I was all thrown off yesterday. It all started off wrong when Rembrandt, our youngest dog, moved around like he wanted to start his day, and Edward rousted me out of bed to assist him in walking the three dogs. Since we were in the city, we couldn't just open the door and let them out. An actual leash, with me attached to Rembrandt, was required.
Bleary eyed and looking like crap, I made my way through the lobby, dragged by a dog. As the doorman opened the door, he commented, "You're up nice and early."
That was my first clue that it wasn't really 7 a.m., or even 6.
Note to Edward: when you tell time, pay attention to the little hand on the clock as well as the big one. You may think you know the hour, but you might be wrong -- really, really wrong. And Edward, trust me, you don't ever want to make that mistake again.
Many, many hours later, at 1 p.m., we met Cheeks-A-Flying (CAF) and his lovely wife, the Queen of Jurisprudence, Mommy, to take a cab over to see "Good People," a new play by David Lindsay-Abaire about Margie, from South Boston, a struggling, single mother of an adult handicapped daughter, who, after many years, meets her high school boyfriend Mike, a doctor who escaped Southie.
I loved the play, but CAF, who slept through the first act and seemed to be dozing in the second one, had a number of serious criticisms. While I didn't agree with all of them, the more I thought about his critique the more I came to see that his points were meaningful and well considered.
Could CAF do his best thinking asleep?
There is further evidence to support this theory. Back in his youth, when CAF attended law school, he worked full-time at night and went to law school full-time during the day. Understandably, he was always sleep deprived. Mommy and CAF attended a class together, which is how they met. She sat in the back and he in the front. He invariably slept through class with his head down on the desk. However, the professor commonly peppered the class with questions and would call on people randomly by name. When CAF was asked a question, he would wake from his slumber, provide the correct the response, and go right back to sleep.
Mommy was so impressed, she married him. What a love affair!
After the play was over, the four of us attempted to get a cab back uptown. Since lots of shows were letting out at the same time, it wasn't exactly easy, but CAF spied an empty available taxi down the street and told me to run for it.
Despite the fact that I had on my new Robert Clergerie sandals that I bought on sale at Neiman Marcus, I sprinted, yelling, "Taxi, taxi, taxi." The taxi as well as traffic for three blocks stopped dead still in response to my shrieking.
We all piled in and everyone thanked CAF for finding the cab. Really? Who was it who ran for it? Who shrieked for it? Would we have that cab if it weren't for me, me, me?
CAF, once a variety of food items was cleared from the passenger seat, joined Mr. Sharma, the cab driver, up front while the three of us got in the back. Mr. Sharma, a 76 year old from a small village outside of New Delhi, told us a little about himself. He had been driving a cab for many years. He raised two sons in the United States. One became a doctor and another a CPA. He never gave up land he inherited in India and always stayed in contact with the village. Most importantly, he wanted to do something to help the people of his village, and he realized that what they needed was a school for girls. While boys attended school for free, girls did not have that opportunity, so Mr. Sharma took it upon himself to send money back to set up and sustain a free girls school on the land that he owned.
Over time, Mr. Sharma was able to obtain additional donations, which he attracted through articles that have been written about him, including a long piece in the New York Times. Additionally, there was a documentary on PBS that told his story and even a movie, entitled "Good Sharma," starring Joan Allen. He was also awarded an honorary Ph.D. from Mt. Holyoke.
Upon emerging from the taxi, after CAF paid the fare and but offered nothing for the school, some of us in the cab thought the story was untrue.
One of us went on Google to find out everything Mr. Sharma said was true.
My day was right again.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Barnie at the Zoo: She's no Sloth
Now, if you've been keeping up with this blog, and who doesn't, you know that a very important event occurred yesterday. That's right. Friday was the Royal Wedding, which ended in time for the Bronx Zoo's 5k Run for the Wild on Saturday, in which I was an enthusiastic participant.
I bumped into Athena, a fellow runner, the Thursday before the race and she informed me that it was necessary to get to the zoo close to 7 a.m., when registration opened, or else risk starting the race -- which began at at 8:30 -- at the back of the pack. So though I didn't want to wake at the ungodly hour of 5:45 a.m., I did so for the sake of penguins, for whom we were racing to raise money to save them from extinction.
Though Edward had no plan of rising at that hour, the alarm blaring shocked me into consciousness and caused me to knock everything off the bedside table, thus creating chaos and commotion. Edward had no choice but to get up and give me the sendoff I deserved.
