Balancing Act
Yesterday, Sam and I went into Manhattan to help Hannah move from her apartment on the East Side to a new place on the West Side.
Like every trip into the city, there were surprises in store. How could we have anticipated that in Hannah’s old building, a walk-up in which she lived on the fourth floor, an apartment on the second floor, next to the only staircase, would be undergoing a total gutting? That instead of hauling load upon load of Hannah’s personal effects down four flights of stairs„ we would be hauling load upon load while stepping around plaster dust, nails, slivered piles of wood, and six guys with huge trash barrels who had been hired to do the job?
Without a doubt, the debris gauntlet made our task not merely arduous but life-threatening, but we also discovered that the workers were lovely. They held doors open for us and would pause in taking loads of rubble down until they were sure we were out of the way. This was the beginning of the defining pattern of our day- the Karmic score kept getting evened. For every bad thing, something equally good happened.
Another example: the super’s daughter came out with her little yappy dog when Sam and Hannah’s boyfriend Stefan were struggling to move the air conditioner down the stairs. The yapper and its tangled leash were directly in the way, and getting them to step aside, since the kid was only a toddler and didn’t speak English, was difficult. The timing couldn’t have been worse. When the super came out to see if Hannah needed any help, he picked up the dog and smiled at me. Turning to Hannah, he asked, “Are you going to introduce me to your sister?” Score evened!
We went to Starbucks. I was in line, waiting to order, when a rodent-faced woman shoved me aside in her haste to get to the rest room. I figured maybe she had an emergency, but as I was leaving, balancing both my coffee and Hannah’s, the same woman was ahead of me. She pushed open the door and took off, allowing it to ricochet back into me. Luckily, using my foot, I was able to stop its trajectory at the possible last second. I then nudged the door open, directly into an incoming customer.
“Oh, my God, I am so sorry,” I said.
The man smiled.” “Darlin’ don’t you worry about that. You got your hands full. You have a great day, now.” Score evened!
We finally finished, and returned to the car for the drive back to Connecticut. As we approached the Suburban, we saw a meter cop writing out a ticket. We weren’t more than a minute over the time limit. Hannah and I ran over. “This is our car!” I said. “We’re leaving.”
Wordlessly, he shook his head and continued to write the ticket.
“Please,” Hannah implored. “My parents drove all the way here to help me move.”
“Then you can help them pay,” he said.
“I can’t afford it,” she said. He just kept shaking his head.
“Come on,” I said. “Seriously, I put money in, and I know we couldn’t be more then a minute late.”
Sticking the $35.00 ticket under my windshield wiper, he said, “Now you can stay here all day.” Then he walked off.
I was stunned by his indifference. The only thing that made me feel better was thinking about the way the day had been going so far. If the Karmic balancing act held, then I was pretty certain that after he rounded the corner, the meter cop would find himself stepping directly into the path of the crosstown bus. Score evened!
Point Taken
Lately, and with more frequency, I have been finding myself in the middle of arguments when I suddenly realize that the person I am arguing with has a point. A warning bell goes off that I may just not be right.
When this first started happening I resisted. I’d cling to some rapidly diminishing point, my tone getting more agitated and my argument getting, even to my ears, more irrational and outlandish. Inevitably, I’d storm out of the room, only to come crawling back a few hours later to admit, with lots of qualifications, that their argument might possess some merit.
Now, I’m making the transition much more quickly. I can go from stating my point, hearing the rebuttal, and acknowledging the merits of their case, while sidestepping the yelling and the angry exit altogether.
I have positions I feel are harder to dislodge, but these are things I’ve thought about for years, conclusions based on my core liberal ideology and logical reasoning. But so many other things I say aren’t subject to much thought or scrutiny. These are the things that people most often take issue with, and while it’s easier and still, I admit, my first inclination to get belligerent and trounce off, I’m working on it. While it might seem like a contradiction in terms, I am learning to stand my ground and stay flexible.
Thoughts On My Colonoscopy
1. BAD IDEA: My attempt to run to the grocery store after taking the prescribed laxative drink. The hankering for Italian ice and ginger ale turned out to be not nearly so critical as proximity to a toilet.
2. SIMPLE TRUTH: On the information sheet the gastroenterologist provided, he wrote that “loose stools” would occur as a result of taking the aforementioned laxative drink. This is what we in the writing biz call an understatement. The truth is, you will feel as if you are peeing out your butt. There is no point in being coy about this. The day already holds enough unpleasant surprises.
3. THE BEST PART OF THE ENTIRE EXPERIENCE: Without a doubt, the anesthesia!! The operating room nurse compared it to “two glasses of wine at a cocktail party.” Well, maybe- if those two glasses of wine accompanied a handful of Xanax. It’s hours later and I’m wobbling around like a Bowery bum. And trust me, I’m not complaining.
I feel I have learned a lot over the past two days about myself and my limitations. For instance, I hate Jello, but I really like Tootsie Pops. The term “full of crap” has taken on a new relevance. And best of all, my colon has been carefully inspected and designated good to go until 2018.
Our Sectional: The Sunset Years
I just want to get take a sentimental moment to say goodbye to our old sectional couch. I guess it’s not technically goodbye, because we are just relocating it to the basement. I’ll tell you this; a more normal family would be tossing it out.
