Choo Choo

Posted on August 28, 2008 by onesanevoice

In our local newspaper many months ago, there was a big story about the remodeling of our town’s train station.  We live within walking distance of the train that connects our suburb with the city that gave birth to it and continues to color its everyday existence.

Our station is one of the line’s hubs and is, in fact, the first stop once you leave the city limits.  Originally built in 1867, it was razed and rebuilt in 1933, meaning that since this is now 2008, it’s due for another update.

The story in the paper included a ballot in which the reader could vote for their choice of design and help pick the future structure.  Husband and I opened the paper to the centerfold where the three architectural renderings were pictured.  Since we pass the station every day, sometimes many times a day, we were excited to be in on the process.  We looked from one photo to the next, studying each one intently.  Then we studied each other.

OSV:  Is it just me or are these pictures identical?

HUSBAND:  It’s you.  Tell me you really can’t see.

I pored over the centerfold spread.

OSV:  No, I really can’t.  I feel like I’m back in my dentist’s office when I was a kid and he had those Highlights Magazines with the page where you had to find what was different in the two pictures.  I couldn’t find the missing whiskers on the frigging cat then and I still can’t now.

HUSBAND:  You just don’t like cats.

OSV:  I’m allergic.  It’s a blessing Princess passed on before you met me or you’d have had some choosing to do.  But that was then.  Show me the whiskers now.

Husband pointed to the pitched roof on the turret atop the station building.  In one picture the flag was in the center of the roof.  In one it was on the right.  In the last one – you guessed it – the flag was positioned on the left.

OSV:  You expected me to see that?

HUSBAND:  No, I expected you to see we’re being hosed.  They couldn’t care less what the public wants.  They’re going to build what they’re going to build.

We filled in the ballot, choosing the one with the left-leaning flag to reflect our political preferences (change is good, you know) and mailed it off.  Months passed and construction began.

Husband came home last night and asked if I noticed the new station building was almost finished.  I told him I hadn’t looked lately, but could he see where they’ll be putting the flag.  He said he’d tell me after the election.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos seem Obliquely Related

bowery mural tribute to keith haring

bowery mural tribute to keith haring

phil collins

phil collins

appreciated

appreciated

a freegan's dream

a freegan’s dream

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And on your right is Grand Central Station

Posted on August 24, 2008 by onesanevoice

The city is packed to its limits with tourists this summer, thanks no doubt to the dollar’s international value being equal to fish wrapping.  I see the look on the tourists’ faces as they swarm the designer boutiques and pricey restaurants.  I know that look because I wore it in Italy back in 2002 when Husband and I visited Daughter studying abroad in Perugia.  It was the year Italy switched its lira to the Euro currency and you could buy a Euro for 85 cents.  Now it would cost you about $1.50.

On our arrival in Perugia, a magnificent mountaintop village in Umbria made entirely of medieval stone, Daughter took me aside and gave me this quick language lesson based on the principal laws of Italian culture.  Spring was coming and rules of fashion required all stores be emptied of prior season goods.  I was to keep in mind these two phrases and look for them on shop windows:  Saldi (sale) and Meta Prezzo (half price).  She then taught me my shoe size in Italian.  I don’t know what people without daughters do.

I’ve been in and out of the city numerous times this month to support Daughter in her battle with the recurring mono virus EBV and I’m happy to report that the Naturopathic doctor I wrote about in Back to Hell and Intake Info has proved to be invaluable.  My visits have also been enlightening in that they’ve revealed to me just how much of a die-hard Manhattanite Daughter has become.

She crosses busy intersections before traffic has completely stopped in the pedestrian hedged bet that buses won’t run a light.  She looks at me with stern astonishment when I politely step out of someone’s way on the street telling me we’ll never get anywhere if I keep doing that.  She studies a menu at the Second Avenue Deli musing what a bargain that pastrami sandwich is for $17.95.  The same girl who taught me meta prezzo in Italian.