So after stopping at the local Dunkin' Donuts for a small coffee to go along with my toast (I really wanted a large but didn't want to have to pee), I was on my way.
I think I arrived at 7:02, which I thought would gain me primo parking. But, no! Those few of us who arrived early were directed to a lot called Asia Parking which I think might really have been located in Asia, it was so far away from the start line. In fact, trams were provided to transport us early idiots to the race because we really couldn't be expected to walk there for fear we might get lost, like in Australia, or completely tired out.
Though I had trained, I was shaking with nerves since this was my first race, and I worried I might make an idiot of myself and end up on someone's You Tube video. I headed to the tent to pick up my race bib. I was handed #3036, a lovely number I thought, and proceeded to place the bib over my breasts instead of over my abdomen as others were doing. Why give yourself more girth in that area when you can always use a bigger, loftier chest?
Then the lovely Athena showed up at approximately 7:41:32, after parking next to the zoo exit and adjacent to the tent giving out the bibs. She denied that she said I had to be at the event at 7 (liar) and pointed out that my bib was in the wrong place. Oh, all right! I moved the damn bib. Now I risked having a large stomach in someone's You Tube video.
At about 7:46:48, the runners were told to head to the start line for a stretch and Zumba (vigorous Latin dance). Who the hell wants to do Zumba now? But being the game, easy-going person I never am, I headed that way, which turned out to be a good move because now I was at the front of a pack that turned out to be over 6,000 people, if you included those participating in the walk that began 15 minutes after the run.
Jean-Claudia, who got me into this mess to begin with, arrived with her lovely fiance, Mike, and they somehow elbowed their way through the crowd to join us. She put on her electric orange head scarf (how does she manage to look so cute in such a thing?) and we started to warm up.
Which was a good thing. Because it was really, really, really cold. I had left my jacket in the car, figuring that my tank and long-sleeved shirt would be sufficient, but now I was wishing that the car was not a train ride away so I could retrieve the jacket. We stretched, danced, stretched again, and I felt a little better.
Until the speeches started and went on and on and on and on.
I yelled, "I need to dance!" I said this only because I wanted to stay warm, not because I was insane, but Mike looked at Jean-Claudia with an expression that clearly communicated I was not on the guest list for the wedding.
Finally, the race started, and I felt a sudden surge of exhilaration and adrenaline. So, apparently, did a lot of other people, and there was a lot of jockeying for position. I worried that I might be tripped, and I'd make a spectacular fall in the first few steps of the race.
Somehow, I stayed vertical and averted yet another You Tube moment. I found my stride. When practicing, I absolutely hate running the first mile, but I practically floated and smiled as I progressed.
Around a bend, there was a bunch of photographers, and I moved slightly away from the pack so that if someone wanted to take my picture, it was easy to do so. Yes, that's # 3036. Hey, this blog doesn't have the word Narcissism in it for nothing, folks.
Around about the 2-mile mark, I noticed that someone was holding a board with the name of the winner written on it. The fact that I had more than a mile to go and someone had already won the race who knows how long ago didn't bother me at all (I'm sure he is not as smart or as nice as me).
At the 3-mile mark, there was a group of runners who had already finished the race on either side of the course, cheering us on to the finish. One guy had his face painted. I wondered if he ran the race, drank water and ate a bagel, stopped to have his face painted and then came back out to the end of the course to do his cheering.
Just how long was I taking to run this damn thing?
I came around the bend and saw the timer. I crossed the finish line. The timer said 29:44. A personal best. I was so excited, I was teary.
Where's a You Tube video when you need one?
I bumped into Athena, a fellow runner, the Thursday before the race and she informed me that it was necessary to get to the zoo close to 7 a.m., when registration opened, or else risk starting the race -- which began at at 8:30 -- at the back of the pack. So though I didn't want to wake at the ungodly hour of 5:45 a.m., I did so for the sake of penguins, for whom we were racing to raise money to save them from extinction.
Though Edward had no plan of rising at that hour, the alarm blaring shocked me into consciousness and caused me to knock everything off the bedside table, thus creating chaos and commotion. Edward had no choice but to get up and give me the sendoff I deserved.
So after stopping at the local Dunkin' Donuts for a small coffee to go along with my toast (I really wanted a large but didn't want to have to pee), I was on my way.
