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."
Sunday, March 13, 2011
A Moment at the Supermarket
I am not looking to be congratulated, or to make a political statement or to comment on the state of our society.
I am writing this because it is something that happened to me, and I can't seem to write about anything else until I put this out.
A few days ago, I went directly from my pilates class to the supermarket across from the gym to pick up a few things. When I got on line, a couple in their late 20s were in the process of purchasing their groceries. The man was standing at the bagging station and the woman was studying the computer price read-out. I heard her say, "I thought the cereal was on sale." She turned to the man for instructions about what to do. He told her to put the several boxes of cereal back. Then she held up a can of Spam and questioned the price of that.
It was obvious that this couple could not afford to buy even cheap food staples.
I suddenly felt embarrassed to be wearing my exercise outfit and carrying the wonderful Gucci bag that Edward had so generously presented me with for Valentine's Day.
I imagined that they were the working poor -- people who made too much money to qualify for food stamps but not enough to adequately feed their family.
I decided that I had to do something to help them, but I was also concerned that in my desire to be generous, I would do something that the couple found humiliating. I didn't have a lot of time to think about it either.
I turned to the woman and told her that I wanted to pay for the boxes of cereal. She smiled at me, immediately said thank you, and I could see visible signs of relief.
I imagined that there were kids at home, and they would now have their favorite cereals to eat in the morning.
The man walked away without a word, and I assume that I did indeed humiliate him or perhaps cause the couple to later argue about this incident. An added element is that I am Caucasian and they are African American.
I tried to make it better by telling the woman that she will do this for someone else someday.
Maybe that made it worse. It was only $15 worth of cereal, for God's sake.
She paid for her $60 food order with a credit card, and I thought maybe I should just pay for that as well. I didn't, not because I didn't want to spend the money, but because I didn't want to make her feel more indebted to me.
She couldn't have been nicer, and there were few words between us, but it was an awkward experience for all of us, even the cashier. After the couple left, the cashier told me how I did a nice thing.
She was, however, so unsettled that she forgot to give me my change.
I am writing this because it is something that happened to me, and I can't seem to write about anything else until I put this out.
A few days ago, I went directly from my pilates class to the supermarket across from the gym to pick up a few things. When I got on line, a couple in their late 20s were in the process of purchasing their groceries. The man was standing at the bagging station and the woman was studying the computer price read-out. I heard her say, "I thought the cereal was on sale." She turned to the man for instructions about what to do. He told her to put the several boxes of cereal back. Then she held up a can of Spam and questioned the price of that.
It was obvious that this couple could not afford to buy even cheap food staples.
I suddenly felt embarrassed to be wearing my exercise outfit and carrying the wonderful Gucci bag that Edward had so generously presented me with for Valentine's Day.
I imagined that they were the working poor -- people who made too much money to qualify for food stamps but not enough to adequately feed their family.
I decided that I had to do something to help them, but I was also concerned that in my desire to be generous, I would do something that the couple found humiliating. I didn't have a lot of time to think about it either.
I turned to the woman and told her that I wanted to pay for the boxes of cereal. She smiled at me, immediately said thank you, and I could see visible signs of relief.
I imagined that there were kids at home, and they would now have their favorite cereals to eat in the morning.
The man walked away without a word, and I assume that I did indeed humiliate him or perhaps cause the couple to later argue about this incident. An added element is that I am Caucasian and they are African American.
I tried to make it better by telling the woman that she will do this for someone else someday.
Maybe that made it worse. It was only $15 worth of cereal, for God's sake.
She paid for her $60 food order with a credit card, and I thought maybe I should just pay for that as well. I didn't, not because I didn't want to spend the money, but because I didn't want to make her feel more indebted to me.
She couldn't have been nicer, and there were few words between us, but it was an awkward experience for all of us, even the cashier. After the couple left, the cashier told me how I did a nice thing.
She was, however, so unsettled that she forgot to give me my change.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
It's a Home Depot Kind of Day
We are now in our third week of the bathroom renovation and are approaching grouting of the tile. To this end, Cash, the contractor, told me today to buy two boxes of non-sand grout. "Me?" I asked. He said that no way, no how, was he going to pick the color.
Wow. Spoken like a man who has post traumatic stress disorder from having once picked a bad grout.
So I trundled myself off to my local Home Depot where I met Mike, the helpful floor guy. We looked at grout samples next to my marble sample and decided that only nutmeg colored grout would do.
Horrors. There was only one box of non-sand nutmeg left, and I required two.
Not knowing how quickly the grout was needed, I cried out, (literally, I cried out so loudly that another Home Depot guy came over to assist) "I'm desperate."
"Nope. Only the one box."
"Can you put a rush on it?"
"We don't rush anything at Home Depot."
That really begged for a snappy retort, but instead of spending my time thinking of one I asked if he could call a nearby Home Depot to see if they had the grout.
Eureka.
So I fired up the red Mercedes and headed over to the Port Chester Home Depot where they had plenty of the stuff.
I arrived home to find that Cash, the contractor, had forgotton to mention that I needed to buy sanded grout for the shower floor.
I figured this was retribution for Edward having forgotton to buy Debit's coffee this morning.
Debit, the guy who does all the real work, was really very nice about it, even after I suggested that he must have pissed off Edward to get this kind of treatment. But I actually fixed the problem by calling Edward at a meeting and getting him to leave the meeting so that I could scold him by phone and tell him to damn well get the coffee on his way home. Debit must remain in an agreeable frame of mind.
So after Cash's pronouncement about the need for more grout, the Mercedes and I headed back to the first Home Depot, and while I was driving, I got to thinking of a sweet story about Phil in the paint department. One day, I wanted to get a can of spray paint which is kept locked up to avoid kids using it for graffitti purposes. One is supposed to show proof that they are over 18 in order to buy it. For obvious reasons, (just stop laughing, now) no one has ever asked for my i.d. This day, an earnest, serious, young man helped me select my spray paint, and as a joke I said, "Don't you want to see my i.d.?" He looked me straight in the eyes and said absolutely seriously, "Boy, I would love to see your i.d."
I paused and then said something really witty.
Well, actually, I said something ungrammatical that made no sense whatsoever but I wanted to say something witty.
He then said, "I'm Phil, and I'd like to help you with anything. Please call me. I'm Phil. Phil in paint."
Maybe, constant trips to Home Depot aren't so bad.
Wow. Spoken like a man who has post traumatic stress disorder from having once picked a bad grout.
So I trundled myself off to my local Home Depot where I met Mike, the helpful floor guy. We looked at grout samples next to my marble sample and decided that only nutmeg colored grout would do.
Horrors. There was only one box of non-sand nutmeg left, and I required two.
Not knowing how quickly the grout was needed, I cried out, (literally, I cried out so loudly that another Home Depot guy came over to assist) "I'm desperate."
"Nope. Only the one box."
"Can you put a rush on it?"
"We don't rush anything at Home Depot."
That really begged for a snappy retort, but instead of spending my time thinking of one I asked if he could call a nearby Home Depot to see if they had the grout.
Eureka.
So I fired up the red Mercedes and headed over to the Port Chester Home Depot where they had plenty of the stuff.
I arrived home to find that Cash, the contractor, had forgotton to mention that I needed to buy sanded grout for the shower floor.
I figured this was retribution for Edward having forgotton to buy Debit's coffee this morning.
Debit, the guy who does all the real work, was really very nice about it, even after I suggested that he must have pissed off Edward to get this kind of treatment. But I actually fixed the problem by calling Edward at a meeting and getting him to leave the meeting so that I could scold him by phone and tell him to damn well get the coffee on his way home. Debit must remain in an agreeable frame of mind.
