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?
      
     

     

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 at the 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

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.

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.

            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

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.
     
         

Sandals for the Neiman's Scholar

     I had to face it.  I could no longer be in denial.  Where is the merchandise aspect to this blog, I asked myself.  All but ignored, I had to admit.  Inexcusable.
     So I hauled my ample ass off to Neiman Marcus to do some anthropological research.

     In my skinny jeans, trench coat and high boots, I looked like the Westchester version of Jane Goodall trekking into the forest to study monkeys.  As I entered this gleaming icon of conspicuous consumption, salespeople swarmed around me like lemmings.  This occurred not because of my fabulous appearance, and I don't give off an "I have cash" smell.  I stood still and studied my environment.  No customers.  And my beloved Neiman Marcus was running an up-to-65%-off sale. 

     How could this be?  Has it really gotten this bad?  Using all my coping strategies, I pulled myself together.

     I tore off to the shoe department, took a sandal on display in my size and asked a saleswoman for its mate. Although there were no customers, I felt the need to run around and be grabby as if I were in competition with others for the marked down merchandise.  I needed the experience to be like old times.

     Happily, the Clergerie sandals, a requirement in the dead of winter when you have no plans to travel someplace warm --originally over $400 and now marked down to $150 -- fit well and looked fabulous.  I presented the saleswoman with my Neiman Marcus credit card and announced, "I'll take 'em."  I no longer cared about the state of the economy, peace on earth or what I was having for dinner.  The sandals gave me a shopper's high, and the saleswoman joined me in the euphoria.  Hallelujah.

      I took the escalator to the third floor, the location of the most expensive designers, and the setting for an anecdote involving my man of my nightmares dear husband, Edward.  Several winters ago, when Neiman's was having a similar sale, I suggested that Edward buy me a coat for the holidays.  Not wanting to take all the fun out of his buying a gift, I tried a slightly veiled approach.  First, I mentioned that I had found a really fabulous coat for a great price at Neiman's.  Nothing.  Then, a few days later, I added that it would make a great gift.  Nothing.  Then, a day later, I added that a saleswoman named Gloria was holding the coat until such and such a day, if someone wanted to buy it for me.  Nothing.  Finally, feeling angry and frustrated, I flat out asked Edward why he refused to buy the coat for me.  His response?  "I had no idea you wanted me to."

     The story ends happily, though.  By the time Edward got over there to buy it, the coat had been marked down even further.