Strike a Pose

It's happened again. I found Shelby in a position so cute I almost couldn't breathe. Here she is, having fallen asleep gently holding her feather toy. You can't make this stuff up. I need to go lie down; I'm feeling lightheaded.

New York in a Day

Last Friday I went to New York City for two hours; I had some business to attend to. I got on the train at 9:15 and arrived in NYC at 12:45. Took the subway to the bank and completed my transaction in approximately four minutes. I ate lunch at the kind of coffee shop you can only find in New York, and got back on the train an hour and a half later to be home by 6:30. While on the train I pretended I was a businesswoman. Here's what I wrote while eating lunch:

I'm eating a cheeseburger, well done, with a side of cole slaw and a pickle. And to drink? A chocolate milkshake. Not a frappe, a milkshake. This coffee shop is aptly named. It's called Utopia. This cheeseburger is the best I've tasted in years. So good, in fact, I was moved to write the preceding sentence on a piece of paper nad requested to have it delivered to the cook.

The waiter read the note and said to me, "What about the serivce?" I told him it was great, but I came here for the taste, not the service. He laughed and shouted to the cook in accented English, "This is forrr youuuu, the lady with the cheeseburger give it to youuuu!" Lord knows how many calories are in this meal, but right at this moment, I don't care. It is pure bliss in the form of a beef patty and chocolate.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I haven't even posted anything about Snow. Not the white stuff that comes out of the sky, but a kid. In our preschool's summer program, we had a girl named Snow. Her mother is a meteorologist, I'm not kidding. Snow was one of the cutest kids, and she said funny things.

One time a few of us were all at the art table, and I was talking about George Michael. One kid asked, "Who's George Michael?" and my very good friend and mom at the Co-op said, "Oh, he's a washed-up singer." A few beats went by, and then Snow said, "He is not washed up. He's dirty."

On a different day, another child, Erik, was talking about Snow. He said, "They should have named her tornado, then we could all go down in the basement!"

I will never get tired of my job. I'm looking forward to the beginning of school.

What TVs do Before They're Picked Up on Trash Day

So much to say, so little time. Thought I'd fill in the space by posting a pic of a scene I came across one day: the rarely seen TV playing hide and seek. As I was passing by, I could hear it:

"8, 9, 10! Ready or not, here I come!"

The coffee cup and the shovel tried to hide in trees, but they were soon found. Can't hide from a Sony, yo.

English is Stupid, Part 68

I teach English. Sometimes it's hard. I don't know much about the rules or origins.

I was looking at a sign the other day. It the word TOMB on it. It made me think.

Why do we say TOMB as TOOM, and BOMB as BOM?

Seems to me we should say TOMB as TOM, and BOMB as BOOM.

Thank You Ma'am, for the Mammogram

I turned 40 this year. You know what that means, ladies. Time for your first mammogram! Just went and got mine done. Fascinating. The best part was in the waiting room. In the first waiting room, they called two of us up at the same time. I said, "Is this a two for one special?" Ha ha.

We changed into robes and went to sit in a different waiting room. It was like a private woman's club because we were all wearing the same thing. I started talking to two older women. The one across from me made a positive comment about my tattoos, and the one next to me snorted in disgust. "Agh!" She said. I said, "You don't like them." "Agh!" she snorted again, "Not at all! My granddaughter, she has a...thing in her nose, I don't like these things at all!" She had a Russian accent. She said she came from Russia.

The older woman across from us said that she liked them, they were colorful. She and I kept talking. We talked about tattoos, how it was in the old days when you couldn't even afford to go to the doctor, vaccines (she asked me, "Do they give vaccines anymore?"), and TV. I learned she was 87 years old. I said, "87! God love ya!" She laughed and said she was starting to lose it a little, though, in the past six months. She couldn't remember the name of the guy who had won American Idol. She thinks that's losing it. Wow. She has her own room in her daughter's house. On the 3rd floor. She walks up all the stairs, no problem.

This woman was amazing. I wanted to have tea with her. She said she likes talking to people, she talks to everyone. I wished we could have talked longer. Eventually she left, and I watched Family Feud with the next woman who came in. The waiting room was a party and a half!