So after Cash's pronouncement about the need for more grout, the Mercedes and I headed back to the first Home Depot, and while I was driving, I got to thinking of a sweet story about Phil in the paint department. One day, I wanted to get a can of spray paint which is kept locked up to avoid kids using it for graffitti purposes. One is supposed to show proof that they are over 18 in order to buy it. For obvious reasons, (just stop laughing, now) no one has ever asked for my i.d. This day, an earnest, serious, young man helped me select my spray paint, and as a joke I said, "Don't you want to see my i.d.?" He looked me straight in the eyes and said absolutely seriously, "Boy, I would love to see your i.d."
I paused and then said something really witty.
Well, actually, I said something ungrammatical that made no sense whatsoever but I wanted to say something witty.
He then said, "I'm Phil, and I'd like to help you with anything. Please call me. I'm Phil. Phil in paint."
Maybe, constant trips to Home Depot aren't so bad.
Barnie Tees are Here!
Are you tired of wearing last year's leftover's? Well, believe me, we're tired of seeing you in them. Get something better: Barnie Tees.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Edward Takes a Taxi
Yesterday, in the cab ride over to Madison Square Garden to see the Rangers play Tampa Bay, I got to thinking about Edward's pecadillos about taking cabs.
For example, he had the cab driver stop about a block away from the Garden instead of driving up to it. When I asked him why we can never get out exactly where we want to be, Edward said, "what, you can't walk a block?"
Now, normally, I would be a patsy to this type of abuse and let my question go, but this time I persisted.
Finally, Edward admitted that he wanted to save 50 cents.
So this is why I am forced to walk through ice and mud and God's knows what. To save a half a buck?
When it's time to leave, it is also not permissable to get a cab from the street that you happen to be on. And Edward is really a stickler on this one. When we got out of the Garden, he said let's walk over to 6th Avenue to hail a cab. Ok, that strategy makes sense, since every idiot in a Ranger shirt was trying to get a cab on 7th, but then, as usual, when we got to 6th, he said, "Ok, let's go to 5th, and if that doesn't work, we'll go over to Madison."
Why bother, when we can just walk home?
That reminded me of one very, very, very, listen to me, it was a damn cold night when we went out to dinner with Cheeks-A-Flying (CAK) and his lovely wife, the Queen of Jurisprudence, Mommy. We emerged from the restaurant to a blast of frigid air and an available cab right in front of us. When Edward announced that we needed to walk at least one block over to get a different cab, because this one was headed in the wrong direction, Mommy, who may be a shark in the courtroom, but is a total sweetheart outside of it, actually showed irritation. "So, he'll turn around," she yelled with such a sneer that we were all taken aback and dutifully marched single file into the cab without further discussion. Way to go, Mommy.
It was kid's day at the hockey game yesterday, and some of the kids were finding it a particular challenge to go to the bathroom wearing their Ranger apparel. I could hear one little girl, whose Ranger shirt landed close to her ankles, complain to her friend that you had to hold your shirt way up high or else you got wet. I'll have to remember this the next time I go to a formal event.
In order to celebrate kid's day, the Garden handed out "posters" which were actually 11" X 14" pieces of glossy paper with a picture of the Ranger players printed on them. Only those younger than 13 were allowed to get one. Geez, how generous. Then, during the third period, the Garden announcer, as well as the Jumbotron, stated that it was time for the t-shirt toss. Needing more gym attire, I happily waited for the t-shirts to fly, and the possibility that I might nab one. What actually happened? -- nothing. Nary a t-shirt was tossed, not even a used one.
The Rangers lost, but mostly I wondered if Tampa Bay Lightening fans get better treatment at their arena than we get at the Garden, especially given the price of the tickets.
For example, he had the cab driver stop about a block away from the Garden instead of driving up to it. When I asked him why we can never get out exactly where we want to be, Edward said, "what, you can't walk a block?"
Now, normally, I would be a patsy to this type of abuse and let my question go, but this time I persisted.
Finally, Edward admitted that he wanted to save 50 cents.
So this is why I am forced to walk through ice and mud and God's knows what. To save a half a buck?
When it's time to leave, it is also not permissable to get a cab from the street that you happen to be on. And Edward is really a stickler on this one. When we got out of the Garden, he said let's walk over to 6th Avenue to hail a cab. Ok, that strategy makes sense, since every idiot in a Ranger shirt was trying to get a cab on 7th, but then, as usual, when we got to 6th, he said, "Ok, let's go to 5th, and if that doesn't work, we'll go over to Madison."
Why bother, when we can just walk home?
That reminded me of one very, very, very, listen to me, it was a damn cold night when we went out to dinner with Cheeks-A-Flying (CAK) and his lovely wife, the Queen of Jurisprudence, Mommy. We emerged from the restaurant to a blast of frigid air and an available cab right in front of us. When Edward announced that we needed to walk at least one block over to get a different cab, because this one was headed in the wrong direction, Mommy, who may be a shark in the courtroom, but is a total sweetheart outside of it, actually showed irritation. "So, he'll turn around," she yelled with such a sneer that we were all taken aback and dutifully marched single file into the cab without further discussion. Way to go, Mommy.
It was kid's day at the hockey game yesterday, and some of the kids were finding it a particular challenge to go to the bathroom wearing their Ranger apparel. I could hear one little girl, whose Ranger shirt landed close to her ankles, complain to her friend that you had to hold your shirt way up high or else you got wet. I'll have to remember this the next time I go to a formal event.
In order to celebrate kid's day, the Garden handed out "posters" which were actually 11" X 14" pieces of glossy paper with a picture of the Ranger players printed on them. Only those younger than 13 were allowed to get one. Geez, how generous. Then, during the third period, the Garden announcer, as well as the Jumbotron, stated that it was time for the t-shirt toss. Needing more gym attire, I happily waited for the t-shirts to fly, and the possibility that I might nab one. What actually happened? -- nothing. Nary a t-shirt was tossed, not even a used one.
The Rangers lost, but mostly I wondered if Tampa Bay Lightening fans get better treatment at their arena than we get at the Garden, especially given the price of the tickets.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Next Time Reebok
The Wildlife Conservation Society run is approaching (see blog post, Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and in order to prepare myself properly, I realized that I needed, of course, to go shopping.
I had already bought a sport watch. And now, what I really wanted was a pair of stilettos and a leather jacket. But I couldn't see how even I could rationalize buying these items in the service of running (but I'm still working on that one). So, I went over to the Nike store at the mall.
I was looking forward to this experience as I had had a lovely time speaking by phone with Tina, at Nike Support, for what seemed like all morning, about my malfunctioning sportband sport watch which turned out to be, surprise, surprise, a malfunctioning me, not the watch. And I can't even blame the problems on Edward, the hubby (but I'm still working on that one).
Tina at Nike found it very funny that I hadn't figured out where to properly place the sensor from the watch, and I was instead running with it under my heel, which was causing me all kinds of problems. She wondered how I ran anywhere with basically a big stone in my shoe. Every time I told her to stop laughing, she just guffawed some more. We had a grand old time, and happily at the end of it, my watch was working perfectly.
So I expected to have some more fun at the Nike store at the Mall.
No such luck.
For a very, very big store, there is not much merchandise and even less help. Or were they just avoiding me? And I couldn't even blame that on Edward since he wasn't with me (but I'm still working on that one). Finally, I flagged down a 12-year-old saleswoman, who turned out to be the manager, and asked for a particular style of running pants in my size. She directed one of her male sales staff to retrieve it for me. After a period of time where I swear I watched kids in the store grow and go off to college, I gave the manager a look that said I could do something newsworthy if I didn't get some service before my hair needed to be colored again. With fear in her eyes, she quickly hustled to the back room, which must be some kind of black hole, because she didn't emerge again until just before I was about to walk out, and I never saw the male underling again.