I think I arrived at 7:02, which I thought would gain me primo parking. But, no! Those few of us who arrived early were directed to a lot called Asia Parking which I think might really have been located in Asia, it was so far away from the start line. In fact, trams were provided to transport us early idiots to the race because we really couldn't be expected to walk there for fear we might get lost, like in Australia, or completely tired out.
Though I had trained, I was shaking with nerves since this was my first race, and I worried I might make an idiot of myself and end up on someone's You Tube video. I headed to the tent to pick up my race bib. I was handed #3036, a lovely number I thought, and proceeded to place the bib over my breasts instead of over my abdomen as others were doing. Why give yourself more girth in that area when you can always use a bigger, loftier chest?
Then the lovely Athena showed up at approximately 7:41:32, after parking next to the zoo exit and adjacent to the tent giving out the bibs. She denied that she said I had to be at the event at 7 (liar) and pointed out that my bib was in the wrong place. Oh, all right! I moved the damn bib. Now I risked having a large stomach in someone's You Tube video.
At about 7:46:48, the runners were told to head to the start line for a stretch and Zumba (vigorous Latin dance). Who the hell wants to do Zumba now? But being the game, easy-going person I never am, I headed that way, which turned out to be a good move because now I was at the front of a pack that turned out to be over 6,000 people, if you included those participating in the walk that began 15 minutes after the run.
Jean-Claudia, who got me into this mess to begin with, arrived with her lovely fiance, Mike, and they somehow elbowed their way through the crowd to join us. She put on her electric orange head scarf (how does she manage to look so cute in such a thing?) and we started to warm up.
Which was a good thing. Because it was really, really, really cold. I had left my jacket in the car, figuring that my tank and long-sleeved shirt would be sufficient, but now I was wishing that the car was not a train ride away so I could retrieve the jacket. We stretched, danced, stretched again, and I felt a little better.
Until the speeches started and went on and on and on and on.
I yelled, "I need to dance!" I said this only because I wanted to stay warm, not because I was insane, but Mike looked at Jean-Claudia with an expression that clearly communicated I was not on the guest list for the wedding.
Finally, the race started, and I felt a sudden surge of exhilaration and adrenaline. So, apparently, did a lot of other people, and there was a lot of jockeying for position. I worried that I might be tripped, and I'd make a spectacular fall in the first few steps of the race.
Somehow, I stayed vertical and averted yet another You Tube moment. I found my stride. When practicing, I absolutely hate running the first mile, but I practically floated and smiled as I progressed.
Around a bend, there was a bunch of photographers, and I moved slightly away from the pack so that if someone wanted to take my picture, it was easy to do so. Yes, that's # 3036. Hey, this blog doesn't have the word Narcissism in it for nothing, folks.
Around about the 2-mile mark, I noticed that someone was holding a board with the name of the winner written on it. The fact that I had more than a mile to go and someone had already won the race who knows how long ago didn't bother me at all (I'm sure he is not as smart or as nice as me).
At the 3-mile mark, there was a group of runners who had already finished the race on either side of the course, cheering us on to the finish. One guy had his face painted. I wondered if he ran the race, drank water and ate a bagel, stopped to have his face painted and then came back out to the end of the course to do his cheering.
Just how long was I taking to run this damn thing?
I came around the bend and saw the timer. I crossed the finish line. The timer said 29:44. A personal best. I was so excited, I was teary.
Where's a You Tube video when you need one?
Friday, April 22, 2011
Barnie Bares All
It was an exciting morning for some. I had forgotten that the tree service guys were due at the house today and while I was getting dressed and completely naked from the waist up, I looked out my bedroom window to notice a man in a tree in my backyard hanging off a rope pruning branches. I looked at the guy in the tree with shock and dismay. He looked at me with a look of...just another day on the job. That's what my breasts got? Just another day?
This is unfortunately a pattern.
Not that I frequently expose myself to men, but I did have an unfortunate experience many years ago that sort of mimics this one.
I was about 25, living on Union Park in the South End of Boston, and was poor and had no business joining the expensive gym nearby, but I did so anyway. So I felt ambivalent whenever I went to the gym and even more uncomfortable when I ventured into the ladies locker room. My discomfort with that area had to do with the culture of the locker room, which called for everyone to mill around naked. The room was quite large -- there was a whirlpool in the middle and showers were located in the back -- and women wandered around nude from locker to shower (a long walk) and in and out of the whirlpool. While no one seemed to have an issue with nudity, I continually clung to my postage stamp size towel, which was so small, it barely concealed my nice, in-shape, 25-year-old self.
