. Of course, I can tell you what ten percent of something is, and therefore figure out what 15 or 20% is but the mere act of having to do that puts me into some kind of mathematical shock.

Sometimes my job requires me to think with that "math" side of my brain. I get flustered, start sweating, worry that I will run out of the room screaming... I have learned to "yes" the person with the request and then slowly figure it all out when they leave. So I am capable, but just not incredibly so. And definitely not comfortable. When people do crazy computations out loud, I feel like they are speaking Latin. I can't follow - they are speaking in tongues and it is best for me to just wait until the episode passes. "And then 15 of that is 47, carry the one, move the decimal..." What? Whatever.

And to make matters worse, simple math still gets me sometimes. For some reason, I cannot tell you what 7+8 is when I am put on the spot. 7+6, 7+4, 8+3... oh, why is that so hard? When I was in school, learning long-division, I would make the numbers up. I did not understand the concept. I kept getting Fs on my tests and tried resorting to cheating, I was so desperate. Finally, one day it just clicked. Somebody explained it in a way I understood and I did okay. I went on to take Regents courses and even attempted pre-calc in high school. Luckily for me, my college had very little math requirements for English majors. I think one course was all I needed, and I chose "The Philosophy of Mathematical Thought". My professor was about 80-years-old and would leave the room whenever he gave a test. Cheating was rampant, and I did okay. Still not great, and that's my point.

All of this is true, yet, I did better on the math portion of my SATs than on the verbal. Now, how does that add up???

Movin' On Up (or Down)

I don't know what it is like to find an apartment in another city... I've only ever lived in the little town I grew up in and then in my little college town before living here in Manhattan. So perhaps it is just as bad here as it is in other big cities. I'd love to hear some stories about it, since I have just about had it with the real estate situation here.

I feel bitter towards this city I love because it is now impossible to find a reasonably priced 2-bedroom apartment in this town. People would think the rent we pay on our one-bedroom is incredibly high if they don't live in NYC. We pay $1700/month. And that is GOOD for what we have (a decently-sized 1 BR, 2nd floor walk-up with no dishwasher and only two closets, in the heart of the Upper West Side, 2 blocks from Central Park.) People would pay a lot more for this place. We got lucky.

I do believe we can get just as lucky with a 2-BR if we put the legwork in, and are willing to move to a less desirable neighborhood. For we will NOT get anything decent in Manhattan. No, I haven't started looking, but I just know. The reason why is this... we were just told, today, of a 2BR in Brooklyn available for what we pay now. My hubby called and the place is already taken. Gone. Rented. The management company has another one available in 2 weeks for $2400. I don't want to pay that much but other people will. In order for the prices to come down, people have to stop renting these places out. They go off the market as quickly as they were put on. You have to be ready to jump, checkbook in hand, or else someone else will get that "great deal".

We lower our standards and pay way too much for what we get, just to live in this city that sucks us dry. Taking every dime we make in exchange for really great sushi, a city that never sleeps, convenience, and to be in the heart of it all. We pay it because we don't want to move to Brooklyn or Queens... we want to say we live in
"the city". We pay because we love it here and think somehow it is worth it. But what about the infestation of rats that the city can't seem to get rid off? What about the urine stench in the subways? What about the lack of fresh air or green grass? Well, that all costs extra to fix.

But you'll see... we'll find that great deal on a 2-BR apartment, somewhere. You may not want to come and visit us now, but you will soon. When you look around your little 1-BR and realize that you are now paying over $2,000 for it and it gets you nothing but a fridge in your living room, or a shower in your kitchen, that's when we'll see you, moving in down the street from us.

I Hate Schwoopies

Last night, I went to see Tom Petty at the Garden. What an awesome concert! Stevie Nicks surprised us by making an appearance and singing four songs with the star himself. She's still hot, even though the hubby described her as looking like "two people in one of those costumes where one person is the head and the other is the tail" which will forever make the think of Stevie as wearing a cow suit at that show. But the artists were true to form... Tom in his skinny-legged pants, red shirt and vest, Stevie in a flowing, corseted dress, scarves and bangles on her microphone. Nothing could have been better about the show... EXCEPT for the fact that we weren't the only people there. And I hate other people.