Eureka! She was holding a pair of running pants. But just as she handed them to me, she jerked them back stating that she had made a mistake and had selected the wrong style.
But, she was off again before I could say anything, and this time she was running. Her gait was good and she had a pretty good style, but she needed more pump in her arms.
Black hole again. Were salespeople being eaten up at the mall?
Finally, she returned but with nothing, and she wasn't even that sorry about it. She ran away.
I know Edward is behind this somehow.
I had already bought a sport watch. And now, what I really wanted was a pair of stilettos and a leather jacket. But I couldn't see how even I could rationalize buying these items in the service of running (but I'm still working on that one). So, I went over to the Nike store at the mall.
I was looking forward to this experience as I had had a lovely time speaking by phone with Tina, at Nike Support, for what seemed like all morning, about my malfunctioning sportband sport watch which turned out to be, surprise, surprise, a malfunctioning me, not the watch. And I can't even blame the problems on Edward, the hubby (but I'm still working on that one).
Tina at Nike found it very funny that I hadn't figured out where to properly place the sensor from the watch, and I was instead running with it under my heel, which was causing me all kinds of problems. She wondered how I ran anywhere with basically a big stone in my shoe. Every time I told her to stop laughing, she just guffawed some more. We had a grand old time, and happily at the end of it, my watch was working perfectly.
So I expected to have some more fun at the Nike store at the Mall.
No such luck.
For a very, very big store, there is not much merchandise and even less help. Or were they just avoiding me? And I couldn't even blame that on Edward since he wasn't with me (but I'm still working on that one). Finally, I flagged down a 12-year-old saleswoman, who turned out to be the manager, and asked for a particular style of running pants in my size. She directed one of her male sales staff to retrieve it for me. After a period of time where I swear I watched kids in the store grow and go off to college, I gave the manager a look that said I could do something newsworthy if I didn't get some service before my hair needed to be colored again. With fear in her eyes, she quickly hustled to the back room, which must be some kind of black hole, because she didn't emerge again until just before I was about to walk out, and I never saw the male underling again.
Eureka! She was holding a pair of running pants. But just as she handed them to me, she jerked them back stating that she had made a mistake and had selected the wrong style.
But, she was off again before I could say anything, and this time she was running. Her gait was good and she had a pretty good style, but she needed more pump in her arms.
Black hole again. Were salespeople being eaten up at the mall?
Finally, she returned but with nothing, and she wasn't even that sorry about it. She ran away.
I know Edward is behind this somehow.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Barnie and Edward and the Other Woman
Today is Sunday, and Debit, the major worker on our bathroom renovation, is living with his other family. We did, however, abandon him yesterday for some fun in the city.
For the wild, throw-caution-to-the-wind Edward and me, that entailed dinner and a movie.
At the movie theater, Edward asked for two tickets - one adult and one senior. The total came to $22.50, which Edward double-checked with the cashier and then paid while grumbling to me about the high price. We then moved on to the concession stand where Edward ordered a coffee, and I commented that healthy treats like raisins and nuts were actually being sold in addition to the evil ones. Edward responded, "It's not in the budget."
I very sweetly and kindly offered Edward some important advice:
"If I predecease you, and you're out on a date, I would recommend that you don't complain about the price of the movie tickets and that you offer your date whatever snack she wants without regard to price. Furthermore, I don't think you should wear that knit hat - ever."
We preceded to enter the theater, where the coming attractions had begun, and it was so dark that I literally had to feel my way along the seats for fear of falling. This was an effective technique, as the theater was mostly empty, until I hit something - a woman's head. I expressed my heartfelt apologies, which the woman was nice about accepting, and somehow we sat down.
Then Edward announced he had to go to the bathroom.
Would you go on a date with this man?
So he crawled out of the theater and went back to the lobby.
Knowing how difficult it would be for him to find his way back, I watched for Edward's return. Despite my flailing my arms and yelling his name, Edward managed to take his seat next to some other woman.
Was he "jumping the gun" so-to-speak and trying out dating just a little prematurely?
I yelled his name again, which forced him to leave the other woman and crawl along, grabbing seats down the aisle toward a seat next to me.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
He hit the same woman I had clocked. Only he gave her a really good whack. It was so hard, her head popped forward.
"Edward!" I said, "You hit the same woman I hit."
"Well, she has a big head."
Thankfully, just then, the movie started. What was it, you ask? "The Fighter," and it was very good.
For the wild, throw-caution-to-the-wind Edward and me, that entailed dinner and a movie.
At the movie theater, Edward asked for two tickets - one adult and one senior. The total came to $22.50, which Edward double-checked with the cashier and then paid while grumbling to me about the high price. We then moved on to the concession stand where Edward ordered a coffee, and I commented that healthy treats like raisins and nuts were actually being sold in addition to the evil ones. Edward responded, "It's not in the budget."
I very sweetly and kindly offered Edward some important advice:
"If I predecease you, and you're out on a date, I would recommend that you don't complain about the price of the movie tickets and that you offer your date whatever snack she wants without regard to price. Furthermore, I don't think you should wear that knit hat - ever."
We preceded to enter the theater, where the coming attractions had begun, and it was so dark that I literally had to feel my way along the seats for fear of falling. This was an effective technique, as the theater was mostly empty, until I hit something - a woman's head. I expressed my heartfelt apologies, which the woman was nice about accepting, and somehow we sat down.
Then Edward announced he had to go to the bathroom.
Would you go on a date with this man?
So he crawled out of the theater and went back to the lobby.
Knowing how difficult it would be for him to find his way back, I watched for Edward's return. Despite my flailing my arms and yelling his name, Edward managed to take his seat next to some other woman.
Was he "jumping the gun" so-to-speak and trying out dating just a little prematurely?
I yelled his name again, which forced him to leave the other woman and crawl along, grabbing seats down the aisle toward a seat next to me.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
He hit the same woman I had clocked. Only he gave her a really good whack. It was so hard, her head popped forward.
"Edward!" I said, "You hit the same woman I hit."
"Well, she has a big head."
Thankfully, just then, the movie started. What was it, you ask? "The Fighter," and it was very good.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Seat is Too Big
Overdraft, the plumber, arrived yesterday. He didn't want to be bothered by silly interruptions - like Edward's question, "Who are you?" when he opened the door. Overdraft wanted to get right to that bathroom renovation.
Soon, I heard my name. "Where is the diverter?" Overdraft asked.
"Damned if I know."
After Overdraft explained exactly what I had purchased for the shower heads and why I needed this all important device, he pointed out that he doesn't do this work for a hobby, he is an actual plumber. I yelled to Edward, "There's a plumber in the house!" To which Edward responded, "Don't let him leave!"
Unfortunately, the guy at Klaff's has neglected to sell me a diverter.
No problem. Overdraft has a matching one in his truck that he is able to sell for a mere 200% mark-up.
Following our witty repartee, Overdraft returned to the bathroom where Debit was banging away. He closed the door after which there was a flurry of Polish being spoken.
I opened the door, "You know, Debit is my friend, and he is going to tell me what you said, after you leave. Right, Debit?" Though I am certain Debit had no real understanding of this statement, he nodded his head in agreement. He's back on my team.
Later, after Overdraft leaves with a partial payment and a promise to be back in two days once more work is completed, Debit asks me how big I want the seat in the shower.
Huh? I'm expected to make such a monumental decision?
I proceed to sit on everything in sight and measure, measure, measure.
Debit and I come to a decision about the seat. He builds it. I do paperwork. He calls Cash, the contractor. Uh oh.
