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.
 

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.
      

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.
                  

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.
   

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.
    
           
 

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.

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.
      

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).

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.

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.
      

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.