At first, we thought we had the perfect seats. There was a wall behind us and our seats were on the end of our row, with no seats directly in front of us allowing us room to stretch our legs. Well, my eyes kept darting to this couple sitting in front of me, sort of to the right of me. The stage was slightly off to my left, so I couldn't understand why my attention kept getting drawn back to the right. Well, it was because this couple (who we decided had taken the train in from somewhere in Pennsylvania, based solely on their attire) were so in love, that they couldn't keep their hands off of each other. But the way in which they showed their attention to each other was by play-fighting and acting out all of the lyrics while doing this. Imagine "Running Down a Dream", as he and she pretending to be running away from each other. Or "Don't Come Around Here No More" as they pretended that she was stalking him and he had to rough her up, really aggressively so that her hair was flying all over the place, to get the point that he didn't want her around anymore. He was just kidding, of course, though I so wished he weren't. Add to this inane, annoying behavior them staring deeply into each other's eyes, then smooching (audibly) or giving 100 pecks on the cheek. They were the ultimate "Schwoopie" couple (if you know Seinfeld, you'll know what I mean). The couple that everyone hates. And to make it worse, he was there with three of his male friends who did nothing to intercept this behavior.

My hubby was oblivious so, selfishly since I wanted everyone to hate them as much as I did, I had to point it out to him. He couldn't believe how they were being. Song after song, play-fighting and bringing the lyrics to life via their play-acting, exchanging lovey-dovey looks and kisses, poking, tickling, slapping. Terrible fashion sense. He hated them, too. Mission accomplished.

Technoshopping

A friend of mine just sent me an email that made me think of how "old" I am starting to feel. She was talking about shopping and how upon entering a store with music blasting she knew there would be nothing in it for her to buy. She was speaking my language.

I was recently at Bloomingdales, looking for a pair of sexy, hot jeans... I wanted the perfect pair. Ones that would make my butt look "juicy" (as my husband likes to say), my legs long and slender and still be comfortable enough to breathe in. Well, in the jeans department, there was a real live DJ, pumping his beats for all the shoppers (also known as rich teenagers) to hear. I tried for about five minutes to bop around the racks, letting the music inspire me to shop, but I couldn't take it. I threw down the pile of jeans I had selected in utter frustration and left the store, never to return again. For, I do not belong.

Maybe that is why Mom's end up wearing "Mom Jeans" in the first place. All the cool jeans are surrounded by techno beats that make them start desperately dumping their purses in search of a Xanax to calm their nerves. I have to shop at places like Banana and the Gap... where alternative music co-mingles with jazz and makes the experience a peaceful one (only if there are fewer than 10 people also shopping when I am, of course... I don't do well with crowds).

In all honesty, I would do great with a personal shopper. She can go out and get me nice things, I will try them on and then she can go and return whatever doesn't work. I hate shopping, I hate trying on clothes, I hate dressing room mirrors, I hate returning clothes that I bought on impulse. My patience wears thin about a half an hour into it, and in New York, that is not enough time to even make your way over to the sales rack. The vultures have already swooped in and claimed their spot, searching item by item until they find the best deal out there in their size. My personal shopper would be aggressive. She would throw shoulders to get that peasant dress that has been reduced 80% because she works for me and loves me and doesn't want me to ever resort to wearing mom jeans.

Pee-Pee, Wee-Wee, Doodie, Ca-Ca

Jeez, I have to pee. Why do I insist on acting like a 4-year-old, wiggling in my seat before finally giving in and going to the ladies' room? It is such an inconvenience. I don't know how pregnant women deal with it, once the need to pee increases ten-fold. I just don't feel like making the walk down the back hallway, taking care of my business, washing my hands, drying my hands, walking back, only to have to do it all over again in about an hour (if I am drinking the proper amount of water). Sometimes I'd rather just be dehydrated. It's just one more reason I hate going out drinking anymore. My body dictates one pee per drink. Usually this catches up with me while in a taxi, when I am two pees short and 40 blocks from home. I prefer to just drink at home. There I can sit on the can, enjoying a bottle of wine, if I so desired. I don't desire, but it's just nice to know that the option is there if I ever do. Ok... enough PEE-crastinating... I'm off.