Cash wants to speak with me. I take the phone. Cash is not there. Cash is again on the line. I say, "hello." Nothing. Cash calls back. I say, "Cash, do not hang up on me again." Nothing. Cash is there. "I didn't hang up, I'm in a bad cell area." Nothing. Cash is back on the line for good. "The seat is too big."
The seat is too big?
"How the hell do you know?"
"It's not like the one you had before."
Debit and I take turns sitting on it and having an overall zen experience with the seat.
"Go f---k yourself, Cash."
And so ends Day number 5.
Soon, I heard my name. "Where is the diverter?" Overdraft asked.
"Damned if I know."
After Overdraft explained exactly what I had purchased for the shower heads and why I needed this all important device, he pointed out that he doesn't do this work for a hobby, he is an actual plumber. I yelled to Edward, "There's a plumber in the house!" To which Edward responded, "Don't let him leave!"
Unfortunately, the guy at Klaff's has neglected to sell me a diverter.
No problem. Overdraft has a matching one in his truck that he is able to sell for a mere 200% mark-up.
Following our witty repartee, Overdraft returned to the bathroom where Debit was banging away. He closed the door after which there was a flurry of Polish being spoken.
I opened the door, "You know, Debit is my friend, and he is going to tell me what you said, after you leave. Right, Debit?" Though I am certain Debit had no real understanding of this statement, he nodded his head in agreement. He's back on my team.
Later, after Overdraft leaves with a partial payment and a promise to be back in two days once more work is completed, Debit asks me how big I want the seat in the shower.
Huh? I'm expected to make such a monumental decision?
I proceed to sit on everything in sight and measure, measure, measure.
Debit and I come to a decision about the seat. He builds it. I do paperwork. He calls Cash, the contractor. Uh oh.
Cash wants to speak with me. I take the phone. Cash is not there. Cash is again on the line. I say, "hello." Nothing. Cash calls back. I say, "Cash, do not hang up on me again." Nothing. Cash is there. "I didn't hang up, I'm in a bad cell area." Nothing. Cash is back on the line for good. "The seat is too big."
The seat is too big?
"How the hell do you know?"
"It's not like the one you had before."
Debit and I take turns sitting on it and having an overall zen experience with the seat.
"Go f---k yourself, Cash."
And so ends Day number 5.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Lucretia is Not a Doorstop
I returned home today to find my outdoor shona sculpture from Zimbabwe being used to hold open the front door, enabling all kinds of stuff for the bathroom renovation to be brought in and out. With a grunt, I removed the heavy sculpture from the doorway just as Cash, my contractor, arrived lugging a load of tile into the house.
"Lucretia is not a doorstop." I said, with a sniff.
"She is broken," he responded.
I looked the sculpture over and could find no evidence of breakage so I asked him what he meant. He pointed to a sheared off spot at the top of her head that was put there on purpose by the artist.
"That is artistic expression." I advised him.
"Ha. That is not art."
I was taken aback. How dare Cash criticize my art by saying it's not art. Then, he asked Debit, his partner, for an opinion.
Debit, who thus far has been agreeing with everything I say even when he has no understanding of what I say, clearly expressed his view.
"It's not art, and it's broken." Obviously, Debit has a need to suck up to Cash.
Feeling offended, flabbergasted and unable to express myself like an adult, I looked at Cash and said,
"F--k you, Cash."
And, that was the end of the art appraisal.
"Lucretia is not a doorstop." I said, with a sniff.
"She is broken," he responded.
I looked the sculpture over and could find no evidence of breakage so I asked him what he meant. He pointed to a sheared off spot at the top of her head that was put there on purpose by the artist.
"That is artistic expression." I advised him.
"Ha. That is not art."
I was taken aback. How dare Cash criticize my art by saying it's not art. Then, he asked Debit, his partner, for an opinion.
Debit, who thus far has been agreeing with everything I say even when he has no understanding of what I say, clearly expressed his view.
"It's not art, and it's broken." Obviously, Debit has a need to suck up to Cash.
Feeling offended, flabbergasted and unable to express myself like an adult, I looked at Cash and said,
"F--k you, Cash."
And, that was the end of the art appraisal.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Bad News in the Bathroom
You know how dogs can detect cancer with their superior sense of smell? Well, apparently, dogs are also able to detect an oncoming crisis in home renovation.
But, more on that later.
Edward, having been incredibly good about staying home yesterday so that I could work and exercise, announced this morning that he needed to leave at 8 and come home about 6, because he had a lunch meeting.
Where is that lunch meeting, Edward, Costa Rica?
So that left me to deal with myself, the dogs and Debit, who is working on our bathroom renovation.
Debit is a man of few words. I'm coming to believe that he says yes to just about every statement and question. In order to test this theory, I said to him today, "Debit, what is your opinion on global warming and its effect on weather conditions?"
He looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Yes." I knew it!
With all the banging in the bathroom, I have experienced some lapses in concentration as well as memory loss. For some reason, this means that I cannot take a coherent phone message. Edward has been remarkably understanding, given that he is the one affected by this affliction.
But more on that later.
The dogs tipped me off to impending doom when I left for one measly hour to attend my pilates class. When I put my coat on, they behaved like terrified, rabid, beasts (not that I actually know what that looks like) and made it quite clear that they did not want me to leave them in this dangerous home. It was so compelling that I almost turned back.
But, I'm not really that compassionate.
When I returned, however, everything seemed normal and calm, if you consider calm a constant banging that can be heard outside of the house down the street. I decided to do some paperwork in a room close to the bathroom in question when the banging stopped, and I heard Debit talking on his cellphone on what I assumed was a personal call. Although I don't speak Polish, he seemed upset, talking loudly with excitement in his voice. I wonder if he has marital problems, I thought. Poor Debit.
Then he came in and handed me the phone, and then Cash, my contractor, handed me the bad news. It turns out my old plumbing was leaky and caused rot in what holds up the damned bathroom floor. This, of course, has to be fixed before the marble is laid and since there was no way Cash could have known this when giving me the estimate, the cost of this work will be added on to what I owe.
Poor Barnie. Literally.
Edward has come home from Mongolia or wherever he fled to, and I have told him of this development, which he handled well. His good nature was strained, however, when I again forgot to give him his phone messages. Well, it's not as if there was something really important like his boss called about an urgent, time sensitive matter or anyth..ah, er, gotta run now.
But, more on that later.
Edward, having been incredibly good about staying home yesterday so that I could work and exercise, announced this morning that he needed to leave at 8 and come home about 6, because he had a lunch meeting.
Where is that lunch meeting, Edward, Costa Rica?
So that left me to deal with myself, the dogs and Debit, who is working on our bathroom renovation.
Debit is a man of few words. I'm coming to believe that he says yes to just about every statement and question. In order to test this theory, I said to him today, "Debit, what is your opinion on global warming and its effect on weather conditions?"
He looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Yes." I knew it!
With all the banging in the bathroom, I have experienced some lapses in concentration as well as memory loss. For some reason, this means that I cannot take a coherent phone message. Edward has been remarkably understanding, given that he is the one affected by this affliction.
But more on that later.
The dogs tipped me off to impending doom when I left for one measly hour to attend my pilates class. When I put my coat on, they behaved like terrified, rabid, beasts (not that I actually know what that looks like) and made it quite clear that they did not want me to leave them in this dangerous home. It was so compelling that I almost turned back.
But, I'm not really that compassionate.
When I returned, however, everything seemed normal and calm, if you consider calm a constant banging that can be heard outside of the house down the street. I decided to do some paperwork in a room close to the bathroom in question when the banging stopped, and I heard Debit talking on his cellphone on what I assumed was a personal call. Although I don't speak Polish, he seemed upset, talking loudly with excitement in his voice. I wonder if he has marital problems, I thought. Poor Debit.