What was my problem with being naked in front of other women at a gym? Why was I such a prude?
One day, I walked into the locker room and was surprised to find myself alone there. I realized that now was a good time to work on this problem and practice being naked . I took off my clothes and carried my towel at my side on my way to the shower area. I didn't just walk, I strutted at a strong pace, with good posture and head held high. I felt confident, happy and issue-free.
Until I hit the shower area....
Where I found a man bending over a drain in the middle of the floor in the process of repairing some problem. He looked up at me, studied my nakedness for a moment and said,
"I'll be done here in a minute."
He was lacking in expression or emotion. Then, he went back to working on the drain.
I sprinted faster than Carl Lewis at the Olympics, to my clothes.
Once I got over my anxiety, I considered the most shocking aspect of the incident: That's all my naked body got? "I'll be done here in a minute?"
Life can be so cruel.
This is unfortunately a pattern.
Not that I frequently expose myself to men, but I did have an unfortunate experience many years ago that sort of mimics this one.
I was about 25, living on Union Park in the South End of Boston, and was poor and had no business joining the expensive gym nearby, but I did so anyway. So I felt ambivalent whenever I went to the gym and even more uncomfortable when I ventured into the ladies locker room. My discomfort with that area had to do with the culture of the locker room, which called for everyone to mill around naked. The room was quite large -- there was a whirlpool in the middle and showers were located in the back -- and women wandered around nude from locker to shower (a long walk) and in and out of the whirlpool. While no one seemed to have an issue with nudity, I continually clung to my postage stamp size towel, which was so small, it barely concealed my nice, in-shape, 25-year-old self.
What was my problem with being naked in front of other women at a gym? Why was I such a prude?
One day, I walked into the locker room and was surprised to find myself alone there. I realized that now was a good time to work on this problem and practice being naked . I took off my clothes and carried my towel at my side on my way to the shower area. I didn't just walk, I strutted at a strong pace, with good posture and head held high. I felt confident, happy and issue-free.
Until I hit the shower area....
Where I found a man bending over a drain in the middle of the floor in the process of repairing some problem. He looked up at me, studied my nakedness for a moment and said,
"I'll be done here in a minute."
He was lacking in expression or emotion. Then, he went back to working on the drain.
I sprinted faster than Carl Lewis at the Olympics, to my clothes.
Once I got over my anxiety, I considered the most shocking aspect of the incident: That's all my naked body got? "I'll be done here in a minute?"
Life can be so cruel.
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Sad Story of My Blue Balls
Somebody broke my balls.
And I'd really like to find the guilty party.
I mean my balls, literally. The large, bright blue, ceramic balls that used to reside in front of my house before a person or persons so savagely broke them.
I know who breaks my balls, figuratively. That would, of course, be Edward. Just the other day, he did or said something that prompted me to respond, "If you had shown me this side of yourself while we were dating, things would have turned out a whole lot differently for us." Due to the aging process, or something much more sinister, I can't remember why I said that, I only remember that what Edward did or said was very, very irritating.
So back to the literal balls. These bright, blue balls were large and like nothing I have seen before or since. They were unusual and made quite a statement. I loved those balls, but apparently not everyone in the neighborhood did.
One day, I was gardening and hidden behind the hedges that line the front of my house. People were talking in the street, and when they got to my house, I heard this exchange:
"Wow. Those are some blue balls."
"Oh my God. Can you believe they put those there?"
"The house is really very nice until you see those horrible blue balls."
Undaunted, I popped up from behind the hedges and yelled a cheery good morning (and something else under my breath). A man and a woman were either highly sunburned or blushing a deep red as they said good morning and then ran off.
Were my blue balls ugly? I thought for a while and concluded, No! My blue balls are beautiful.
A few weeks later, Edward and I were awakened from a deep sleep around 2 a.m. by the sound of breaking ceramic. We never saw who did it, but we found shards of our beloved balls all over the front of our house.
Who could have been so cruel?
Some have suggested it was a mercy killing, but I reject that notion completely.
And I'd really like to find the guilty party.
I mean my balls, literally. The large, bright blue, ceramic balls that used to reside in front of my house before a person or persons so savagely broke them.
I know who breaks my balls, figuratively. That would, of course, be Edward. Just the other day, he did or said something that prompted me to respond, "If you had shown me this side of yourself while we were dating, things would have turned out a whole lot differently for us." Due to the aging process, or something much more sinister, I can't remember why I said that, I only remember that what Edward did or said was very, very irritating.