Free to Be a Non-Smoker

God, I hate smokers. I know that's a terrible thing to say, especially since I know a few personally that I do not hate. It's just so difficult sometimes to maintain a level head, living in this city which requires being so close in proximity to so many different people. I get to the point sometimes when I feel that everyone is so egocentric, just concerned with themselves and their world, that they forget to notice the rest of us who are living our lives side by side with theirs. And the main culprits, beside the stupid people who don't know how to get on and off the subway, are the SMOKERS!

Prime example: I am walking on the sidewalk. Yes, it is outside. Yes, smoking is allowed outside. But WHY WHY WHY do smokers just assume that the person directly behind them wants to inhale their cigarette smoke? Sometimes, I'll be jogging in Central Park and take a nice, fresh, deep breath in, only to discover, too late, that there is a smoker in front of me. No care in the world, the smoker will puff away, blowing out his or her smoke rings, not worried about silly little me who has never been a smoker and would like to keep it that way. It is possible that I have a super-sensitive nose. I can smell a cigarette when there are no people immediately around me and I will become Eagle Eye until I locate its source. And then I will become Greek and give them the Evil Eye. Another scenerio... I'm eating my lunch at a concrete park right outside of Macys. I hope that I will be able to enjoy it, but inevitably, right nearby is a smoker, so each mouth of my healthy salad is mixed in with a mouthful of second-hand smoke. Not so yummy.

So maybe I am just naive. Is there no proper way to hold a cigarette and exhale while smoking so that nobody else is affected? Or does being a smoker immediately turn you into a rude person? The smokers who work in the same building as I, congregate immediately outside. You cannot enter or leave the building without inhaling a big, black cloud of their smoke. The smoke gets caught up in the revolving doors, too, making it hard to breathe until I am safely at the elevator bank. There are other people who cannot exit the subway without having their cig already in between their fingers, lighter in hand. As soon as they hit the exit stairwell, they light up. What that means is a big mouthful of smoke for anyone behind them. They don't care. No "sorry, is my smoke going in your face?" Not even a glance over their shoulder. I am smoker, watch me smoke!

I am for a smoke-free city, a smoke-free world. Smoke in your own homes, but not if you have kids. Or pets. Smoke in your own car, but again, not if you have kids. Just don't smoke around me!

Foster's Home

I consider my upbringing to be fairly "normal", with the usual amount of dysfunction and insanity. But really it was anything but normal. My family was the host to many a foster child... add total fuckedupedness to the aforementioned dysfunction, and you have enough stories to write a very long book. I think these kids are the reason I often state "I can't save the world". They showed me what was out there, and, man, is it frightening.

Normally, my mother (being a foster parent was her idea, and my dad really had little to do with it... we were his kids and they were temporary visitors) would get a phone call late at night. Something bad had happened at some child's home and they needed immediate safe housing. Usually, my mother would agree to housing the kid, and after they would figure out whether the kid would stay or be moved to a group home or with a family member. They stayed for all different amounts of time, and sometimes we had 3 kids at once, sometimes none. Some kids even stayed for years.

Their ages varied, from babies (rarely) to teenagers (less so once I approached puberty). As my sister and I got older, we would be eager to meet the newcomer although my mother started taking in children when my sister was very young, so there was a lot of jealousy and competitiveness, naturally. But we usually liked the kids that were much younger than we were. They would show up, emotional and carrying a plastic bag filled with what little they had. Pajamas, a coat, etc. It was pretty sad. After the initial "getting to know you phase" and "what are you in for", we usually stopped liking the kid and wished them gone. It sounds so bad to say, but we were kids and they were messing up our lives. Not all of them, of course. Some we bonded with and became friends with and some even still keep in touch with my mother to this day. But here are a few of the juicier stories that I have from my life as the pseudo-sibling of foster children:

I saw my first penis and it belonged to a boy named... now what was his name? Can't remember. All I know is that we were raking the neighbors lawn, for a nickel, because we wanted to buy candy. There was a tree in the middle of the lawn and he told me it would feel good to hump the tree. So I went along with it. He pulled down his pants to hump the tree and I remember his little wee-wee was curved upwards. It wasn't exciting, and when I had my go at the tree trunk, it didn't feel good at all. I ran home immediately and didn't even collect on the raking. It was that disturbing.

A couple of the girls tried to hurt my dear dog Shawnee. I know one of them choked her and then told my mom that she had passed out. Another said she couldn't find her so we spent hours searching until we realized that she had put her in our clothes hamper, closed the lid and then came up with her little story. Why? Don't know, but you know what they say about people who torture small animals... watch out!