Then he came in and handed me the phone, and then Cash, my contractor, handed me the bad news. It turns out my old plumbing was leaky and caused rot in what holds up the damned bathroom floor. This, of course, has to be fixed before the marble is laid and since there was no way Cash could have known this when giving me the estimate, the cost of this work will be added on to what I owe.
Poor Barnie. Literally.
Edward has come home from Mongolia or wherever he fled to, and I have told him of this development, which he handled well. His good nature was strained, however, when I again forgot to give him his phone messages. Well, it's not as if there was something really important like his boss called about an urgent, time sensitive matter or anyth..ah, er, gotta run now.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Barnie and Debit in the Bedroom
When I starting to hallucinate and speak in tongues due to the constant banging from Debit working on the bathroom renovation, I left the house for a couple of hours to regain what is left of my sanity.
I returned to find my youngest dog, Rembrandt, throwing himself at the door when he heard my key in the lock and one of my Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Louie, screaming.
Debit, what have you been doing to my children?
Then I saw Debit.
When last I left him, he was merely bloodied due to cutting himself on a shard of tile. Now he was bloodied and soaking wet.
He said, "Your pipes are old."
Look, haven't we already established that everything about me is old?
"The banging broke pipe."
Uh oh.
But just as my heart was going into an irregular rhythm, he added, "I break pipe, I fix pipe." Whew. Cancel the paramedics. Wait, though. "Is it a mess upstairs?" I ask.
"In the bedroom."
Call 911.
In the bedroom? Are there pipes in the bedroom?
He led me to the room in question -- the bathroom. Geez, Debit really needs help with his accent as bathroom sounded to me a whole lot like bedroom, or he confused the two rooms. Who cares? And, what really matters, is that a mess has been completely cleaned up. He presents the rusted pipe as evidence but again states, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, "I break pipe. I fix pipe."
God Bless You, Debit.
I returned to find my youngest dog, Rembrandt, throwing himself at the door when he heard my key in the lock and one of my Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Louie, screaming.
Debit, what have you been doing to my children?
Then I saw Debit.
When last I left him, he was merely bloodied due to cutting himself on a shard of tile. Now he was bloodied and soaking wet.
He said, "Your pipes are old."
Look, haven't we already established that everything about me is old?
"The banging broke pipe."
Uh oh.
But just as my heart was going into an irregular rhythm, he added, "I break pipe, I fix pipe." Whew. Cancel the paramedics. Wait, though. "Is it a mess upstairs?" I ask.
"In the bedroom."
Call 911.
In the bedroom? Are there pipes in the bedroom?
He led me to the room in question -- the bathroom. Geez, Debit really needs help with his accent as bathroom sounded to me a whole lot like bedroom, or he confused the two rooms. Who cares? And, what really matters, is that a mess has been completely cleaned up. He presents the rusted pipe as evidence but again states, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, "I break pipe. I fix pipe."
God Bless You, Debit.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Barnie Starts a Renovation
It's Day 1 of the bathroom renovation and Debit, my contractor's partner, arrived at 8 to a chorus of dogs barking and Edward screaming, "Debit is here!"
I was in the downstairs bathroom at the time, marveling at how dreadful it looks and how much it needs to be renovated.
We are, of course, renovating the upstairs bathroom.
Just as I was starting to put on makeup in preparation for going to work, two guys arrived to deliver the new bathroom vanity. Although their bill of lading instructed them to place the thing in the "first dry area" (I kid you not), these guys were kind enough to schlep it not only to the second dry area, but all the way up the stairs to Edward's office, which is near the bathroom. After I thanked, blessed and practically kissed them, I gave them a hefty tip which was all too deserved given that the granite top was already attached to the vanity and the whole thing weighed a whopping 280 lbs. I asked them if they would consider spending the day working on the bathroom, which caused them to run out the door.
I then got back to my makeup application and realized that I had completed one eye at the time the vanity guys arrived, but I had not started on the other. This made me appear as if I was trying out for a new reality show called, "Plastic Surgery Gone Wrong." Given this medical condition, the vanity delivery guys obviously felt a moral obligation to put the vanity wherever I wanted and then high tail it out of there.
Debit just interrupted me to ask for a band-aid as he has cut himself on a shard of tile. Since he is bleeding all over the place - the carpeting, the new vanity, the dogs, the furniture - I must stop now to care for him. He just better be able to get back to work or I may have to pee on him again (see Barnie Needs a Renovation).
I was in the downstairs bathroom at the time, marveling at how dreadful it looks and how much it needs to be renovated.
We are, of course, renovating the upstairs bathroom.
Just as I was starting to put on makeup in preparation for going to work, two guys arrived to deliver the new bathroom vanity. Although their bill of lading instructed them to place the thing in the "first dry area" (I kid you not), these guys were kind enough to schlep it not only to the second dry area, but all the way up the stairs to Edward's office, which is near the bathroom. After I thanked, blessed and practically kissed them, I gave them a hefty tip which was all too deserved given that the granite top was already attached to the vanity and the whole thing weighed a whopping 280 lbs. I asked them if they would consider spending the day working on the bathroom, which caused them to run out the door.
I then got back to my makeup application and realized that I had completed one eye at the time the vanity guys arrived, but I had not started on the other. This made me appear as if I was trying out for a new reality show called, "Plastic Surgery Gone Wrong." Given this medical condition, the vanity delivery guys obviously felt a moral obligation to put the vanity wherever I wanted and then high tail it out of there.
Debit just interrupted me to ask for a band-aid as he has cut himself on a shard of tile. Since he is bleeding all over the place - the carpeting, the new vanity, the dogs, the furniture - I must stop now to care for him. He just better be able to get back to work or I may have to pee on him again (see Barnie Needs a Renovation).
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Barnie Needs a Renovation
It's been a really trying day.
As I was leaving the gym, I passed by Monique on the elliptical who asked what exercise I had done there. I told her about the run for the penguins (see Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and that I had been running on a treadmill to prepare for the 5k. I further stated that I was worried about the race since I had not run outside yet. She responded with a shrug, "You're not doing it for time, right? How difficult is it to run 3 miles?" I searched my head for a response, but before I found one, she said, "You don't want to look like an idiot?"
Now, what made her think of that word?
I continued on home, all sweaty and disgusting looking and just as I was about to get in the shower, who shows up unexpectedly but my contractor, Cash, who is due to start my bathroom renovation, tomorrow. It turns out that he came to review the job with one of his Band of Merry Men, Debit. Debit and I have an unusually close relationship owing to an unfortunate incident with an earlier plumbing issue. There was a problem with my kitchen sink and when Debit and the Merry Men were fixing it, I was told not to run the water, but they didn't specifically say not to use the bathroom. When I took a pee and heard a loud bunch of polish sentences that didn't sound like they would be translated into something like, "That woman is so nice. We are very happy to be working in this house," I realized that the sink pipe was also connected to the downstairs toilet and everyone was getting, well, a shower. Let's just say that Debit has a very forgiving nature.
I muttered to Cash something about this renovation was going to be unpleasant to live through. And he said, "Yeah, it's going to be horrible."
Well, it's nice that he's agreeable.
But, why does he laugh when I make assertive statements such as, "I will not be pleased if the bathroom is finished but the shower doors have not arrived"? Should I say these things brandishing a weapon?
As he was leaving, Cash asked me if Debit could start work earlier than 8 a.m. tomorrow. I said that would be fine if they didn't mind seeing me looking worse than I do now. Ha, ha, ha.
Cash and Debit looked at each other and said 8 would be fine.