I got called in and had my boobs manipulated by a woman's hands and a machine. When was the last time I had this much action? And why don't women talk about this machine? It was the strangest procedure I have ever had, bypassing the time a nose camera went up my nostril.

Women close to 40, pay attention. You stand real close to the machine so the parts are in your face, and the technician puts your bare breast on a shelf, like it's not attached to you. You tilt your head to the side, and another plastic shelf squeezes your breast flat like a pancake. You stand in a very unnatural and uncomfortable position for a few seconds, and then she does the other breast. Four poses in all, unless she gets a fold, and then you have to have more done.

As the technician was adjusting my breast, I said to her, "I would love to see what kind of training class you had to take to learn this." She told me it was mostly on the job training. I asked her if she liked her job, and she said, "It's a job. Somebody has to do it!" and I told her I was glad it was her. She was nice. I was told I would get a letter in the mail and she'd see me next year. Hopefully the whole gang will be back.

Sometimes I Feel Like This

I just learned how to scan photos. I experimented with a drawing one of my kids did a few years ago. You can scan drawings, too! Somehow I feel like I must be at least 10 years behind (how long have people been scanning?), but I don't care. I can do it now. I'm going to pick my best photos to scan from all my old photo albums, yee heeeee!

Canon Rebel XSi

I got a new camera. Here's one of my fave new shots.

Olympiwo-man

So I'm still watching the Olympics, despite the fact that my boyfriend Michael Phelps isn't on TV anymore. As I told a friend, hurdles, schmurdles. I still watch, though, because gymnastics are still on, and diving is cool, and I even caught some trampoline the other night.

The other night in gymnastics I saw a woman who literally looked like someone had screwed a man's head onto her body. She was on the German team, I think, but she wasn't German. I think her name was Oksana. Anyway, the other thing about her was that she was like a grandma in terms of age of gymnasts; she was 33 or something. I found her just fascinating (see pic).

And just now, there was a male gymnast who looked like a younger Michael J. Fox. I love the people watching on TV.

TP Trouble

I was going crazy. I got one of those defective rolls of toilet paper where the two plys don't line up, and therefore there's not a clean rip when you tear a piece off. I HATE that. One ply comes off, the other one stays, you have to rip them separately...I tried to find an even place and ended up making a huge pile, still no even place (don't worry, I saved the pile and used it up, I'm not that wasteful).

I considered throwing away the whole roll, this phenomenon bugs me so much. Alas, this morning, guess what? The plys lined up! My bathroom is a peaceful place once more.

Tan is NOT the New Black

I stayed in Vermont with a former Co-op family; Peg, Paul, Emma, and Theo. Tons o' fun. We saw a lot of nature, which leads to dirty feet. One day, mom Peg suggested to daughter Emma, age almost eight, that she should wash her feet.

The next day, Emma and I had the following conversation:

Me: Hey Emma, did you ever wash your feet?

Emma: mmm, no.

Me: Don't you think you should?

Emma: They're not that dirty.

I look at her feet. Me: Hmm...

Emma, in all earnestness: They can get black.

I look at her.

Emma: These are rather tan.

Get Gold or Go Home

I think the Olympics should award the Gold medal or nothing, because that's all they focus on anyway. I thought this two years ago at the winter Olympics. I can't stand the way the commentators remark on the medals:

AND THE UNITED STATES IS IN THE LEAD, THEY WILL GET THE GOLD, YES, YES, YES!!!
And Germany Gets the Silver!


and china gets the bronze.

And then they go up to the exhausted Gold medal winners and say, "How do you feel?? How did you do that??" Leave them alone, already!

And then they go up to the Silver medalist and say, "You didn't get the Gold. What happened?"

If it were me, I'd go up to all of them and say, "Great job! You're in the Olympics!" Then again, I am a preschool teacher. Everyone is special in their own way.

Vermont-A Trip and a Half

This is Stella. She is a Vermont girl. She picks her own carrots. She can ride her bike, not only with no training wheels, but standing up. I saw it. She is three years old.

