The Woman Who Would Be King

Daughter and I had a date this past Monday evening to meet at an upscale restaurant in midtown Manhattan to take advantage of New York’s Restaurant Week, an event where it costs $35 for a three-course gourmet meal that would normally run twice that.  It’s practically our favorite thing to do and we perused online menus for two weeks in preparation.  This year we decided on David Burke Townhouse on East 61st Street between Lexington and Park.  I don’t know which item sent us over the edge, the pretzel crusted crabcake and sweet chili prawn appetizer, or the entree of corn flake & grains of paradise seared salmon with garlicky spinach.  Either way, it was game on.

I was excited to tell Daughter about an article I’d read in a magazine about a new movie starring Claire Danes.  Claire Danes holds a special place in our mother/daughter history because the landmark television show she starred in back in 1994, My So-Called Life, was a standing date for us to watch together.  Daughter was 13 that year, the same age as Danes, and the brilliant precision and naturalness of the show’s writing, plots, acting, and characters spoke to both of us in different ways, as the best shows always do.  Now Danes was in an acclaimed biography of animal behavioral scientist Temple Grandin.  I had no idea who that was so I did some further research.

Temple Grandin was born severely autistic at a time in the late forties when children showing autistic symptoms were institutionalized as retarded.  Even the word ‘autism’ had yet to be coined.  Because Temple’s mother believed in her daughter’s right to a normal future, she refused to send her away and did everything she could to find avenues of treatment.  But it was the summer Temple spent at her aunt’s ranch in Arizona that changed her life and the lives of so many, human and animal alike.

Temple realized that her mind worked like a cow’s.  She thought in pictures rather than words, and was easily distracted and agitated by stimuli.  This awakening as a teenager led her to seek a higher education in the field of animal behavior, ultimately revolutionizing the manner in which livestock are handled.  Her vision of humane animal treatment and her ability to see things from a cow’s point of view led to the cattle restraint systems now used in over half the ranches and slaughterhouses worldwide.  She is a most effective proponent for humane treatment because she eliminates the emotional factor since her own emotions are blocked by her affliction.  Her point is simply that we raise cattle for our own needs so we must assure that their lives and deaths are as painless as possible.  We owe them that.

Along the way, Temple Grandin has become a best-selling author of books on both animal behavior and autism.  She is credited with being the first person to convey to the non-autistic world just how it feels to live inside her head.  She is respected by both the medical community involved in autism treatment and research, and the families whose lives autism has impacted so deeply.  In the livestock farming world, she is a rock star.  Traditionally an all-male arena, it took Temple years to be accepted, both as a different thinker and a woman.  Recognized across the globe, her insights and singular determination have proven that in a man’s world, Grandin is king.

As Daughter and I dove into our mustard crusted tuna over compressed watermelon and avocado mousse, I told her about Claire Danes and the new movie she’s starring in about someone I had never heard of, Temple Grandin.  I was all set to explain who she was when Daughter looked up and said, “Really?  The autistic animal behaviorist?  I read all her books.  Oh, I can’t wait to see it.”  As a parent and lifelong student, there’s only one thing I love more than telling my kids something I’ve learned, and that’s finding out they already know it.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos say Take a Picture

woman 1 6_13burttimestwo

burt times two

woman 2 6_17spinningwheel

spinning wheel

woman 3 6_25morethanadecade

more than a decade

woman 4 6_25posed

posed

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Race the Devil

Husband and I went to the funeral today of a good friend who should still be alive.  AJ was a vibrant, fun, athletic man with a great sense of humor and a wife who adored him.  Husband knew him almost twenty years, and his wife became one of my dearest friends.  AJ loved working in his specialized field of building construction and spoke often of how electrifying it was to look out over the city at dawn from the top of a Manhattan skyscraper.  He said it felt like flying.  When the Towers fell on 9/11, he volunteered to work at Ground Zero among the misery and debris.  He never said much about it afterward.

Of all the things AJ loved and excelled at – skiing, scuba diving, working on his tan – there was one love affair he couldn’t manage to end.  It resurfaced after many dormant years following an accident at work that he refused to get proper treatment for.  Ignoring his doctors’ advice, he insisted on working through it and injured himself worse.  Surgeries followed and then painkillers, and when he ran out of painkillers he climbed back into the bottle he’d broken out of so many years earlier.  It welcomed him with open arms.