As I was leaving the gym, I passed by Monique on the elliptical who asked what exercise I had done there. I told her about the run for the penguins (see Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins) and that I had been running on a treadmill to prepare for the 5k. I further stated that I was worried about the race since I had not run outside yet. She responded with a shrug, "You're not doing it for time, right? How difficult is it to run 3 miles?" I searched my head for a response, but before I found one, she said, "You don't want to look like an idiot?"
Now, what made her think of that word?
I continued on home, all sweaty and disgusting looking and just as I was about to get in the shower, who shows up unexpectedly but my contractor, Cash, who is due to start my bathroom renovation, tomorrow. It turns out that he came to review the job with one of his Band of Merry Men, Debit. Debit and I have an unusually close relationship owing to an unfortunate incident with an earlier plumbing issue. There was a problem with my kitchen sink and when Debit and the Merry Men were fixing it, I was told not to run the water, but they didn't specifically say not to use the bathroom. When I took a pee and heard a loud bunch of polish sentences that didn't sound like they would be translated into something like, "That woman is so nice. We are very happy to be working in this house," I realized that the sink pipe was also connected to the downstairs toilet and everyone was getting, well, a shower. Let's just say that Debit has a very forgiving nature.
I muttered to Cash something about this renovation was going to be unpleasant to live through. And he said, "Yeah, it's going to be horrible."
Well, it's nice that he's agreeable.
But, why does he laugh when I make assertive statements such as, "I will not be pleased if the bathroom is finished but the shower doors have not arrived"? Should I say these things brandishing a weapon?
As he was leaving, Cash asked me if Debit could start work earlier than 8 a.m. tomorrow. I said that would be fine if they didn't mind seeing me looking worse than I do now. Ha, ha, ha.
Cash and Debit looked at each other and said 8 would be fine.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Barnie is the Michelin Man
As Edward was eating a tuna sandwich at 10 this morning, he announced with glee that if he managed his schedule properly, he thought he would be able to consume 6 meals today.
It's nice to have goals.
My hope is to have lunch without seeing it on my body before dinner.
As I age, I feel increasingly helpless to lose weight and maintain muscle mass. And yet I refuse to surrender. If ever I am seen wearing a product called Pajama Jeans - apparently a pair of pants that bear a resemblance to jeans that are made with an elastic waist and such stretchy material that they are pajama-like in appearance and feel - I would hope it's at a costume party. If not, then it will be clear that I have lost the skirmish, the battle, the war. Well, what's the point of living, if you're living it in Pajama Jeans?
Once when I was sliding into the chair at my hair salon, I jokingly said to my sylist, "I can't decide whether to have plastic surgery on my face or my body." Now why I said this, I don't know. Why I thought it was funny, I don't know. I suppose I was looking for some kind of response like, "Why would you touch a face and body that are already perfection?" But instead, I got, "Oh, do your face first, it's much easier to hide your body." Huh?
I spent the rest of the time at the salon contemplating my face and all its imperfections. And what, short of a burkha, could I wear to hide my body?
I avoided the entire problem by buying a pocketbook.
It's nice to have goals.
My hope is to have lunch without seeing it on my body before dinner.
As I age, I feel increasingly helpless to lose weight and maintain muscle mass. And yet I refuse to surrender. If ever I am seen wearing a product called Pajama Jeans - apparently a pair of pants that bear a resemblance to jeans that are made with an elastic waist and such stretchy material that they are pajama-like in appearance and feel - I would hope it's at a costume party. If not, then it will be clear that I have lost the skirmish, the battle, the war. Well, what's the point of living, if you're living it in Pajama Jeans?
Once when I was sliding into the chair at my hair salon, I jokingly said to my sylist, "I can't decide whether to have plastic surgery on my face or my body." Now why I said this, I don't know. Why I thought it was funny, I don't know. I suppose I was looking for some kind of response like, "Why would you touch a face and body that are already perfection?" But instead, I got, "Oh, do your face first, it's much easier to hide your body." Huh?
I spent the rest of the time at the salon contemplating my face and all its imperfections. And what, short of a burkha, could I wear to hide my body?
I avoided the entire problem by buying a pocketbook.
Friday, February 4, 2011
All My Children
The other day, I was training with Thor when he asked me how long I had been married to Edward. Thinking that Thor was impressed with the longevity of our relationship and perhaps looking for advice about love and commitment, I proudly told him that we would be married 25 years this June. Thor thought a moment and responded that he was about 5 years old when our marathon began.
I smiled sweetly, but inwardly I was asking myself why I pay him for this abuse. Who wants to be told that they could be the mother of a 30-year-old man?
Then today, when I told this charming anecdote to my pilates reformer class, sweet Mary-Rose, working the torture device next to me, offered that she was 16 in 1986, the year of my marriage. I scanned the room. Mary-Rose looked to be the second-oldest broad in there. Another class member, my nemesis, Miss Tina, apparently quick at subtraction, interrupted her reverse dolphin plank to point out that I am old enough to be Mary-Rose's mother.
Then I got blamed for distracting the class.
I smiled sweetly, but inwardly I was asking myself why I pay him for this abuse. Who wants to be told that they could be the mother of a 30-year-old man?
Then today, when I told this charming anecdote to my pilates reformer class, sweet Mary-Rose, working the torture device next to me, offered that she was 16 in 1986, the year of my marriage. I scanned the room. Mary-Rose looked to be the second-oldest broad in there. Another class member, my nemesis, Miss Tina, apparently quick at subtraction, interrupted her reverse dolphin plank to point out that I am old enough to be Mary-Rose's mother.
Then I got blamed for distracting the class.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Call the Cops. Better yet, Call "Dateline." Edward is Trying to Kill Me.
Except for the one about shopping at Neiman Marcus, this blog post is clearly the most significant I have ever written. Please pay close attention.
If I show up dead, or I don't show up at all, it will be because my husband, Edward, has done away with me.
Although my evidence for believing this is circumstantial, I think you will agree that it is compelling.
(Note to self: Go have professional head shots taken as media outlets will want a photo to accompany the story of my demise. I refuse to have some horror show of a picture of myself be shown the world over. Even if I'm dead, I don't want comments like, "Couldn't she have combed her hair? Maybe that's why he did it.")
Okay, so here's the evidence:
Wait. (Note to self: On the back of the photo, write descriptive characteristics of myself that can easily be included in the story: Age: Unknown, looks to be about 40; Height: Good; Weight:135, 120; Complexion: Dewy; Personality: Fabulous in every way.)
We in New York have had quite a bit of snow. Yesterday, I was shoveling the driveway in preparation to move the cars out, and I asked Edward if he would guide me verbally out of the driveway so that I didn't have to clear the car off and mess up what had already been shoveled.
He all too readily agreed. And, then he smiled at me.
So there I am driving the car up the driveway with no visibility whatsoever, and he says, "Okay, you're in the street, and you need to turn right."
Now, I'm thinking that it really makes sense to go left before I turn right, but since he can see and I can't and he's entirely trustworthy, right?, I should listen to his directions.
Then, he says, emphatically, because I have been hesitating, "turn right, turn right, right, right."
So, I make a hard right - and crash into a huge pile of hardened snow.
At that point, he says, "I mean, turn left."
(Note to self: Along with my new head shot, leave the picture of Edward from Halloween a few years ago, when he was dressed up as a woman.)
Now, you're probably thinking, anybody could make that mistake. So he confused his left and his right. That hardly makes him a killer.
You want more evidence? Well how about this: Later in the day, I was shoveling the walk in front of our house when suddenly, snow and ice came barreling down at me from the roof above. I missed being clonked on the head by less than a foot. And who turned out to be at the front door watching the whole thing? Edward. A little too coincidental, don't you think?
