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.

     

Whistle While You Don't Work

     When a snowstorm traps you in the house with your spouse and three dogs, the scene is sweet and loving.  You are all in the same room feeling content, relaxing, enjoying each other, eating goodies and pleased to be unproductive. Then, slowly and imperceptibly, there is a shift in the feel of the home. We all get irritable, and behaviors that were once charming are now just annoying. What was once peaceful now starts looking like a scene from "The Shining."  Everyone starts playing the Jack Nicholson role: Edward, the dogs and I  turn psychotic and evil.
      Let's start with the dogs.  My youngest, Rembrandt, decided that between romps through the snow, it was really fun to lay or sit on my other two dogs.  Here he is laughing while laying on Louie, my 5-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel:

  While Louie looks perturbed, Tony, our older cavalier, was sat on so often, that he finally stopped caring, or maybe he is now suffering brain damage and it just appears that he doesn't care.  Here is a picture of Rembrandt smiling and squashing Tony:

     Louie wouldn't go to the bathroom until we shoveled paths across the snow-laden lawn to make it easier. Tony kept barking to go out and then when offered the opportunity, changed his mind once he surveyed the cold, windy and snowy conditions.  Rembrandt wanted to go out and never come back.
     Edward and I seemed to be getting along well until Edward's nose started whistling.  It's still whistling.  His offer to play the song of my choice through his nose does not make this condition any more desireable. 
     Then there was the issue of snow removal on our very long driveway.  Edward has a bad back and cannot shovel.  I am perfectly capable, but Edward felt we should hire help.  He contacted someone we don't really know named Albert who expressed a desire to do the job and stated he would come first thing in the morning when the snow stopped.  Edward called him that morning at 9, and Albert said not to worry, he would be there by 10.  At 11, Albert said he would be there by 1, and at 2:30, Albert said he would be there later in the afternoon, or on Memorial Day.
     At that point, Edward handed me the shovel, snow blower and the job.  I headed out with determination and confidence.  It started out well.  The snow blower was working fabulously.  And then, the winds changed direction.
     It seemed like no matter what I did, the snow got blown either directly back into my face --giving me an appearance of an Arctic Bigfoot -- or on my neighbor's driveway, which had already been shoveled.  I was forced to shift to a shovel-only approach, but nevertheless, I was able to complete the job beautifully.
      Actually, in rethinking the events of the past two days, I realize that I have distorted the facts.  Only Edward, Rembrandt, Tony and Louie were difficult.  I was hard-working and easy to get along with.   If only they could be more like me....

Even Sweet Mary-Rose Once Told Me to Shut-Up

     Anyone who knows me knows that I can be loud.  Not angry, nasty loud but boisterous, joking loud.  I mean to be fun, but sometimes, without realizing it, I cross the line from amusing to annoying.  Apparently I am not attuned to the social cues produced by others (e.g., dirty looks) that would alert me that the line is approaching. 
     One time in pilates reformer class, Kitty, our impossibly flexible and wonderful instructor, had to shout directions over my chatter until Mary-Rose, a sweet and until then passive member of the class, yelled, "Shut-up, Barnie."  As this kind of outburst is not an altogether unfamiliar reaction to my behavior, I didn't mind.  In fact, I was impressed that Mary-Rose was developing greater assertiveness.
     Depending on the setting and the feelings of those involved, behavior that would commonly be seen as annoying could actually be welcomed.  For example, a couple of weeks ago, Edward and I were having dinner with our friends, Cheeks-A-Flying (CAF) and his lovely wife, the queen of jurisprudence, known simply as Mommy.  We chose a local haunt, close to our apartment building where, incidentally, CAF and Mommy live as well.  The food is excellent, but for some reason, the average age of their customers is 92.  Abe Vigoda, who was wonderful on the old TV show Barney Miller, and made a Doritos TV commercial with Betty White which was shown during last year's Super Bowl, had dinner there a couple of months ago, and he looked spry compared with most everyone else.
      After the usual instructions to watch your step, repeated about five times to avoid broken hips, we were shown to our table, which was located next to a table with two women who were finishing their dessert.  One woman appeared to be about 105 and the other was clearly her aide.
      We, mostly I, proceeded to be loud, and I told all kinds of stories using all kinds of words.  I cannot repeat these stories here, because I would have to include a "For Adults Only" caution before readers could open this blog. 
      Instead of appearing upset or leaving -- they already had their dessert and were given a bill -- the woman and her aide viewed our table as providing free entertainment.  They were an excellent audience, never speaking to each other, but in fact providing a rapt attention to the goings-on, and they stayed with us until we ordered our own desserts at least an hour later.
       We'll be headlining again at this restaurant in the near future.
   