His wife, his friends, his family, his doctors all urged him into rehab.  He refused.  He said he could handle it, no one knew his pain, rehab wouldn’t help, he could take care of himself, blah blah blah.  He became increasingly paranoid, his marriage fell apart, his health spiraled downward.  His friends discussed arranging an intervention.  He said don’t you dare.

He shuffled around his bare bachelor kitchen, chugging oxycontins and pouring cornflakes in the cat’s dish when he couldn’t find the cat food.  Any trace of the daredevil, class of ’69 high school heartthrob was long gone.  In the words of tough guy author Raymond Chandler, drugs will do that as sure as ten dimes will buy a dollar.  At the time AJ died alone in his apartment three days ago, we hadn’t seen him in a year.  The four of us used to have dinner together once a week.

At his funeral, he was eulogized by his heartsick wife who was in the midst of divorcing him.  She said the cause of death was stubbornness.  That’s what she would put on his death certificate.  Getting help for a problem makes a man no less of a man.  Sometimes it’s what makes him a man.  There were over twenty of us at the lovely luncheon following AJ’s funeral.  Husband asked privately if we could help with the bill.  My widowed friend said thank you, but no; her husband left a generous sum of money set aside for his funeral with specific instructions.  AJ certainly knew how to die.  He just didn’t know how to live.

Turning up the sound, Daughter’s Fotos take us to the Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival

race 1 HipHop1_NiceandSmooth

Nice and Smooth

race 2 HipHop2_Dresdoingasingalong

Singalong with Dres

race 3 HipHop3_SmifWessonwithBlackMoon

Smif & Wesson with Black Moon

race 4 HipHop4_capoeira

Capoeira

race 5 HipHop5_theCrowd

the crowd, the bridge

race 6 HipHop6_silhouette

silhouette

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Drivel me this

The little condo Husband and I have upstate has a nice swimming pool for the community members to use.  We’ve owned our unit since 2003 and this past weekend I went to the pool for the first time.  I hope you’re laughing at that because so am I.  The second amusing thing is that even with all this chuckling I’m still one visit up on Husband.  Over the course of our ten year marriage we’ve also taken about half a dozen cruises and never used those pools either.  Probably the biggest passion Husband and I have for the sun and sand is listening to The Beach Boys.

This past weekend was just perfect for swimming, though, so I walked over to our pool in my suit and cover-up and floppy hat.  After some time in the water I set myself up on a lounge chair to relax and catch up on those lost seven years of community pool sun.  Several people came and went over the next hour, but a couple in their sixties stayed the whole time I was there.  They were what you would call aimless yakkers.  They were also probably the reason the others left as quickly as they did.  People who cannot stand to let a moment pass in silence are a specific form of public torture.  They are never low talkers.  They just babble like they’re in their living room.  This couple had endless, loud conversations that went like this:

HER:  I should have worn my purple straw hat.

HIM:  You have a purple straw hat?

HER:  Don’t you remember when I got it in Aruba?

HIM:  What does it look like?

HER:  It was right after that dinner we had where you had the oysters that gave you diarrhea.

HIM:  What does it look like?

IT LOOKS LIKE SHIT, YOU FOOL!  IT’S DIARRHEA!!  When they each picked up part of the paper to read I thought, great, now there’ll be some quiet.  But no, they started reading aloud to each other.  Whole stories too, and not the interesting ones about possible plugs for the Gulf oil spill or why LeBron picked Miami over New York or Chicago.  When I heard the words “Lindsay Lohan” I gave up and went home.

It amazes me how the art of imparting information and opinion through conversation can be rendered so banal.  This could never happen to Husband and I because our exchanges are always so elevated.  Like later that afternoon when Husband dropped me off at Panera Bread to use the free wifi while he hit the bookstore.  As I was waiting for him on the bench outside, a man approached with his family and I realized right away it was the actor Giancarlo Esposito.  He was even wearing a hat like he wore as the detective in The Usual Suspects.  He was talking on his cell, and as he opened the door for his kids to walk in, he glanced over at me sitting on the bench.  I gave a little nod and half-smile to acknowledge that I recognized him, and he nodded back.  Then he went inside.