And, later that evening, he asked me to taste his salmon and after I had done so, mentioned that it seemed a little fishy. What was in that salmon, Edward?
I wonder what finally put him over the edge. Was it my singing?
If I show up dead, or I don't show up at all, it will be because my husband, Edward, has done away with me.
Although my evidence for believing this is circumstantial, I think you will agree that it is compelling.
(Note to self: Go have professional head shots taken as media outlets will want a photo to accompany the story of my demise. I refuse to have some horror show of a picture of myself be shown the world over. Even if I'm dead, I don't want comments like, "Couldn't she have combed her hair? Maybe that's why he did it.")
Okay, so here's the evidence:
Wait. (Note to self: On the back of the photo, write descriptive characteristics of myself that can easily be included in the story: Age: Unknown, looks to be about 40; Height: Good; Weight:
We in New York have had quite a bit of snow. Yesterday, I was shoveling the driveway in preparation to move the cars out, and I asked Edward if he would guide me verbally out of the driveway so that I didn't have to clear the car off and mess up what had already been shoveled.
He all too readily agreed. And, then he smiled at me.
So there I am driving the car up the driveway with no visibility whatsoever, and he says, "Okay, you're in the street, and you need to turn right."
Now, I'm thinking that it really makes sense to go left before I turn right, but since he can see and I can't and he's entirely trustworthy, right?, I should listen to his directions.
Then, he says, emphatically, because I have been hesitating, "turn right, turn right, right, right."
So, I make a hard right - and crash into a huge pile of hardened snow.
At that point, he says, "I mean, turn left."
(Note to self: Along with my new head shot, leave the picture of Edward from Halloween a few years ago, when he was dressed up as a woman.)
Now, you're probably thinking, anybody could make that mistake. So he confused his left and his right. That hardly makes him a killer.
You want more evidence? Well how about this: Later in the day, I was shoveling the walk in front of our house when suddenly, snow and ice came barreling down at me from the roof above. I missed being clonked on the head by less than a foot. And who turned out to be at the front door watching the whole thing? Edward. A little too coincidental, don't you think?
And, later that evening, he asked me to taste his salmon and after I had done so, mentioned that it seemed a little fishy. What was in that salmon, Edward?
I wonder what finally put him over the edge. Was it my singing?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Barnie Runs for Narcissism, Merchandise and Penguins.
When I told my husband, Edward, that I was runnning in a 5K race sponsored by the Wildlife Conservation Society for the protection of penguins, he was immediately supportive and said he would be cheering me on at the finish line.
Since the race is April 30th, that gives me over 3 months to ... train? Well, yes, but more importantly, to figure out what to wear. A good, cast-iron sports bra is a necessity. What to do with my hair? Jean-Claudia, another runner in this event, can rock a really great head scarf, but when I try to do that, I look like an escapee from "Fiddler on the Roof." This is all becoming so very stressful.
And, just when I was entering into all out obsession over my appearance, Edward called to me from downstairs. "I think we need to hire a dog walker the day of the run, since we will be gone so long."
That kind of blew me out of my narcissism into a crisis of ego and self-esteem. Did my husband and biggest fan think it takes me hours and hours to run a little over 3 miles?
Before I could yell my response back atthe bedbug sweetie, a daydream in movie form began running through my mind. The first scene began with Jean-Claudia and I looking fabulous in our running togs. We speak of our devotion to animals, and penguins in particular, as we start the race. Our fans line the course and provide thunderous applause as we swiftly run past.
Sadly, the next scene shows me in the distance, running alone in the dark, all the other participants having finished the race many hours earlier. I look disheveled, worn-out, and glassy-eyed but still I put one foot in front of the other. Sweat, or maybe tears, run down my grimy cheeks. The fans have all gone back to their cozy and happy homes.
A reporter from a local news station approaches me and walks backwards in an attempt to keep up with my running pace. "Why did I persist in continuing the run when so many people, including Mayor Bloomberg, had begged me to stop?" I told the reporter that I would never let down the doners and certainly not the penguins, and that I believed the petition signed by the donors asking me to stop running was a fake. Furthermore, I demanded a bus with curtains at the window to take me to the airport where a plane with long-range capability would be idling on the tarmac. A bagel, freshly toasted with butter, not cream cheese, should be placed on the bus alongside a large, hot, black coffee. Then, and only then, would the little red-tailed pooper, who was taken as a hostage and was currently being held captive in my sports bra, be released.
Wait a minute, now I'm in a totally different movie.
I busted out of my daydream back to reality.
My response to dear Edward? "No need for a dog walker. If I'm not done in 3 hours, feel free to go home, walk the dogs, have lunch, have an affair and don't bother coming back. I'll get a cab."
In all seriousness, this is a worthwhile event, and I hope you will consider becoming involved. For more information about saving penguins and how to donate, go to: http://e.wcs.org/goto/Nancy
Since the race is April 30th, that gives me over 3 months to ... train? Well, yes, but more importantly, to figure out what to wear. A good, cast-iron sports bra is a necessity. What to do with my hair? Jean-Claudia, another runner in this event, can rock a really great head scarf, but when I try to do that, I look like an escapee from "Fiddler on the Roof." This is all becoming so very stressful.
And, just when I was entering into all out obsession over my appearance, Edward called to me from downstairs. "I think we need to hire a dog walker the day of the run, since we will be gone so long."
That kind of blew me out of my narcissism into a crisis of ego and self-esteem. Did my husband and biggest fan think it takes me hours and hours to run a little over 3 miles?
Before I could yell my response back at
Sadly, the next scene shows me in the distance, running alone in the dark, all the other participants having finished the race many hours earlier. I look disheveled, worn-out, and glassy-eyed but still I put one foot in front of the other. Sweat, or maybe tears, run down my grimy cheeks. The fans have all gone back to their cozy and happy homes.
A reporter from a local news station approaches me and walks backwards in an attempt to keep up with my running pace. "Why did I persist in continuing the run when so many people, including Mayor Bloomberg, had begged me to stop?" I told the reporter that I would never let down the doners and certainly not the penguins, and that I believed the petition signed by the donors asking me to stop running was a fake. Furthermore, I demanded a bus with curtains at the window to take me to the airport where a plane with long-range capability would be idling on the tarmac. A bagel, freshly toasted with butter, not cream cheese, should be placed on the bus alongside a large, hot, black coffee. Then, and only then, would the little red-tailed pooper, who was taken as a hostage and was currently being held captive in my sports bra, be released.
Wait a minute, now I'm in a totally different movie.
I busted out of my daydream back to reality.
My response to dear Edward? "No need for a dog walker. If I'm not done in 3 hours, feel free to go home, walk the dogs, have lunch, have an affair and don't bother coming back. I'll get a cab."
In all seriousness, this is a worthwhile event, and I hope you will consider becoming involved. For more information about saving penguins and how to donate, go to: http://e.wcs.org/goto/Nancy
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Barnie and Edward Can Still Work the Microwave
The other day, Edward and I were both convinced that it was Thursday, and it was only Tuesday.
And even when we satisfied ourselves that it was in fact Tuesday, we still spent the day lapsing into Thursday thoughts.
Could it have started? Could dementia or some weird mental illness be setting in, and most upsetting of all, to us both, at the same time?
I started obsessing about how we were going to take care of ourselves once we began making bigger errors than confusing the day of the week. For example, what if we started to hallucinate and came to believe our pet, Rembrandt, was a wolf, not a domesticated dog?
Uh oh. We do think that.
What if one of us started to wear the same outfit day-after-day, despite having a closet full of clothes?
Oh no. Edward does that.
What if one of us had questions she wanted answered about "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" on Bravo -- check your local listings?
