It is now official; New York has reached its pinnacle of notoriety for the summer of 2010. Along with the ongoing heated debate about the proposed lower Manhattan Islamic cultural center – dubbed the Ground Zero mosque – and the Empire State Building getting its nose all out of joint over the Very Tall Building scheduled to be erected in its path, the Big Apple has now beat out Philadelphia and Detroit as the acknowledged capital city of a vermin thought eradicated decades ago: the bedbug. Hearty reproducers, they made an end run around our desire for self-preservation. We banned the toxic insecticides that killed them, allowing them to swell their population while we found other toxins to die from.
News reports keep adding to the list of buildings and businesses bringing in bedbug-sniffing dogs to detect infestation. It seems no place is sacred, with the Brooklyn DA’s office, a midtown Victoria’s Secret, Columbia University, and even Google’s posh Manhattan digs being affected. In fact, no one is immune, as bedbugs are hitchhiking parasites found in the cleanest and most well-maintained places. To avoid the stigma of having an exterminator van parked in front of elite city dwellings, bug removal services have taken to arriving in unmarked vehicles with “technicians” attired in casual street wear. Manhattan residents don’t even want to talk about it. At dinner last week down in the Village with betty and Daughter, it was silently decided that my thrift store Lucky Jeans purchase would be stuffed in the far corner of our booth with the paper bag tightly closed. The clerk had assured me that all the shop’s merchandise was carefully checked, but I gave those Luckys a forensic test outside on the street any CSI would approve.
Here in the comparatively bug free suburbs, our home is once again undergoing some long delayed maintenance. In preparation for winter, we just had all the windows replaced, the outside power-washed, and the front door of our gray vinyl-sided house painted a terrific brick red. Along with having the downstairs interior painted, I also had the plumber come to fix the leaks in our upstairs bathroom, a room that was added to the house over thirty years ago. He was pretty amazed it still had the original fixtures, designs that must have seemed modern at the time of The Jetsons, but are now woefully outdated. He removed some parts and headed for the front door to go out and buy replacements. I asked him where he thought he’d find them. He said, “The ‘70s.”
On his way out, I could see him glance down the first floor hallway toward the kids’ former bedrooms. In the ceiling of that hall is the vent for a house fan we use frequently. The pull chain locking mechanism broke many years ago, and my first husband, a physician, affixed a hemostat to the chain to use as a brake. It may look a tad strange, this arterial compression surgical tool hanging under the vent, but it works just fine and as you may know from your own family experience, odd things become normal after years of living with them.
I remember 10-year-old Son pulling down the chain in front of a friend and being asked why there was a pair of scissors attached to it. “It’s not scissors,” Son replied knowledgeably, “it’s a hemostat.” “What’s a hemostat?” his friend asked. “It’s used in surgery,” Son answered. “My dad’s a doctor.” Sounding like maybe when it’s not holding open the vent, it’s being used for abortions in our garage or something. Son and his friend went into his room to play, and from where I was listening in the kitchen, I could only imagine the evening’s dinner conversation at that kid’s house.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos stroke the City We Love
from the Sky Bar
Guinness Book record holder for hamburgers
rooftop
NY Times Building