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."
Sunday, March 27, 2011
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.
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