So back to the literal balls. These bright, blue balls were large and like nothing I have seen before or since. They were unusual and made quite a statement. I loved those balls, but apparently not everyone in the neighborhood did.
One day, I was gardening and hidden behind the hedges that line the front of my house. People were talking in the street, and when they got to my house, I heard this exchange:
"Wow. Those are some blue balls."
"Oh my God. Can you believe they put those there?"
"The house is really very nice until you see those horrible blue balls."
Undaunted, I popped up from behind the hedges and yelled a cheery good morning (and something else under my breath). A man and a woman were either highly sunburned or blushing a deep red as they said good morning and then ran off.
Were my blue balls ugly? I thought for a while and concluded, No! My blue balls are beautiful.
A few weeks later, Edward and I were awakened from a deep sleep around 2 a.m. by the sound of breaking ceramic. We never saw who did it, but we found shards of our beloved balls all over the front of our house.
Who could have been so cruel?
Some have suggested it was a mercy killing, but I reject that notion completely.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Barnie Prepares for the Easter Parade
The sun was out, the temperature was above 40 and spring seemed to be beckoning to me this morning.
I felt wonderful given that over the past 48 hours, I had been dealing with a nasty stomach virus. Now that it had subsided, I felt like a new woman.
But I emerged from my sick bed with a question: Just who breathed sickness on me while I was away this past weekend? Did the little girl with curly red ringlets, wearing a flowered dress, who looked a little green around the gills, commit germ warfare at a family function I attended?
Channeling my best Mother Theresa/Ghandi/Oprah persona, I decided to abandon my quest for culpability.
Instead, I fired up the red Mercedes and drove over to Home Depot for grass seed, mulch and fertilizer.
This year, despite having three dogs who do unspeakable things to my lawn, the least of which is grazing on it, I am determined to improve its appearance from large patches of dirt and some green grass with lots of green weeds to an expanse of green (any way I can get it).
I decided that I needed to consult a professional, and I was referred to a Home Depot employee who appeared to be up there in years (experienced!) wearing thick aqua eye liner on her eyelids that looked, frankly, bizarre. Despite the fact that we were outdoors and there was a breeze, she wore a paper mask that covered her mouth and nose. I thought, "why am I buying garden supplies when this woman knows a plague is about to kill us?" but then I thought, "who would stop to put on eyeliner when a plague is imminent?"
So rather than dash on out of there to find a safe house in the Galapagos, I told Aqua Eyes of my lawn troubles. Somehow we communicated through the mask, and I bought several items, excluding pesticides, as I'm trying to cut down on carcinogens.
I returned home with my supplies, and did my lawn thing, which sadly seemed laughable as the seed and fertilizer went everywhere. I expect that there will be grass in the flower beds but nothing on the lawn. To try and counteract that possibility, I started spreading mulch around the beds, and what did I discover? It's so awful, I almost can't put it in writing: A rabbit warren. Yes, dear readers, a rabbit warren.
Every year, at least one insane rabbit builds a warren in my yard where there are three, count them, three dogs, who though domesticated and often act like babies, still have a solid prey drive. I feel it is my duty to watch over the baby rabbits, who are totally helpless in the warren and then hop around relatively slowly when they first emerge from it. I am morally bound to assist the rabbits until it dawns on them (and it does pretty quickly) that they better get their rabbit butts out of this dog infested property.
So last night, when my oldest dog,Tony, had to go out at 4 in the morning, I told Edward that he needed to accompany him to make certain that Tony did not disturb the rabbit warren.
Let me sum up Edward's reaction by simply saying that he is not a rabbit lover.
I'm in this alone, folks.
I felt wonderful given that over the past 48 hours, I had been dealing with a nasty stomach virus. Now that it had subsided, I felt like a new woman.
But I emerged from my sick bed with a question: Just who breathed sickness on me while I was away this past weekend? Did the little girl with curly red ringlets, wearing a flowered dress, who looked a little green around the gills, commit germ warfare at a family function I attended?
Channeling my best Mother Theresa/Ghandi/Oprah persona, I decided to abandon my quest for culpability.
Instead, I fired up the red Mercedes and drove over to Home Depot for grass seed, mulch and fertilizer.
This year, despite having three dogs who do unspeakable things to my lawn, the least of which is grazing on it, I am determined to improve its appearance from large patches of dirt and some green grass with lots of green weeds to an expanse of green (any way I can get it).