In my walks to Penn Station on my way home, I cannot believe how many sightseeing buses I count, each one filled to capacity.  The city is pulsing with these visitors, studying their maps on street corners and asking the line at bus stops if the bus we’re waiting for goes to Chinatown.  The bus drivers are unusually chatty and informative, inspired to be helpful by this massive population of guests.  On a crosstown bus the other day, the driver’s unmistakably Noo Yawk voice intoned over the speaker, “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll notice how smoothly this vehicle is traveling across the city and that’s because of the new ‘buses only’ lanes which are designed to keep traffic flowing freely and unobstructed.  Until some jerk pulls in and screws it up.”  I looked around the bus to see the tourists oblivious but all the New Yorkers smiling.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos unfold in a city Made for Visiting

boombox

boombox

maybe it's a loose wire

maybe it’s a loose wire

some sky

some sky

night gold

night gold

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Weddingstroika

Posted on August 20, 2008 by onesanevoice

Husband and I attended a Russian Jewish wedding in Brooklyn over the weekend and it was more like being at a show than a catered affair.  The entertainment was in Russian, most of the guests were Russian, and of course, the gorgeous young couple was Russian.  The evening brought us back to the vacation I told you about in Talk Amongst Yourselves where we were in the English-speaking minority on a European cruise ship.

We could figure a lot of it out, though, because we’re Jewish.  The ceremony was very traditional, albeit in Russian, and we danced the hora as always.  The fathers of the bride and groom cut the challah and chanted the prayer.  The newlyweds were hoisted on chairs and paraded around the dance floor amid joyous song and dance.  And the endless selection of food featured an astoundingly delicious array of shellfish.

Shellfish is a Bozo No-No in Judaism.  Jews the world over have lived long lives and died peaceful deaths without ever tasting a soft shell crab and I feel sorry for every one of them in a very respectful way.  Soft shell crabs are maybe the best tasting thing on the planet and the fact that they’re prohibited by religious law is yet another signpost of suffering my people have carried since time began.

I mentioned to Husband that it was remarkable to see oysters and mussels at a Jewish wedding and he responded that the only remarkable thing was that the people in the room had survived being Jews in Russia.  I found the cleavage remarkable as well.  I think the system of measurement is totally different over there.  I don’t even believe we have those sizes here.  I’ve never seen them before.  And definitely not encased in embroidery of that magnitude.  It was majestic.

Another great moment was during the ceremony when the little flower girl appeared looking like a tiny Baltic princess.  With blonde tendrils of hair cascading across her face, she began solemnly walking down the aisle holding the basket of flower petals in her arms.  Then pausing gracefully, she reached into the basket, cupped a handful of petals, and pelted them at the guests.

She walked a few more steps and then let another load fly.  One woman caught one in the eye.  They were sticking out of people’s hair.  By the time she reached the end of the aisle, guests were diving out of her way.  I’m thinking perhaps the instructions she was given didn’t translate completely, like maybe the word ‘scatter’ in English becomes ‘assault’ in Russian.  Anyway, it was hilarious.

Also amusing were some of the little touches, like the bride and groom didn’t share a first dance; they performed a dance number.  It segued from a Fred and Ginger thing into a JLo/Mark Anthony booty shake.  And the wedding cake topper was a new one for me.  My cell phone photo didn’t do it justice so I went online and found something similar.  Take away the trees and put the groom’s hands on the bride’s butt and it’s closer to the Russian one.  Also the bride figure seemed to be trying to cross her legs behind the groom while straddling him.  Ah, romance.

weddingstroika 1 naughty_cake_topper

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Intake Info

Posted on August 16, 2008 by onesanevoice

In Back to Hell I told you about Daughter’s decision to see a Naturopathic doctor to get a fresh insight on her recurring mononucleosis.  The doctor sent a ten-page personal and family history for Daughter to fill out, and she asked me to look it over to see if she had omitted anything of importance.  I studied it in our cab ride downtown to the doctor’s office.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen anything like this in detail about your family, but without even knowing you or your family, I can tell you you’d be freaked.  Think about all the stuff everyone has: you, your siblings, your parents, their siblings, your grandparents, their siblings.  The shit adds up.

So what would be on the average list:  Heart disease, cancer, diabetes?  Those are the biggies.  But then there might be cataracts, Crohn’s, arthritis, rheumatism, seizures, asthma, Parkinson’s.  Perhaps some alcoholism, depression, dementia.  Anyone bipolar?  Obese?  ADHD?  How about allergies?  Seen anyone swell up like a giant tick after eating nuts at Thanksgiving?