Edward has a Maniacal Plot

     It was when Edward mentioned that the dryer had not completely dried my running clothes, and I knew that I had never washed them in the first place, that I realized there was something sinister at work.  His putting away dirty laundry was about his third screwed up household chore this week, and it was only Monday.
     Is Edward botching everything to an extent that I will never want to ask him to do anything ever again?  Could he be that brilliantly evil?  How else to explain his method of loading a dishwasher so that dishes are bunched together and none of them get clean?   What other theory could account for seeking to open the trunk of the car by dislodging the fuse-box release?
     One of these screwups could turn out to be helpful:  If I am stranded with a busload of people in the wilderness.  We can huddle like the placement of the dishes, and none of us will be exposed to the elements.  Well, maybe just the tops of us.  But I digress. 
      On reflection, I realize that Edward's maniacal behavior began many years ago, when he joined the National Guard to avoid being drafted into the Vietnam War.
      I must take a moment here and ask for my dear reader's full attention.  Edward is 15 years older than I am.  While he was old enough to serve in Vietnam, I was just in grade school.  Don't forget this fact.
       Anyway, Edward was assigned to the Combat Engineers where one his major functions was to quickly assemble temporary bridges.  His superior officers immediately recognized that Edward and the Combat Engineers was a bad fit and potentially damaging to his fellow soldiers.  He transferred to the National Guard Band where he played saxophone, and it was determined that he put no one in immediate mortal danger. 
      This had to be pretty darn safe work, and Edward wanted to keep it.  So during maneuvers one weekend, where Edward and the other soldiers were involved in a war exercise, I believe Edward plotted to make a deep and lasting impression on his superiors that would forever keep him from active duty.
      Edward was guarding Headquarters and was annoyed because his relief was late. He had been marching around for like an hour and was cold.  Probably, the corn on his right foot was acting up.  Finally, a soldier approached him and stated that he was the relief.  Edward asked for the password, which the soldier stated he had forgotton.  Edward decided to turn over Headquarters to him anyway.
      A remarkable military operation then ensued.  Because the relief soldier was not with "us" but rather was one of "them," in the training exercise, Edward suceeded in turning over Headquarters to the enemy without any assault whatsoever.  It was probably the quickest and most peaceful coup in history.  Most importantly, Edward had ensured a permanent place in the National Guard Band.
      With brilliant thinking like this, it's obvious that he will always outwit me when it comes to household chores.
     
     
  