I decided that I needed to consult a professional, and I was referred to a Home Depot employee who appeared to be up there in years (experienced!) wearing thick aqua eye liner on her eyelids that looked, frankly, bizarre. Despite the fact that we were outdoors and there was a breeze, she wore a paper mask that covered her mouth and nose. I thought, "why am I buying garden supplies when this woman knows a plague is about to kill us?" but then I thought, "who would stop to put on eyeliner when a plague is imminent?"
So rather than dash on out of there to find a safe house in the Galapagos, I told Aqua Eyes of my lawn troubles. Somehow we communicated through the mask, and I bought several items, excluding pesticides, as I'm trying to cut down on carcinogens.
I returned home with my supplies, and did my lawn thing, which sadly seemed laughable as the seed and fertilizer went everywhere. I expect that there will be grass in the flower beds but nothing on the lawn. To try and counteract that possibility, I started spreading mulch around the beds, and what did I discover? It's so awful, I almost can't put it in writing: A rabbit warren. Yes, dear readers, a rabbit warren.
Every year, at least one insane rabbit builds a warren in my yard where there are three, count them, three dogs, who though domesticated and often act like babies, still have a solid prey drive. I feel it is my duty to watch over the baby rabbits, who are totally helpless in the warren and then hop around relatively slowly when they first emerge from it. I am morally bound to assist the rabbits until it dawns on them (and it does pretty quickly) that they better get their rabbit butts out of this dog infested property.
So last night, when my oldest dog,Tony, had to go out at 4 in the morning, I told Edward that he needed to accompany him to make certain that Tony did not disturb the rabbit warren.
Let me sum up Edward's reaction by simply saying that he is not a rabbit lover.
I'm in this alone, folks.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
On the Road With Barnie and Edward
Edward and I spent approximately 11 hours in the car together over a 48-hour period this weekend without committing a violent act on each other. We are very proud of our behavior.
Don't get me wrong. There was yelling, and some verbal abuse. There were comments like:
"Don't you think you should apologize? I apologized before when I said something mean and nasty. Now it's your turn."
"No, I won't give you the water, because you just ate tuna fish and if you drink from the bottle, the water will taste like tuna fish."
"That was my banana."
This really was one of our best car rides.
Despite the lack of violence and mayhem in the car, I emerged at our destination in Harrisburg, PA with a raging case of heartburn. After checking in at the downtown Hilton, I walked over to the nearby CVS to buy a bottle of Mylanta. Halfway down aisle 14, the lights were turned off, and there was an announcement over the Public Address System (rather unneccessary since I was the only one in the store) that the CVS was closed.
Really? At 5:30 on a Friday afternoon, when I have heartburn?
So, I screamed. Now I'm not kidding here folks. My parents used to call me Screech Mouth, among other loving nicknames, and it was accurately descriptive. "I need Mylanta! Now!" The lights flipped right back on and even though somebody who worked there apparently had to catch a bus, I now heard over the Public Address System, "Take your time, Maam."
That wasn't even one of my ear piercing, high pitched screams.
The next day, having been cured of my heartburn, we went to a lovely family function where I interacted with some of my favorite relatives. One of them is my 27-year-old cousin, Pete. Pete is handsome, smart, a world traveler and a marathon runner. Despite having all these talents, he is humble. On the buffet line, I mentioned my run for the penguins (See Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and how my training was progressing. I asked him the time per mile he averaged over a 26-mile run. Being so self-effacing, he was cagey, but I learned that his time per mile is somewhere in the 8-minute mark. When I expressed shock and awe (not to be confused with shop and awe, which is much more dramatic) at his ability to run so long and so fast and my inability to approach such a feat, he pointed out that he is much, much younger than I am.
OK, so with all of Pete's talents, that comment tells me that he is lacking in common sense, just like his cousin Edward with whom he shares a gene pool.
Which reminds me of a time when Edward and I were driving some place and Edward had brought several turkey sandwiches to eat along the way. As you may have guessed, despite being a thin person, Edward attempts to cope with long car rides by eating his way through them. For some reason, that could only make sense to him, he decided to bring a large plastic container of yellow mustard with him, instead of putting the mustard on the sandwiches when he made them.
We had been driving for maybe 10 minutes, it was about 9 a.m., and it was time to eat the first sandwich. I was at the wheel. I heard a lot of unwrapping and lots of noise from the mustard bottle. Then I heard Edward mutter, "Uh oh."