Husband pulled up, and as I got in the car I said, “Guess who just walked into our Panera?  Giancarlo Esposito.”  His eyes got wide and he said, “No kidding?  From Homicide:  Life on the Street?”  He went to get out of the car and then said, “Are you sure?”  I said, “Absolutely.  He’s with his kids, he’s in a hat like he wore in Suspects, and he looks exactly like himself.”  Husband got out of the car and strolled nonchalantly into Panera.

About thirty seconds later he strolled back out and got in the car, smiling.  “You were right.  It’s absolutely him, and he looks just like himself.  Except he’s shorter than I thought he’d be.”  “They usually are,” I said.  Intellectual conversationalists like us always try to keep it real.

Cousin’s shots from Yellowstone Park rule today’s Fotos

drivel 1 Cuzpronghorn

drivel 2 Cuzprismaticpool2

drivel 3 CuzTeton

drivel 4 Cuzbison

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The Simple Rules

According to a recent Pew research poll, 53% of American adults google each other.  This is not surprising news.  The ferocity with which the average citizen privately researches those they know, want to know, or don’t want to know is epic.  Why?  We do it because we can.  We climb the Internet because it’s there.  The trend-charting folks over at Pew aren’t in the business of chasing parked cars.

I know I’m coming late to the party in finding this out, but there is now an entire industry that caters to protecting your reputation online.  Beyond simple Internet security, these services, similar to private investigators on retainer, will ferret out unfavorable information that has been posted about you online and either take steps to have it removed or counter it with favorable information.  This enables you, for a fee, to protect the brand that is you.  Bothered by an Internet bully?  Hire a bigger bully.  It’s like renting a big brother by the month to defend your reputation.  We are truly back to the Brooklyn playground of my youth, a democracy where whoever showed up to play decided on the game, formulated the rules, and had a simple punishment for those who didn’t follow them:  they sat out the next round.  Cool beans.

Anyone who grew up in one of the New York City boroughs in the fifties and sixties can tell stories about street games and the now lost egalitarian aspect of play.  In the Brooklyn projects, no one made playdates.  I never heard the word playdate until my own kids asked for them.  The playdates of my childhood consisted of whoever was outside the building when you got there.  If it was the older kids and you were a small fry, your role was to wait and find out what game would be played and by which set of rules, official or adapted.  If the group deemed you too lacking in talent or experience to participate, you just watched until someone you could rollerskate with showed up.  Of course, a mouthy older brother or sister already playing always enhanced your prospects of being included.  So did a spanking new Spaldeen in your pocket.  Gender was less a factor than skill, except in skelly, a boy-centric game similar to marbles that was played with metal bottle caps filled with something to give them weight.  The popular choice of filler was melted crayons.  If your mother was already furious over ruined saucepans from previous meltings, you had no choice but to play with matches.

Each group of buildings surrounded its own playground that contained several fixtures cemented into the ground.  The one I remember best was the barrel, an open-ended structure you could either play inside or jump on, Johnny-on-a-pony style.  You could also sail right over it and knock yourself stupid if you couldn’t stop your running start.  In spite of the lack of playground equipment safety-oversight committees, I recall no maimings or ambulance sirens.  The sound I do recall is the Good Humor truck, whose ringing come-on could be heard from the parking lot on the other side of our building.  This noise required every kid on the playground to run to the grassy moat around their building and yell up for money.  As if on cue, dozens of window screens popped open and little pouches of wax paper or tin foil sailed down from the various floors.  Inside the pouch was 15 cents for the ice cream man.  You had to watch carefully to track where your packet landed once your mother released it or else it could be lost in the grass and you’d miss out.  These rare instances were childhood tragedies.  Innocent times from days when the worst reputation you could have was sore loser.