I totally idolized one of the older girls. She had platinum blonde hair with the wings that started at her forehead and went all the way down to her shoulders. She would iron her bandanas the night before school and I would pretend to sleep and watch her. I just thought she was the coolest, prettiest girl in the world. I learned a LOT about slutty fashion and how to apply a lot of eyeshadow. One girl had a huge tackle box full of make-up and she'd let me and my sister each do one side of her face however we wanted... rainbow colored eyelids with electric blue mascara on one side, gold glitter with white mascara on the other. It was the most fun. And perhaps the reason I do not wear make-up today.

It was pretty tough, in all honesty, spending our childhood in a house filled with beds, with all these kids who had bigger issues than we did. Even when I was older, in college, coming home for holidays and summers only to find small children still inhabiting our space, my mom still yelling at them about the same things, and just wanting to find some peace. But I do understand why it was important for my mother to do this, and in all honesty, I don't think about that aspect of growing up very often. It's like these poor kids just became part of the landscape, the air we breathed. Yeah, they were with us on vacations and holidays and during everyday life, but it is like being in war zone and being blind after a while to the casualties around you, I guess. There was too much drama, too many sad stories. Best to not get too involved. They would be gone soon anyway.

So even though I can't save the world, maybe, just maybe, my mom helped to save a couple of those kids.

Dear God, I'm Broke. Go Away.

I will just come right out and say it: I am an atheist. People are shocked when I tell them that, and insist on telling me that I am not truly an anti-believer. I tell them then perhaps they are right, I could just be agnostic, since there is always the (slight) possibility that I will be proven wrong once I die (ha ha, yea right!) and the pearly gates of heaven are slammed shut in my face due to my years of lack of service and prayer. I have my own reasons (quite a few of them, in fact!) for not believing, just as I'm sure all the believers have theirs. Yes, I am biased against religious fanatics and people who insist on preaching to anyone with ears but I usually keep my views to myself and go on my merry, godless way.

I was born and raised Catholic. I was christened, communion-ized, and confirmed. We went to church every Sunday with our dad, and we'd leave early to "beat the traffic" after which we'd go across the street to my grandmother's (Nanie's) house to have sweet coffee and donuts. Though we dreaded getting up early and getting dressed nicely for stupid church (at that time held in the Catholic school's gymnasium), the sugar and caffeine afterwards made it worthwhile.

Now, back to my adorable Nanie. She goes to church every Saturday or Sunday, faithfully. She is losing her eyesight but she will "listen for the cars" before making the mad dash across the street and up the hill to church. Though she has not had an easy life and sometimes wonders herself about the existence of this god that she continues to pray to, she is afraid that if he does indeed exist, she doesn't want to ruin her chances of getting into heaven by missing a service one week. Now that is commitment.

But I feel the church has failed her. She is 98-years-old and on a VERY fixed income. One portion of every service is the passing of the basket for donations. Now, of course Nanie will give to the church. But they ask - BEG - for more money. Though they ask the entire congregation to be more generous, Nanie feels they are asking her, specifically. She'll dig another couple of dollars out of her purse and put it in the basket. They also mail her envelopes so if she cannot make it to church one week, she can just mail it in. I'm sure they could have it deducted directly from your savings account, too, if you would like. In addition, they have been sending mailers, begging for even more than the few dollars dropped into the basket each week. "If each member could just give $50, we could get a new gold-plated statue of Jesus!" Nanie feels she must give what they are asking for. For this is HER church after all. I try and explain that it is a mass mailing, and they are asking everybody and it is okay to ignore it. In fact, I will rip it up so that she has no choice. That just makes her feel more guilt. I want to contact the church and request they take her off their list. In fact, take all senior citizens off of that list. They don't make the money needed to support the church, which is definitely richer than the people they are begging from!

So as Nanie sits and thinks about her god and the priests she consider to be her friends and wonders how she will afford her heating bill AND tiding to the church, I sit and wonder how anyone can believe in such a racket. And hope that every dollar that Nanie has given thus far will somehow be her reward in the hereafter.