At least we can still work the microwave and most of our television clickers.
And even when we satisfied ourselves that it was in fact Tuesday, we still spent the day lapsing into Thursday thoughts.
Could it have started? Could dementia or some weird mental illness be setting in, and most upsetting of all, to us both, at the same time?
I started obsessing about how we were going to take care of ourselves once we began making bigger errors than confusing the day of the week. For example, what if we started to hallucinate and came to believe our pet, Rembrandt, was a wolf, not a domesticated dog?
Uh oh. We do think that.
What if one of us started to wear the same outfit day-after-day, despite having a closet full of clothes?
Oh no. Edward does that.
What if one of us had questions she wanted answered about "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" on Bravo -- check your local listings?
At least we can still work the microwave and most of our television clickers.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Barnie is Such a Kidder
In going through old documents on my computer, I came across some correspondence I wrote to the manager of my gym regarding the performance of my trainer, Thor. Here is the letter:
April 1, 2008
Club Manager
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing to express my concern regarding one of your master level trainers, Thor.
When I first met Master Thor in October, 2007, he arrived on time, appeared fit, dressed appropriately and was ready to work. He greeted me warmly and asked about my fitness goals.
I stated that I wanted to gain more muscle tone and maintain a youthful appearance. His response of “Lady, I’m no miracle worker,” was bad enough, but then he said that I should be interviewing plastic surgeons. He muttered something about a Brazilian Butt Lift and a face lift and went on to state that given my clothes and the poor quality of my hair dye job, I probably couldn’t afford plastic surgery and should consider applying for a TV makeover show such as The Biggest Loser. When I pointed out that I had maybe 5 pounds to lose and that my understanding of the Biggest Loser was that participants had to be morbidly obese, Master Thor started laughing so hard, he experienced an asthma attack which ended our session early.
I stated that I wanted to gain more muscle tone and maintain a youthful appearance. His response of “Lady, I’m no miracle worker,” was bad enough, but then he said that I should be interviewing plastic surgeons. He muttered something about a Brazilian Butt Lift and a face lift and went on to state that given my clothes and the poor quality of my hair dye job, I probably couldn’t afford plastic surgery and should consider applying for a TV makeover show such as The Biggest Loser. When I pointed out that I had maybe 5 pounds to lose and that my understanding of the Biggest Loser was that participants had to be morbidly obese, Master Thor started laughing so hard, he experienced an asthma attack which ended our session early.
In the next session, he informed me that he had just been diagnosed with mononucleosis and “a few STDs” but that this would pose no health risk to me as unlike his work with other clients, he had no intention of having any physical contact with me whatsoever. He proved this by not attempting to break my fall off of a large stability ball.
After a few more sessions, I asked Master Thor if it would be all right for me to call him Thor. He said that once I had paid for at least 50 training sessions, he might consider allowing me to address him as Thor, but if I was willing to supplement the club training fee with cash placed in a brown paper bag and paid directly to him, I could call him Thor immediately.
Some other concerns I have:
1. Master Thor’s use of profanity. For example, when I asked him whether I was to repeat an exercise, he responded, “Yes, Motherf--ker, you are.”
2. Master Thor’s understanding of the trainer – trainee relationship. For example, prior to a training session, I was required to stretch him.
3. Master Thor’s respect for the difficulty involved in training. For example, if I am in pain, he invariably tells me that I am faking.
4. Master Thor’s commitment to our time together. For example, he has been late to sessions because they interfered with his watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island .
Thank you for your attention to these serious issues and Happy April’s Fools Day.
Sincerely,
Barnie
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Edward Needs A Decaf
Going to the movies with Edward is like...well, it's an experience unlike any other.
Edward cannot control himself. He must ask questions that can only be answered by someone who has already seen the movie. He also asks questions that require complicated responses and sadly engender more questions. And, for someone who cares little about celebrities, Edward takes an uncanny interest in who is playing what role and always gets it wrong. For example, he'll say, "Isn't that Glenn Close?" when it's really Betty White.
Although we arrived early to see "The King's Speech" yesterday, Edward screamed, "we must find seats" when I attempted to purchase a cup of coffee before going in. The guy at the concession stand reassured us that there were plenty of seats available, but Edward ran to the theater anyway to save us places.
Almost as suddenly as he left, he returned to announce that he decided to go to the bathroom first.
Since this seemed a little odd, I explained to the guy behind the concession stand that Edward was a little anxious. The guy gave a knowing and compassionate nod. He said, "I can see that. Instead of regular coffee, maybe he should have a decaf." Just then, Edward came bounding out of the men's room and sprinted back toward the theater.
This is not the first time that there has been a coffee incident at the movies. Once, many years ago when my nieces were young, Edward obtained his coffee at a concession stand and left us there while he went to the bathroom. Before leaving, he handed me money to pay for his coffee and our purchases. As kids will, they took a while making their candy selections. I realized a lot of time had passed and Edward had not returned. Before paying for the coffee and candy, I voiced my concern that maybe he was already in the theater saving us seats and he had all the tickets, making it impossible for us to get in the theater. At that, the guy behind the concession counter said, "Yeah, and he didn't even pay for his coffee." Just as Edward was getting dumped on from all sides, he appeared, not knowing why we were all laughing.
Moments after yesterday's resurgence of cinema coffee issues, I entered the dark theater only to realize that Edward had forgotten to give me a hint about where he was sitting. Then I discovered that he was ensconced deep inside a row where the person in the aisle seat, an elderly man with a cane, had to make a second tortured effort (the first one was to accommodate Edward) to allow me to hurdle him.
The movie, however, more than made up for my travails. That's how it is with Edward: you've got to hope for a really good movie.
Edward cannot control himself. He must ask questions that can only be answered by someone who has already seen the movie. He also asks questions that require complicated responses and sadly engender more questions. And, for someone who cares little about celebrities, Edward takes an uncanny interest in who is playing what role and always gets it wrong. For example, he'll say, "Isn't that Glenn Close?" when it's really Betty White.
Although we arrived early to see "The King's Speech" yesterday, Edward screamed, "we must find seats" when I attempted to purchase a cup of coffee before going in. The guy at the concession stand reassured us that there were plenty of seats available, but Edward ran to the theater anyway to save us places.
Almost as suddenly as he left, he returned to announce that he decided to go to the bathroom first.
Since this seemed a little odd, I explained to the guy behind the concession stand that Edward was a little anxious. The guy gave a knowing and compassionate nod. He said, "I can see that. Instead of regular coffee, maybe he should have a decaf." Just then, Edward came bounding out of the men's room and sprinted back toward the theater.
This is not the first time that there has been a coffee incident at the movies. Once, many years ago when my nieces were young, Edward obtained his coffee at a concession stand and left us there while he went to the bathroom. Before leaving, he handed me money to pay for his coffee and our purchases. As kids will, they took a while making their candy selections. I realized a lot of time had passed and Edward had not returned. Before paying for the coffee and candy, I voiced my concern that maybe he was already in the theater saving us seats and he had all the tickets, making it impossible for us to get in the theater. At that, the guy behind the concession counter said, "Yeah, and he didn't even pay for his coffee." Just as Edward was getting dumped on from all sides, he appeared, not knowing why we were all laughing.
Moments after yesterday's resurgence of cinema coffee issues, I entered the dark theater only to realize that Edward had forgotten to give me a hint about where he was sitting. Then I discovered that he was ensconced deep inside a row where the person in the aisle seat, an elderly man with a cane, had to make a second tortured effort (the first one was to accommodate Edward) to allow me to hurdle him.
The movie, however, more than made up for my travails. That's how it is with Edward: you've got to hope for a really good movie.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)