Daughter’s Featured Foto recalls the summer showers of childhood

simple rules 1 7_4citysprinklersystem

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Give me liberty or give me death

The little condo Husband and I have upstate is in a town that celebrates everything early.  Maybe it’s to beat the crowds, maybe it’s a union thing, whatever it is, the first winter we were up there I heard a loud racket outside and ran out on the deck to see what was going on.  Circling the parking area in front of our unit was a fire engine with Santa Claus and two elves on top.  The siren was wailing and the elves were waving and Santa was ho-ho-ho-ing and I said to Husband, “Isn’t it December 10th?”

Thus began a confusing history of Memorial Day parades in the middle of May, Labor Day celebrations a week before Labor Day, and Fourth of July fireworks in June.  Which is how I came to take this picture on June 27th upstate. . .

give me 1 kingstonfireworks3

. . .while Daughter was taking this picture downtown at the Gay Pride Parade

give me 2 6_30vivalapride

Our town’s fireworks are best seen from a small landing at the top of our community overlooking the Hudson River.  People set up blankets on the grass and lawn chairs on the blacktop and as the sky darkens, you can watch kids chase Frisbees and hear the sound of laughter and conversation wafting through the summer air.  It is very unlike the city’s fireworks which are much more majestic and grand with gigantic crowds to match.  We like it upstate.

This year we arranged to meet our neighbors, JJ and Leon, up at the clearing before 9pm so we could set up our chairs together.  Husband and I arrived first and as I headed for a spot away from the circular area where we parked our car, I turned around and noticed Husband had set his chair up near the car.  In fact, near all the cars.  In fact, the middle of the parking lot.

I walked back and asked what the deal was.  This was where he wanted to sit, he told me, anchored firmly in his chair.  But you’re in the middle of the parking lot, I said.  He repeated that this was the best view and this was where he was sitting.  He gestured around to indicate that all the parking spots were filled so it was safe to sit here.  I mentioned that incoming cars didn’t know all the spots were filled until they pulled in.  By that time we would be roadkill.  He gave me The Look.  Because I hate getting The Look and also because our vows did, after all, say for better or for worse, I opened my chair and sat next to him.

After about five minutes of headlights glaring in our eyes and cars swerving to avoid us, I folded up my chair and moved to the place I had originally been heading for just beyond the parking area.  I no sooner sat down than JJ arrived and opened her chair next to me.  Where’s Leon? I asked.  She pointed over her shoulder to where Leon was sitting with Husband in the middle of the lot, the two of them chatting away.  I asked her if she preferred that we go join them.  She said she preferred to live.  Which made me imagine the morning headlines, TWO MEN FLATTENED BY SUV AS WIVES LOOK ON, when Husband and Leon appeared next to us and opened their chairs.  “We didn’t want you to watch alone,” Husband said.  I gave him my own look, the one that says I Love You.

Hope your holiday is SPECTACULAR

give me 3 kingstonfireworks6

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It’s the Same Old Song

In a university graduation speech this year, President Obama railed about media technology’s growing influence on society as a theft of time and creativity.  In reporting the story, The Economist noted that Obama now joins a long list of prominent citizens warning about the dangers accompanying our steady march into the future.  The magazine cited Socrates’ lashing out at this new thing called ‘writing’ when he voiced his fears that written history would remove people from the immediate lessons of oral rendition.  Innovations that would also garner criticism in the centuries to follow were publishing, the cinema, rock & roll, video games, right on up to the current YouTube and iPad.  Of course while delivering this prophetic invocation, President Obama had his BlackBerry secure in its holster on his hip.  A fellow prisoner of the encroaching future, to be sure.

The article coincided with my recent observation that there is very little for me on the radio these days.  Having grown up with the constant driving companions of music and disc jockey patter since getting my license at sixteen, realizing that none of the stations speak to me anymore was jarring.  Even Madonna songs are now moving into the oldies range and I barely know many of the new singers and groups.  Satellite radio, with its prepared sets of song genres, sounds faux and vacuum-packed.  I used to love the Grammy Awards, until I stopped watching a few years ago when breasts started falling out of dresses and obscene gestures littered acceptance speeches.  It makes sense that I feel on the fringe.  Age-wise, Madonna is my peer.