These ailments all have meaning where genetic predisposition is concerned.  In your spare time you might consider making up a list like this about your family.  It will save time should you ever have to do it for medical reasons.  It will also send you screaming into the night.

When I broke my wrist earlier this year, one of the questions I was asked was whether my mother or grandmother had osteoporosis, or thinning of the bones.  When a woman my age breaks a bone, there’s a good possibility surgery will be necessary if the bone doesn’t heal well so family history offers a clue.  In this case, I lucked out.

Riding in the cab downtown, I stared at Daughter’s roll call of diseases, surprised at the sheer number and variety of our family’s afflictions.

DTR:  What do you think?

OSV:  I think we’re a hot mess.

DTR:  You’re telling me.  And you already know the ones that affect you.  I’m still waiting to find out.

OSV:  Don’t be melodramatic.  There’s medicine for everything now.  It’s not like we have any serial killers.

DTR:  That we know of.

More of Daughter’s Featured Fotos from Os Gemeos at Deitch Art

reflected

reflected

underground

underground

singing

singing

scared

scared

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Back to Hell

Posted on August 12, 2008 by onesanevoice

I mentioned in Walking the Walk that Daughter was out of work with mononucleosis but she was beginning to rally.  She went through this before in high school in her first bout with mono that lasted for months and now here it is again.  All the doctors do is tell you to rest and take antibiotics for the infected throat which further wipe out your body’s resources.  They do blood work until the virus no longer shows up and then they tell you you’re all better only you’re absolutely not.  The peaks and valleys of feeling okay and then feeling comatose are impossibly wearing, both physically and emotionally.  For both the patient and the Mom.

Daughter and I brainstormed about this on the phone and agreed that nothing was going to be different unless something different was done so she decided to try Naturopathy.  Naturopathic Doctors, or NDs, are not fully recognized by the medical establishment because they incorporate aspects from other disciplines and aesthetics into their treatments.  The Naturopathic concept is to treat the whole patient, not just the current symptoms, to address the present illness as well as the individual chemistry that brought the patient to succumb to this particular ailment.  In simplest terms, it is the ancient philosophy of whole health.

What could be bad?  There are certainly more elderly Chinese than there are retired pharmaceutical execs.  We were both pumped to try something outside the mainstream except Daughter was too weak to do the online research so I did my usual exhaustive search and e-mailed her the results to examine.  She chose Dr. E, a woman ND down in the Village with an established practice and good online references.  In cases like this you just have to go with your instinct.

Daughter made the appointment for a day I was off from school, and I took the train to her apartment where I found her splayed on the hand-me-down black leather psychiatrist couch that sits in the middle of her studio.  She was colorless.

We took a taxi downtown and then an elevator up to the minimal but appealing office of Dr. E.  Daughter handed the receptionist the ten-page personal history intake packet they had sent her.  She looked at me with a smile both hopeful and relieved.  We both had a good feeling there.  The doctor gave us an even better feeling with a warm greeting and she and Daughter disappeared down the short hallway.  It would be well over an hour before they came out.

To kill the time, I strolled the streets of the Village surrounding NYU on a stunning summer day.  The neighborhood was crowded and throbbing in the middle of a weekday, and it always makes me wonder how people earn a living if they’re able to casually hang out during work hours looking so carefree.  It didn’t seem like anyone was pressed to do anything important or be anywhere crucial.  Then again, on that day they could have assumed the same of me.

I walked past a vintage clothing store on Thompson Street and couldn’t resist the magnetic pull.  Inside I found a bowling-type shirt from the 60’s that I could imagine Cosmo Kramer wearing.  It was institutional beige with two giant parrots on the front, one on each side, and when you turned it around there were two more on the back.  It was retro and cool and it made me smile, and now wherever that bowling team is, I’m on it.

I returned to the office as the treatment room door opened and Daughter emerged.  More to follow.