Yes, it is a total, appalling wreck. Even new, it was not attractive. But we loved it because it could easily accommodate eight people and was made of a something synthetic that didn’t feel too slick or too scratchy. Try as we might, none of us could create a stain that was unable to settle undetectably into its mottled brown-gray-beige motif.
As time went on- five years, to be exact- we imprinted ourselves into that couch, like a foot hundreds of miles into a favorite running shoe. Our cats clawed away the corners. Nelly slept on it, as the lingering scent of wet dog attests. Mice families sought shelter in its underbelly. Every one of my kids has fought to occupy the chaise lounge part of it, which had a two-cheeked hollow in the middle which cradles the butt to perfection.
It’s not goodbye, then; it’s a send-off down a flight of stairs to a well-earned retirement. Old sectional, your sage microfiber replacement has an impossibly tough-yet comfy-act to follow.
Snap!
I was in the check-out aisle at the grocery store yesterday, and I caught a glimpse of this month’s issue of Allure magazine. Mariah Carey was on the cover, and while I don’t know much about her, from the little I do know she strikes me as someone who might possibly be completely out of her mind.
Anyway, the cover featured a quote from Ms. Carey: “Everyone has a story. I have a mini-series.”
This is a pretty weird thing to say, and I’m not even sure I understand it. Does she consider her mini-series a step up from the simple story that rest of us have? Because in my mind, the term mini-series is synonymous with painfully melodramatic performances by washed-up has-beens.
I just now realized that this quote is exactly perfect.
Wimbledon
I just finished watching the Wimbledon men’s finals, and my God, am I exhausted! I know that sounds odd, since I’ve just spent the past four hours parked on my butt, but here’s the deal: as I was watching, I kept putting myself in their position. For some reason, I could not stop imagining myself as the player receiving serve. For example, if Nadal was serving, I was Federer, and vice-versa. The big problem was I didn’t possess their remarkable tennis skills. What I had were my own personal tennis skills, which are quite modest. I kept imagining me in their shoes, flailing at balls and missing them entirely or lobbing them softly back only to have them slammed down my throat. I imagined John McEnroe in the booth saying things like, “I’ve never seen anything like it…what’s happening to Roger? He’s falling apart!” or “Rafael is simply imploding. He can’t take the pressure- he’s playing like a friggin’ old lady.”
The only way I was able to force myself to watch until the end was to devise an exit strategy. If I in fact found myself occupying the body of either Federer or Nadal on Center Court, I would immediately clutch at my chest and go down in a heap. Then I would pretend to be unconsciousness. There would be a spectacularly dramatic default, which would gain me the sympathy of legions of tennis fans. Knowing I could get out of playing Wimbledon definitely calmed me down.
Nadal served victoriously for the match, so I was still imagining myself as Federer. Frankly, I was happy it was over because I was getting pretty tired. I have to say, though, I’m not impressed with that cheap silver tray they gave me as a consolation prize. I’m also thinking of dumping my girlfriend. I know I’m only the runner-up, but still, I’m pretty sure I can do better.
Car Talk
My girls run on local streets and are frequently beset by that bewildering breed of Neanderthal who guns his engine, then peels past them. This maneuver is often accompanied by a frenzy of horn blasting.
What could possibly make these guys think that women might find this appealing? They might also want to consider that runners in particular are going to be less than thrilled by the close and unexpected rev of an engine and/or earsplitting blare of a car horn. Add to all that the wave of noxious exhaust fumes that they can’t avoid inhaling, and trust me, the net impression is anything but positive.
My theory is that these jerks somehow imagine their cars are shouting, “Look at me!” but they are leaving off the full and accurate translation, which is: “Look at me! I’m an enormous asshole.”
Associative Properties
This week, Turkey Hill ice cream was on sale, so I bought two cartons.
While this might sound like no big deal, I had to struggle against my instinctive aversion to what I feel is a horribly unfortunate brand name. It boggles the mind that they could not come up with more appropriate- not to mention more appetizing- appellation.
Am I the only one who feels this way? It’s not merely that turkeys and ice cream are unrelated entities; each possesses attributes that you seriously do not want to associate with the other. Turkeys are loose wattles, sharp claws and pecking beaks, not to mention bones and feathers and little beady eyes. These are not images you want occupying your brain while contemplating ice cream. I had this crazy thought that the dairy industry might be pulling some tit-for-tat with the Butterball folks, but after some research I know that Turkey Hill is a real place, more real than, say, Nature Valley or Seven Seas. This explains the name, but doesn’t alter the distasteful association between a creamy, sweet dessert and a feathered fowl that is typically sold shrink-wrapped with its giblets shoved into its body cavity.
I realize Turkey Hill is a well established brand, and my opinion is a day late and millions of dollars short. But if someone living on, say, Chicken Mountain, is thinking about taking Mama’s pudding recipe national, he or she might want to consider the product and the people who will be buying it, instead of the source.
Basic Instinct II
Just now, I was listening to a psychologist on NPR. The subject was self-destructive habitual behavior, and she was saying that human beings crave established patterns, even if repetition is not serving them well. Something that once worked but has now ceased to be effective is revisited out of the intense comfort we take in the familiar.
It occurs to me that by coupling this basic and irrational human instinct with insatiable corporate greed, you arrive at the guiding principle behind movie sequels.