I think we all harbor a fear that we will someday not feel relevant to the time we live in, similar to the Happy Days phenomenon of Jumping the Shark.  In fact, to avoid that one-season-too-many decay, NBC recently pulled its most successful ever television franchise, Law & Order.  Which means a generation of TV viewers will eventually be born who view Lennie Briscoe as an early prototype for police detectives.  That prospect reminded me of an incident from my teen years back in the ‘70s.  My best friend’s father traveled frequently for business, and he related this story one night when I ate dinner over at their house.

He had just been on a flight back to New York from California, and his seat mate was a pleasant young man who seemed to enjoy engaging in small talk with Hal, my friend’s father.  Hal said every flight attendant repeatedly asked them if there was anything at all they wanted.  Other passengers smiled as they passed their row, and those seated nearby kept looking over at them as they chatted.

Finally, Hal remarked to his travel mate that he wondered why they were receiving so much attention.  The young man said perhaps people recognized him from a character he was currently portraying on TV.  Hal asked what character that would be.  Here he paused and looked at us quizzically.  Holding a  forkful of pasta, he shrugged his shoulders and asked his daughter and me, “Have either of you ever heard of ‘The Fonz’?

Daughter’s Featured Fotos brilliantly capture NYC’s Gay Pride Parade

bring it on

bring it on

family values

family values

la cage aux fifth ave

la cage aux fifth ave

orange you loving this?

orange you loving this?

jewish pride

jewish pride

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That Certain Something

I just wrote a term paper for a Film & Literature course that made me think about what makes a star a star.  For every hundred self-invented, brand-promoted celebrities like Lady Gaga, there’s the rare and authentic star who just is.  People like Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, Meryl Streep, and Paul Newman.  People who wow you with something beyond their natural talent:  they wow you with their simple presence.  Even if the movie they’re in isn’t so great, or the powerful voice is past its prime, they still move you in a special way.  The film I wrote my paper on is The Maltese Falcon and the star I’m referring to is Humphrey Bogart.

Bogie was not a handsome man.  He wasn’t tall or muscular, and his smile revealed his parents’ disinterest in orthodontia.  There were certainly actors of his time with more range and ambition and classical training.  But there were few who so indelibly stamped a role as their own and did it over and over and over, each time differently.  Released in 1941, The Maltese Falcon offered Bogart the role that would begin his legend, that of private investigator Sam Spade.  And in so doing, he created an entirely new species:  the film noir detective.

When Dashiell Hammett wrote The Maltese Falcon in 1929, he created a new type of protagonist, a crime fighter so conflicted in his personal moral code that he could pass at times for a criminal.  It was a perfect fit for a film genre that would reflect the contradictions of a postwar society, the breeding ground of suspicion and disillusion that would carry America through the Cold War era up to today.  Hammett wrote Spade as a hard-boiled realist who made up his own rules and then made them count.  An existentialist for uncertain times.

When novice director John Huston contracted to make the film version, he wisely transferred the brilliantly sharp dialogue verbatim from the book.  And he just as wisely chose an unlikely actor to portray the new hero as anti-hero.  Humphrey Bogart’s name, face, and mannerisms have become synonymous with the last line of the movie, the bittersweet statement that describes what the falcon itself is really all about:  “The stuff that dreams are made of.”  Shakespeare wrote it for The Tempest, but it belongs to Bogie.

Bogart was 42 when he played Sam Spade.  He’d had mostly gangster roles before that, primarily in entertaining, but grade-B movies.  It would be his turn as Spade that would cement his trademark film persona, that of the cynic with the hard shell who ultimately shows his noble side.  When he stepped into the role of bitter American expatriate Rick Blaine in Casablanca the following year, it could have foreshadowed a typecasting from which he would never escape.  Instead, Bogart squeezed a totally different passion out of what would become one of cinema’s most enduring and involving love stories.  Followed by Dark PassageTo Have and Have NotThe Big SleepKey LargoThe Treasure of the Sierra MadreThe African Queen, and his riveting portrayal of the psychologically disintegrating Captain Queeg in The Caine Mutiny, there is little else that needs to be said.