On a brief rally, Daughter took her camera to Os Gemeos at Deitch Art Project for these Featured Fotos

fish with legs

fish with legs

dancing machine

dancing machine

guitar boy

guitar boy

coming to a subway near you

coming to a subway near you

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Lessons on Jumping

Posted on August 8, 2008 by onesanevoice

When I meet new people and listen to their stories, I am most captivated by clues of courage.  I don’t think the average person sees their own self as courageous, but maybe they don’t know where to look.  As an older student in a very young school, I draw on fifty-plus years of living as I observe the current population that surrounds me.

First, I need to get past the annoyance that they don’t know what I know because they just don’t.  O.J. Simpson they know about.  Charles Manson they don’t.  Clues fall into a black hole.  Blondie, who just turned fifty, offered a hint to the class by asking if anyone had heard the Beatles song Helter Skelter.  The excited response was, “Charles Manson was one of the Beatles?”  That’s right.  John, Paul, George and Charlie.  Forget the stabbings; just shoot me.

The students’ backgrounds are varied and I ponder what brought them to the school we are in.  It’s not your average alma mater.  I recently took a phone call from my lawyer in the school parking lot and he laughingly asked me if I had my cheerleader uniform on.  If he could see where I was standing, he would know how hilarious that was.  My school is a small building under a railroad trestle adjacent to a church.  Half our classes are in the building and the rest are in the church.

The school was founded by Mr. and Mrs. B, and it is an accredited two-year business school.  Not long ago, Mr. B passed away, leaving his wife in charge of his life’s dream, our college.  We are truly a Mom and Pop business.  Which gives it a sweetness and familiarity you couldn’t find at other schools.  Mrs. B carried on in her husband’s absence and is present every single day and involved in every single decision.  She gives advice, encouragement, and something it’s borderline illegal for educators to give anymore:  hugs.

The student body is its own cast of characters.  There is the very young mother with the ubiquitous baby-daddy; a young Orthodox woman with a small child, an ex-husband, several masters degrees, and the same mistaken belief I had when I started that academic intelligence would graduate her sooner; a young woman who professes to be the love-child of a famous celebrity’s father; a couple of guys with sweet smiles and Sean John wardrobes; and a palette of twenty-something lovelies who have either acted dumb for so long they have forgotten they’re not or else the act has replaced the reality.

But they’re all in attendance every day, working at jobs to pay for school and going for broke that this is where their future lies.  That in itself is brave.  And often entertaining.  This week one of the doe-eyed bunnies sat next to me in computer lab.  Halfway through the period, she fluttered a breathy sigh and moaned, “This stupid computer!  It keeps telling me ‘accur’ is with an ‘o’.”  I glanced at her screen where she was trying to ignore the spell check.  I’d have offered to switch computers with her, but she would have found mine just as stupid.

Below is a visual of my favorite Teacher of Fearlessness flying off a cliff in Costa Rica.  This picture of Daughter suggests many things, among them why I started to color my hair early.

lessons on jumping 1 the_jump

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Walking the Walk

Posted on August 4, 2008 by onesanevoice

My father was a born salesman.  My earliest memories of him include tagging along on his route as a proof passer for a photography studio.  He loved talking to people and they in turn loved talking to him.  For my dad, selling was as much about providing the public with something of value as it was about the monetary reward of the sale.  Forming a connection with the customer was what fed his mojo.  As a maverick entrepreneur, he built a successful sales company based on that chemistry and his personal vision.

He passed away in 2004 while Son was still in college deciding on a future.  As a parent, it’s fascinating to watch your children’s natural talents and inherited traits fuse in a way that allows them to form their own signature.  As general manager of an off campus fast food franchise in college, Son discovered what it takes to be successful, both as an employee and as a manager.  It also convinced him that being your own boss is the brass ring.

Son is all about business now.  His days are filled with a demanding full-time job and launching his own endeavors in whatever time is left over.  His radar is always on.  I recently confided to Husband that I only wish my father had lived long enough to see this.  Husband said, “Trust me, he knows.”

I try and meet Son for dinner every week or two, outings that include Husband unless he’s working late, in which case he gets a well-chosen doggie bag.  Last Wednesday, I called Son at work to see if he was available that evening for the two of us to meet for sushi.

OSV:  I’m home from school by 3:00 so pick a time that works for you and I’ll be there.

SON:  Let’s plan on 6:35-ish.