I looked down. On the right arm of my white jacket was a long line of yellow mustard.
I can't go on any further for fear that what I say could incriminate myself.
Don't get me wrong. There was yelling, and some verbal abuse. There were comments like:
"Don't you think you should apologize? I apologized before when I said something mean and nasty. Now it's your turn."
"No, I won't give you the water, because you just ate tuna fish and if you drink from the bottle, the water will taste like tuna fish."
"That was my banana."
This really was one of our best car rides.
Despite the lack of violence and mayhem in the car, I emerged at our destination in Harrisburg, PA with a raging case of heartburn. After checking in at the downtown Hilton, I walked over to the nearby CVS to buy a bottle of Mylanta. Halfway down aisle 14, the lights were turned off, and there was an announcement over the Public Address System (rather unneccessary since I was the only one in the store) that the CVS was closed.
Really? At 5:30 on a Friday afternoon, when I have heartburn?
So, I screamed. Now I'm not kidding here folks. My parents used to call me Screech Mouth, among other loving nicknames, and it was accurately descriptive. "I need Mylanta! Now!" The lights flipped right back on and even though somebody who worked there apparently had to catch a bus, I now heard over the Public Address System, "Take your time, Maam."
That wasn't even one of my ear piercing, high pitched screams.
The next day, having been cured of my heartburn, we went to a lovely family function where I interacted with some of my favorite relatives. One of them is my 27-year-old cousin, Pete. Pete is handsome, smart, a world traveler and a marathon runner. Despite having all these talents, he is humble. On the buffet line, I mentioned my run for the penguins (See Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and how my training was progressing. I asked him the time per mile he averaged over a 26-mile run. Being so self-effacing, he was cagey, but I learned that his time per mile is somewhere in the 8-minute mark. When I expressed shock and awe (not to be confused with shop and awe, which is much more dramatic) at his ability to run so long and so fast and my inability to approach such a feat, he pointed out that he is much, much younger than I am.
OK, so with all of Pete's talents, that comment tells me that he is lacking in common sense, just like his cousin Edward with whom he shares a gene pool.
Which reminds me of a time when Edward and I were driving some place and Edward had brought several turkey sandwiches to eat along the way. As you may have guessed, despite being a thin person, Edward attempts to cope with long car rides by eating his way through them. For some reason, that could only make sense to him, he decided to bring a large plastic container of yellow mustard with him, instead of putting the mustard on the sandwiches when he made them.
We had been driving for maybe 10 minutes, it was about 9 a.m., and it was time to eat the first sandwich. I was at the wheel. I heard a lot of unwrapping and lots of noise from the mustard bottle. Then I heard Edward mutter, "Uh oh."
I looked down. On the right arm of my white jacket was a long line of yellow mustard.
I can't go on any further for fear that what I say could incriminate myself.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Diary of a Mad Housewife
Saturday, March 27, 2011
Edward left the house early to attend a lecture given by Michael Korda on his biography of Lawrence of Arabia. I opted to sleep in and read the paper undisturbed. Normally when I read The Times, I am forced to read the same sentence at least three times over as Edward provides constant commentary from his side of the kitchen table. I wonder if there are muzzles for humans?
Edward returns and joins me in in the den to watch the Rangers play the Bruins. Since the season is ending, and the Rangers need all the points they can get going into the playoffs, this is an important game. In the third period, when the Rangers are leading 1-0 but are getting pounded by the Bruins, I get unnerved and start shouting and, I'm sorry to admit it, hitting Edward. However, in my defense, I hit him with a Starbucks Venti paper cup and it was only a few times on the head, and he wasn't really injured. At the end of the game, Edward declares that he thought it would be good to watch the game at home because he would save money and not have to sit next to people like me, but unfortunately, all he did was save money.