Except maybe, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Daughter’s Featured Fotos show the face of a Different Place

philly skyline

philly skyline

downtown nyc

downtown nyc

when there was snow in madison square park

when there was snow in madison square park

tel aviv

tel aviv

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Be stand-up and be counted

The Census is winding down the door-to-door portion of its program, and I was just informed that my contract as a temporary employee has been extended.  I have no idea what the next phase will be – the government’s not confiding in me – but I have a hunch it will be to randomly check on the information the nation’s 600,000 census takers have turned in.  This could mean that one in fifty or so average Joes should gear up to be contacted AGAIN to go over what was told to the census taker that day he was interrupted while barbecuing, showering, touching his girlfriend, etc. by someone with a name badge and a clipboard.  I don’t know about other census enumerators, but I assured the people I spoke with at their front door that this was the LAST time anyone from the Census Bureau would be pestering them.  Party on.

The newspapers have run accounts of enumerators around the country being bitten by dogs, attacked by homeowners, shot with pellet guns, menaced with lawn furniture, and just generally treated inhospitably.  I’m not all that surprised.  It’s the economy, stupid.  My own experience was more positive.  Generally, I found people to be at the very worst moderately rude, and at the very best quite helpful.  It probably didn’t hurt that they were opening their door to see a smiling, middle-aged woman in a dress and strappy sandals.  Out of all the homes I visited, I had very few residents who absolutely refused to participate.  Many questioned the necessity of it.  A large handful was suspicious about the government’s motives for wanting what they considered to be personal information.  Several long-retired gentlemen flirted with me.  One woman didn’t want to talk except to ask where I bought my shoes.  I told her if she told me how many people were in her household, I’d tell her the store.  Fashion trumps suspicion every time.

Some residents gave me their name and suggested the government Google them to find out whatever they needed to know.  I did just that when I got home, and came away with quite a bit of information about people’s professions, favorite social networking sites, recent vacation photos, and general ego size, but really nothing the government would be interested in for census purposes.  In reality, the questions asked on the census form are not nearly as personal as what my Google searches revealed.  The government doesn’t need to see anyone in a bathing suit.  Sadly, I have.

The thing the public seemed most leery of was on the handout sheet where it said the residents of our country are required by law to participate.  People bristle at being told they have to comply with something just because their government says so.  I really do understand that, what with Watergate, Nam, phantom WMDs, Sarah Palin, etc.  I also understand that the Constitution states that the residents of the United States must participate in a census every ten years.  It’s the only way to gather the population information necessary to decide state representation in Congress and the distribution of government funds.  The Census dates back to ancient Rome.  Now those would be some bathing suits worth Googling.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos take us back to The Street

toofly

toofly

billiards

billiards

morgan's avocados

morgan’s avocados

michael defeo

michael defeo

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Sound the Alarm

My late father was a consummate salesman.  When I was young, he worked for a photography studio passing proofs.  He’d visit people’s homes with the proofs of their children’s pictures and help them make their selection for enlargements, montages, etc.  He said he could count on a high percentage of sales because everyone smiles at the sight of their child’s face.  Unless the pictures were awful (and even then) or the customer wanted them for free, he made the sale.

At one point, he was offered a job selling fire extinguishers to homes and businesses.  The commission was better and the hours more regular, but he turned it down.  He said the public doesn’t choose to invest in future disaster.  They consider it bad luck.  Precaution is a tough sale.

I bring this up because for the time he lived in when he said it, he was right.  In the decades between the Vietnam and Gulf Wars, Americans didn’t like to spend money on something they hoped they’d never need.  Nor did they welcome thinking about possible future catastrophes.  But that was then and this is now.  Now we have seen the most terrible things happen and we are all about safety measures and preemptive strikes.  Which brings us to the home security industry.

We recently had our house alarmed after twenty years of living without one.  The kids had already moved out, which caused no end of good-natured ribbing, like, “Hey, thanks, Mom!  Way to protect us all those years!”  In fact, it was the kids’ presence that made the house feel safe.  They were constantly in and out with their friends, I was rarely alone, and besides, who in their right mind would break into a house with teenagers?