OSV:  6:35-ish?  Are you sure you don’t want to narrow that down?  I’m okay with a 40 second margin.

SON:  No, 6:35-ish works.

At our precisely timed dinner, I told Son that his sister was home sick for over a week with what was diagnosed as a recurrence of the mono she had in high school that made her miss half her sophomore year.  He remembered that awful time well and said he’d call to check on her.

In a phone call from Daughter a few days later, she mentioned she had heard from her brother and was happy to tell him she was feeling much better.

DTR:  He said, “Well, I was calling to cheer you up but now it’s not necessary.  So I guess I’ll go.”  I told him, “Wait a minute, we can still talk for a while.”

OSV:  So did you?

DTR:  I think he was pressed for time.  He said that since I was feeling better, we should get together in six or seven business days.

OSV:  Get out.

DTR:  No, really.  I told him to have his people call my people.

I bet he will.

Daughter took her camera into the street and found some Unusual Suggestions

e.t. saves the day

e.t. saves the day

hang in there hulk

hang in there hulk

robots will kill

robots will kill

additional baggage charge applies

additional baggage charge applies

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Speak softly and carry a big rake

Posted on July 31, 2008 by onesanevoice

My school is back in session and I keep getting asked if it’s awful to go to class in the summer and I really don’t have a problem with it.  I mean it’s not like I’d be at Great Adventure if I weren’t in school.  I’d be at work like everyone else except for all my teacher friends who are off for the summer.  But they probably aren’t at Great Adventure either and don’t even want to be considering it’s swarming with all the kids they waited all year to get away from.

I’m fully enrolled again after having to take last semester off due to my broken arm (see Indiana Wants Me and several subsequent entries) and I couldn’t be happier.  Well, yes, I could.  I had finally advanced to Group C but now I’m back in D because of my injury and also because the school added a Group E to handle increased enrollment.  So technically I’m in the same place as always – the hungry bottom.  Better known as Group D.  I predict they will ultimately name this group after me, as in:  A, B, C, OSV, E, etc.  It has a nice beat but you can’t dance to it.

I know I’ve been evasive about detailing the new career I’m being trained for, but I am a big fan of anonymity and there aren’t many schools anymore that give this instruction.  I’ve mentioned that it’s a very intense program that results in an associate degree and accreditation from a national association.  Graduates can work anywhere in the country without having to be licensed in each individual state.  Women make up 75% of its membership and it is a very old profession without being the world’s oldest profession.  Hopefully, it pays as well as that one.  The general public seems to think it does.

When people find out what kind of school I’m in they always have the same response.  Something along the lines of, “Wow, I hear those people make a ton of money,” or “My aunt’s neighbor’s sister was one of those and she made a fortune,” or “Holy shit, you’re gonna rake it in!”  I always just smile and nod and think about the fortune I would give to just make it to Group B.

Our plan is for me to be done with my training about the time Husband is ready to cut back on his work and either retire or be a consultant in his field.  My school advertises that it’s a two-year program which is pure fiction in my case, but I don’t get discouraged.  I keep remembering a letter to Ann Landers I read in the paper many years ago in which a reader said she was 55 and wanted to go to college but lamented it would take four years and she’d be 59 when she graduated.  Ann Landers responded, “And how old will you be in four years if you don’t go to college?”

Eventually, I will get out of D.  I will look back from the security and satisfaction of Group A and marvel at all the frustration I endured.  And in the meantime, when people ask Husband what he plans to do when he retires, he tells them, “First, I buy a big rake.”

Daughter’s Featured Fotos showcase a Sampler of Artists

el celso

el celso

infinity

infinity

new york 221

new york 221

scared wild thing

scared wild thing

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Exactly the Same and a Half

Posted on July 27, 2008 by onesanevoice

When Daughter and I were clearing out her old bedroom to convert it into my new office, she became a disposing agent for all the memorabilia stored there.  I have a hands-off policy regarding other people’s collectibles and Husband says that’s why our basement looks like a holding cell for ebay.

A year out of college and six months out of our house, the door to Son’s room across the hall is kept shut because he keeps promising to do something about all his sports trophies and now obsolete electronics.  The last time I ventured in there was to check for leaks during a rainstorm and I noticed a shadow in the corner over by the cobwebs.  I think it was Miss Havisham.  She had a 1995 MVP award in her lap and I booked it out of there before she could make me eat her moldy wedding cake.