Anti-socialization

I've started thinking that maybe I am too selfish to have children. I live on the Upper West Side, a place where every family has 2 children and, if it's not the double stroller they are pushing around, it's equipped with the "surfboard" platform-thingie for the older kid to stand on. I see these families constantly, crowding the tables at the Jewish deli on Amsterdam or on their way to the public school that happens to live on the same block as me. This is all well and good... I can deal with having kids around. I like kids. I have a niece and nephews and I can't get enough of them, and I am constantly pointing out the cute things strange children do in my midst.

But what bothers me is the stuff I hear from friends who have children. I do not want to spend every weekend day at birthday parties. I don't want to have play dates every other day. And on top of all these silly parties, there's the soccer and ballet and art class, etc. I am all for socialization, but don't they get enough of that in school? Then to have to go to 15 schoolmate parties a year, depending on the class size, 10 parties for the children of our friends, 10 family parties... every weekend is spent eating cake and buying gifts. I think it's ridiculous. WHAT ABOUT ME??? And not only that, but why do both parents need to attend these parties? Isn't the parent just a chaperone? Can't I send my husband one weekend and I'll take the child the next weekend? But, if that type of behavior is acceptable in this parenting cult, then why don't any of the people I am talking about take advantage of it? "Honey, it's your turn to take (CHILD'S NAME HERE) to the party. I'm going to go to the park and have some alone time."

So, like I said, maybe I am too selfish. I want to spend time with my friends. I want to be lazy and spend time doing nothing. I want to do my own thing, without the children, once in a while. I want to see the world and travel. Yeah, I want my kids to be cared for and feel special and loved and to keep up with their peers, but does it ALWAYS have to revolve around them and their activities? And then the whole making friends with the other moms just b/c our kids are the same age... ugh, don't get me started.

I Wonder What a 3-Star Hotel Would Be Like

So the trip to the Bahamas was fun in the sun and very relaxing. Infinity pools, pina coladas, the scent of sunscreen wafting through the air. And really bad cuisine. And a hotel that almost charged us $130 extra by mistake. A mini-bar with a sensor so that you can't even peek at what they have to offer for fear of being charged an unspecified amount. Knowing this hotel, that charges $4 for a coffee, I can only imagine what that amount would be. Only two drawers in which to put your clothes and a spacious closet, with only 8 hangers.

If I ran a hotel, there would be no hidden costs. Feel free to peek inside the mini-bar. I'd provide a dresser for clothing and extra hangers. Every time the phone was picked up would not cost my guests twenty cents. There would be no little lip that the sliding glass door fits into jutting up so that you trip every time stepping out onto the balcony ten stories up. That was scary. The poolside menu would offer more, and it wouldn't cost nearly as much for a chicken sandwich. The pina coladas would use real fruit, not the syrupy stuff that is flavored like real fruit.

I am not complaining about my vacation. I had a wonderful time, and I am really easy to please despite what this blog may suggest. I just feel that if I am paying good money to stay in a reputable hotel that considers itself to be a higher-level establishment, there should be a few perks to make me feel like I'm on vacation. I mean, even the ice machine down the hall was not in working order for crying out loud! No cold drinks for us, unless we want to risk a $20 bottle of water from the mini-bar. Still without the ice. Yes, the bed was heavenly, but the sheets didn't fit properly (as many a Trip Advisor commentator had mentioned) so we found ourselves sleeping on the bare mattress a couple of times.

But, I did get a deal on the room and earned extra miles along the way, so I'm still a happy camper. Or at least I should be. Camping is probably the way to go... less expectations and probably better coffee.

Drunken Bahama Mama For Hire

I am not a religious person, but if I were, this would be my travel prayer, from my mouth to god's ears:

Please don't let me overpack my carry-on bag so it fits in the overhead.
Please don't let there be a lightening storm so that my flight ends up delayed.
Please don't let me forget anything vital, like my passport or my birth control pills.
Please don't let me get sunburnt on the first day.
Please don't let anything go wrong with the hotel reservation.
Please don't let me lose my wallet or any other important things.

But most importantly, please let me come back to a job since my company has just merged with another so I can afford more vacations like this in the future. Please, God! I promise not to say mean things about people or to wear blasphemous t-shirts that say "Jesus is my homeboy" anymore if you just grant me this one wish. Let the job that I dread coming to in the morning, and can't wait to leave at night, still be waiting for my sunkissed body to return. (At least for one more month so I can pay off all the $9 fruity liquor-laced concoctions that I plan on drinking while on a beach in the Bahamas...)