After the Towers fell and it was clear our enemies walked among us, the alarm companies began their guerrilla television ads targeting women home alone or with small children.  I’m sure from a marketing standpoint they picked the right focus group and they certainly reached me.  But it’s the slant of the ads that I find disturbing.  One has a pretty young woman saying goodnight to her handsome date, telling him she really enjoyed herself, but she just went through a bad breakup and yada yada that’s the reason she isn’t inviting him in.  He says, “That’s okay.”  It’s obvious this is their first date so why in the name of empowered women everywhere is she apologizing for not having sex with him?  Does the chowderhead who wrote the ad still think women need to put out when you buy them dinner?  What decade is this?

To make it worse, seconds later there’s a loud bang on her back door and she looks up without worry and says, “Brad, is that you?”  No, it’s a biker-looking guy with a menacing face and she screams, the alarm goes off, and she runs upstairs.  So if it WAS Brad, that would be a good thing?  She just sent him home.  Does she want a man who can’t take no for an answer?  And the guy breaking in has to look like a criminal.  Brad is cute, so there’s no need to worry about him.  From the youngest age, we tell our children that bad people look like everyone else.  But for intelligent, independent young women, society still sends the message that good-looking guys are safe.  Anyone remember Ted Bundy?  Stunner.  Focus group that.

Daughter’s Fotos feature last weekend’s FIGMENT NYC on Governors Island

cicado sculpture

cicado sculpture

touch

touch

painted footprint

painted footprint

Lady Liberty

Lady Liberty

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And this is why I hate – – – (fill in the blank)

This past Friday was high on the stress scale and here’s why.  I really dread having work done on the house, in the house, outside the house, anywhere near the house.  It’s a subject I’ve written about ad infinitum in this space, but I’m saying it again anyway.  Homes are money pits.  Arranging even the simplest job to be done can spur a domino effect of astounding proportions.  Suppose you want to take down an existing lighting fixture and replace it with a new one.  The electrician comes and discovers once he’s removed the fixture you’ve had hanging over your head for the past twenty years that it was never properly installed.  You’ve been living with a violation most of your adult life.  Call SVU.

Then he tells you he has to break through the ceiling to find the electrical box, the Ark of the Covenant that will tell him what needs to be done.  I’ll tell you what needs to be done.  You need to tear up that $150 check and write one for $300.  Unless he finds a squirrel up there.  Animal removal?  Shit, that’s $500.  And if the squirrel’s been electrocuted, you’ll be hearing from the Indigent Vermin Union and you better hope you have insurance.  Don’t call FEMA unless it’s in your basement under three feet of ‘Act Of God’ water.  Agnostics call it ‘Natural Disaster’.  Insurance companies call it ‘Not Covered’.

I handle the home repair appointments at our house because I’m a student and part-time census worker and Husband is so done with the whole situation that he’d be okay if I told him tomorrow I wanted to move to a double-wide with a view of the laundromat.  He’d be packed before you could say “Stamp my visa for the boondocks.”  But no, I’m psychically anchored to the New York area because it’s near my kids who I adore as well as some great shopping.

So this was my day this past Friday.  At 8:30 am the tree removal guys arrived to fulfill their $750 estimate for proposed work.  The owner of the company sat in his car across the street from our driveway taking phone calls about future jobs while I obsessed that his crew was removing the right branches.  Limbs were coming down everywhere.  In response to my tapping on his car window, he popped out to say, yeah, those are the ones.  Well, maybe not THAT one, but you’ll never miss it and there’s no extra charge.

When they left, I jumped in my car and drove to my team census meeting then high-tailed it to my personal trainer, Faith, about half an hour away.  She delivered once again on killing me.  She hates to disappoint.  Then I rushed home for an appointment with the electrician I hired to take down our old ceiling fan and install a new one.  There were issues.  Not the least of which were of my own making, which I was forced to acknowledge when Husband came home and laid eyes on our new (expensively installed) ceiling fan.

HUSBAND:  Nice.  The blades are very shiny.

OSV:  I know.  They didn’t look that shiny in the store.  It must be the lacquered finish.  They really catch the light going around, don’t they?

HUSBAND:  Are you going to be okay with that?

OSV:  You mean with my migraines brought on by rhythmic reflective glare?  Today cost us a thousand dollars.  I’ll manage.

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