In the afternoon, I go to the Lululemon store on Third and 66th to buy my outfit for the 5k run sponsored by the Wildlife Conservation Society to raise money to help save penguins (for more information, please go to: http://e.wcs.org/goto/Nancy). When I walk into the store, I am immediately hit by the fact that one must be young and unbelievably attractive to work there. I gulp and look through the racks. I gulp again when I look at the prices. I start to sweat and take off my coat. A twentysomething with a long, lithe body, long blonde hair and big blue eyes asks if she can help. It's too bad I no longer have my Starbucks Venti paper cup because I want to hit her over the head. I select a top, jacket, vest and two pairs of pants so I am ready for all possible weather conditions on the day of the run, but where are the sports bras? Sweet blonde thing says I probably don't need a sports bra with the top I chose, but she doesn't have my breasts, which require body armour to hold them in place. She gets the damn bra for me. At the checkout counter, the total bill causes me to feel guilt, shame and chest pain. Normally I don't hide expeditures from Edward, but it's hard to explain spending so much on stuff I'm going to sweat in so I hand over cash plus the credit card so when Edward sees the smaller credit card bill he won't think Lululemon is the name of a car dealership.
I haul myself home and read awhile before we meet Cheeks-A-Flying (CAF) and his lovely wife, the Queen of Jurisprudence, Mommy, for dinner. I tell them that our new bathroom is finished but since Edward dislikes the new faucet, light fixture and towels, he is using the old bathroom downstairs. Works for me. We discuss travel and places we might possibly go to together which reminds me of when Edward and I went to Israel and for some inexplicable reason, at a roadside stop in the middle of the desert, Edward asked a bedouin if he could ride his camel. The bedouin was happy to oblige and wanted to assist further by adding authenticity to the photo op. He grabbed a head scarf that had been tied to the camel's butt and plopped it on Edward's head. I was horrified, but Edward, not knowing where the scarf came from, had a silly grin on his face. When I later told him about the scarf, Edward resisted the impulse to go to the ER and simply said, "If you love me, you'll kiss my head."
Edward left the house early to attend a lecture given by Michael Korda on his biography of Lawrence of Arabia. I opted to sleep in and read the paper undisturbed. Normally when I read The Times, I am forced to read the same sentence at least three times over as Edward provides constant commentary from his side of the kitchen table. I wonder if there are muzzles for humans?
Edward returns and joins me in in the den to watch the Rangers play the Bruins. Since the season is ending, and the Rangers need all the points they can get going into the playoffs, this is an important game. In the third period, when the Rangers are leading 1-0 but are getting pounded by the Bruins, I get unnerved and start shouting and, I'm sorry to admit it, hitting Edward. However, in my defense, I hit him with a Starbucks Venti paper cup and it was only a few times on the head, and he wasn't really injured. At the end of the game, Edward declares that he thought it would be good to watch the game at home because he would save money and not have to sit next to people like me, but unfortunately, all he did was save money.
In the afternoon, I go to the Lululemon store on Third and 66th to buy my outfit for the 5k run sponsored by the Wildlife Conservation Society to raise money to help save penguins (for more information, please go to: http://e.wcs.org/goto/Nancy). When I walk into the store, I am immediately hit by the fact that one must be young and unbelievably attractive to work there. I gulp and look through the racks. I gulp again when I look at the prices. I start to sweat and take off my coat. A twentysomething with a long, lithe body, long blonde hair and big blue eyes asks if she can help. It's too bad I no longer have my Starbucks Venti paper cup because I want to hit her over the head. I select a top, jacket, vest and two pairs of pants so I am ready for all possible weather conditions on the day of the run, but where are the sports bras? Sweet blonde thing says I probably don't need a sports bra with the top I chose, but she doesn't have my breasts, which require body armour to hold them in place. She gets the damn bra for me. At the checkout counter, the total bill causes me to feel guilt, shame and chest pain. Normally I don't hide expeditures from Edward, but it's hard to explain spending so much on stuff I'm going to sweat in so I hand over cash plus the credit card so when Edward sees the smaller credit card bill he won't think Lululemon is the name of a car dealership.
I haul myself home and read awhile before we meet Cheeks-A-Flying (CAF) and his lovely wife, the Queen of Jurisprudence, Mommy, for dinner. I tell them that our new bathroom is finished but since Edward dislikes the new faucet, light fixture and towels, he is using the old bathroom downstairs. Works for me. We discuss travel and places we might possibly go to together which reminds me of when Edward and I went to Israel and for some inexplicable reason, at a roadside stop in the middle of the desert, Edward asked a bedouin if he could ride his camel. The bedouin was happy to oblige and wanted to assist further by adding authenticity to the photo op. He grabbed a head scarf that had been tied to the camel's butt and plopped it on Edward's head. I was horrified, but Edward, not knowing where the scarf came from, had a silly grin on his face. When I later told him about the scarf, Edward resisted the impulse to go to the ER and simply said, "If you love me, you'll kiss my head."
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