Strangers on a Treadmill

     Today, after I mouthed "I love you" to the really handsome guy on the treadmill opposite mine in the gym (more on that later), I thought about another case of someone mouthing "I love you" that occurred some years ago.
     During most of our dating life, Edward lived in New York and I was frequently traveling by plane between Boston and New York to see him.  One Saturday morning, I happened to take a flight with the Boston Celtics basketball team.  When we landed at La Guardia, there was a lot of commotion in the terminal when travelers noticed the team coming through.  Nearing the exit, I saw Edward only a few steps ahead. I was  excited to be walking next to Larry Bird, the star of the team, and I mouthed to Edward, "Larry Bird, Larry Bird."  Apparently blinded by love and passion and seeing no one is his wake but me, Edward mouthed back, "I love you too".  
    Who could possibly care about Larry Bird?
     That brings me back to today.  When I run, I like to play my ipod and sort of sing along by mouthing the words.  I get into the whole experience, and except for taking note of who is around me at the start, I don't really pay attention to much.  I noticed that there was a woman opposite me to my left who I feared was going to injure herself, as she had cranked up the treadmill but was running while also hanging on.  There was a guy, also opposite me but closer and in my line of vision, who was handsome and clearly a good runner. 
     I was happily in my running zone and mouthing the words to this song where "I love you" is constantly repeated when I noticed the guy take out his ear buds and with an annoyed look, because it was interrupting his run, ask me what I was trying to tell him.
     I realized that I had been looking in his direction and mouthing, "I love you." Why couldn't I have told the non-runner who was so busy hanging on for dear life that she never would have noticed -- that I was in love with her?  In response to him, I gesticulated in a way that made no sense, and we both returned to concentrating on our runs.
     I fear my gym membership is going to be revoked.

Top Down, Hackles Up

     As I drove down the street in my convertible this cold winter day, I was thinking that a few months ago, I drove down the same street with the top down, feeling the warm sun on my skin.  That summer day, while stopped at a traffic light, I saw the driver in the car next to me roll her window down.  Instead of asking for directions, as I expected, a middle-aged woman starting asking me about my car.
  She looked serious when she said, "I bet that thing has a really powerful engine."  She must be really impressed, I thought.  I smiled sweetly with pride and casually shook my windblown hair.  "Well, yes in fact it does," I responded.
  "I'll bet it burns quite a lot of gas."
  Uh oh.  It was then that I took note that she was driving an ecologically-correct Prius.
  She continued, "And, you have the top down, but I'm sure you also have the air-conditioning running." (Which I did.)  "A big engine, air conditioning, lots of gadgets...."
  Was it possible Mother Earth was packing heat, and why were these damn traffic lights so long?
  "Look, Lady,"  I said.  "I bought this car during a mid-life crisis.  This car was supposed to help me through that crisis."
     A long pause ensued.  Mother Theresa and I looked at each other and said nothing.  The traffic light remained red. 
     A big smile took over her face.  She said, and I believe quite sincerely, "I hope the car brings you much happiness."  Then, the light turned.
   

Edward Chooses the Wrong Spigot, or What Else is New

     Last night, Edward, the wrench in my works husband, and I saw the Rangers lose to Ottawa at Madison Square Garden.
     Our greatest concern was sneaking our wrap sandwiches into the arena as bringing food and drink is not allowed. Where to hide them was the question.  I considered putting one down my pants, and if security asked about it, stating that I am an effeminate looking man ... except for one thing.  But, I just didn't have the the guts to pull it off.  So I hid one in the bottom of my pocketbook and one in my coat pocket and prayed that the gingerbread man in my cosmetic case would stay well hidden.
     I steered Edward to the security guy who had confiscated nothing rather than going to the guy who had a table full of stuff, and as the first guy gave a perfunctory glance through my bag, I looked back at Edward who had a look on his face that said, "I have food, drugs, explosives, and I am a wanted criminal." Somehow we and the food made it inside.
     And then I made my first mistake.  I asked Edward if, when he went to the concession stand to buy us water, he would put mustard on my sandwich, using one of the large condiment spigots.  I didn't think I needed to inform him that red indicated ketchup and yellow indicated mustard, and well, you know the rest.
     Before Edward returned and we had an argument about why he couldn't tell the difference between the two spigots, I started conversing with the guy sitting to my left.  I thought we were having a lovely talk until I paused between sentences and he said in a thick Slavic accent, "I don't speak English."
     Thankfully, the game started, and Edward immediately spilled his $5 water on the guy in front of him.