During the Great Clean-Out, Daughter held up a cap and gown, neatly folded on a shelf.

DTR:  You want this?

OSV:  Do I want it?  It’s yours.

DTR:  No, it’s Brother’s.  Mine was red.

I inspected it and realized it was Son’s from his recent college graduation and he had handed it off to me afterward.  I must have put it on a shelf in my future office.

OSV:  Pitch it.  If it doesn’t say Armani somewhere inside, he’s done with it.

Of my two children, Son has always been the one devoted to stylin’.  When he went to college way out of state, he still came back for haircuts in Brooklyn to the one guy who did it right.  Who wouldn’t make appointments, even for a customer driving five hours to see him.  Son never complained.  It was a pilgrimage.

A few years ago, Son and Daughter left on separate trips out of the country; Son to the Dominican Republic and Daughter to Eastern Europe.  At the time, Son asked to borrow one of our suitcases and I watched him select a mid-sized one from our collection.

OSV:  You want that for a four-day trip?

SON:  It’ll be okay.  I can bring a carry-on too.

OSV:  You’re packing more for a long weekend in the Dominican than your sister is for two weeks in four countries.

SON:  She’s packing?  I figured she’d just buy a T-shirt at the first airport and wear that the whole time.

I recalled that conversation for Daughter as she was pitching his cap and gown.  She laughed.

DTR:  He’s right, that’s pretty much what I did.

She looked around and with her hands on her hips and a furrowed brow she turned to face me.

DTR:  You know, I don’t see my cap and gown around here.  I gave them to you after my graduation, too.  Did you go ahead and throw them out?

I pushed some things aside on the top shelf and pulled down a neatly folded red gown with the cap protected inside and handed it to her.  She looked down at the tidy pile in her arms and smiled.  Then she hugged me fiercely and whispered, “Thank you, Mom.”

Then she threw it out.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos juxtapose the Costa Rican Rainforest with the Israeli Desert

butterfl-eye

butterfl-eye

in the cave

in the cave

flower at the equator

flower at the equator

shadows in the negev

shadows in the negev

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You talkin’ to me?

Posted on July 23, 2008 by onesanevoice

I was on line today at 7-Eleven buying a milk chocolate peanut Slimfast bar (I’m not dieting but I like the taste and it makes me feel virtuous) when the woman behind me shouted, “Oh my God!  Put it down!”  I’m a little jumpy lately since we haven’t nabbed the mouse/water bug hiding in my new office at home, so I tossed the Slimfast bar onto the counter immediately thinking maybe it was crawling with something.

“I’M TELLING YOU TO STOP IT!”  I spun around to see what I was doing to alarm this woman and that’s when I noticed the My Favorite Martian plug in her ear and realized she was long-distance disciplining her kids who were possibly playing catch with her priceless Ming vase from Home Goods.  I don’t know why it still surprises me every time I think someone nearby is being sociable or otherwise addressing me because they are almost invariably talking to a person they already know who isn’t there.

It’s at times like this when I think of Travis Bickle, the cult De Niro character from Taxi Driver, who obsessively practiced his response in the mirror in preparation for the day someone might actually address him and he could then shoot them.  Bickle is one of cinema’s great psycho/sociopaths, and when you consider that nowadays everyone on the street around you is babbling to what looks like themselves, Travis doesn’t seem so bug nuts after all.

I’ll tell you something else that seems off and it’s happening in all the police stations and crime labs on TV.  Every male cop or detective is wearing a suit or a long-sleeved shirt and trousers.  But the female officer standing right next to him in the very same room is in a scoop neck tank top.  All the time.  If it’s winter outside the squad room, she just throws a down parka over the tank top.

I know when menopause hits and it’s not hitting these plunging neckline babies.  They’re not hot like me and my friends are hot.  In fact, they’re obviously cold.  You can tell without even asking.

A wall in Daughter’s NYC studio is reserved for creative collaborations that put the art in apARTment

the artist family

the artist family

the creative process

the creative process

the shadows

the shadows

the new wall

the new wall

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