Being in Vermont for me was like being on another planet. Sure, I've been around frogs and flowers before, and I know what grass feels like. But I have never picked a carrot out of the ground before. I knew they grew in the ground, and I've seen the pretty ones they have at Whole Foods, with the green part at the end, but I have never seen the process up close. Listen, as I've said before, you can take the girl out of New York, but...

To me, long carrots come in a bag with no green part and a over-feminized rabbit on the bag that says, "Bunny Luv". As we were picking carrots and tomatoes and lettuce (what what what???) from the garden, Oscar, a boy with a shaved head, was catching a frog. I'm not kidding. It was as if a Norman Rockwell painting came to life in front of my eyes. I rubbed them. Was I in 1950? Or 2008? I looked at Oscar. 1950. I looked at Stella. 1975.
It was groovy and swell at the same time.

Wingspan

Michael Phelps just made history. I'd cry if I let myself. I have a lump in my throat.

Dara Torres won silver. She's so old, it's fantastic.

That's all I know about the Olympics right now, because that's all they cover on my TV.

I am very, very happy for Michael Phelps. Perhaps he'll be in my dreams tonight; wrap that wingspan 'round me, baby. I don't care if you have flipper feet.

(by the way, you've heard by now how the number 8 is a lucky number in China? That's why the opening ceremonies were on 8/8/08? Well, this picture of Michael Phelps on my computer was number 8888, I am not kidding. We were...uh, it was meant to be).

Vermont Graffiti

On the Road Again

I wrote the following while on the bus to my second vacation in Vermont this summer. Different family, different location. Same bus stop.

On the bus from Boston to Vermont. Takes as long as it does to get to NYC. We left at 8 am, due to arrive at 12:15. I'm meeting my friends for lunch.

I ate breakfast around 6:30, so I knew that six hours would be a long time to wait to eat again. I was so good. I packed a container of almonds and dried cranberries, planning to eat them at 10:00. Which I did. And drank water from my water bottle, such a health-conscious girl am I.

Around 10:45, the bus driver announced that we'd be taking a 15 minutes break. There was a McDonald's, a Subway sandwich shop, and a Chinese restaurant. I was so good. I decided I'd go to Subway and get a nice little container of yogurt for 99 cents. I like the yogurt at Subway, because it's not sweetened with that disgusting artificial sweetener crap.

I walked in the door and was greeted by a display of every Hostess and Little Debbie snack cake you could imagine. Turns out it was a convenience store. Tucked away in the corner was the Subway. I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, somehow yogurt was the furthest thing from my mind.

I looked left and right, and circled the snack cake display two times. God was testing me. What did I want? A donut? A pack of donuts? A Ho Ho? I saw my favorite dessert from another life, a Little Debbie oatmeal creme snack cake. It had gone up in price from 25 cents to 35 cents. I touched the package. I held it. I read the calorie amount. 330. NO ! I would not give the devil my soul. I would not give in. I moved away as if I had been burned by Little Debbie's evil smile.
My mind went blank. I had forgotten what I had gone in there for. Somehow I found myself in front of the coffee urns.

I don't drink coffee; I'm a tea aficionado. I'll drink coffee about once a year, if I'm at a conference or on a road trip. When I make coffee, it's like a dessert. Satan was not going to let me go easily. Almost as if I was having an out of body experience, I took a cup and filled it halfway with coffee. I like those little flavored creamers they have, so I put 2 hazelnut containers in. Then I saw they had hazelnut flavored coffee, so I put some of that in. Next, 2 sugar packets. And 2 more creamers. And 2 more sugar packets, because I remembered that coffee always tastes a little bitter to me so I like a lot of sugar. I mixed the delicious smelling concoction and paid for it.

When I got back on the bus there was still time before we had to leave. I drank my coffee and ate my remaining almonds. When I had drunk about half of the coffee, I started to feel sick. The coffee was so sweet, it was gross. And it did not go with almonds. Ick. I gathered up my strength, got off the bus, and threw that coffee away. HA HA, I won! I did not give in all the way, just part way, but in the end I came out ON TOP, yes I did!!! It took about an hour for my stomach to feel normal again. Just in time for my cheeseburger and fries lunch.

Back in New York...

I have so much to post, I can barely keep up. I'm going to try this weekend. As such, here's another vignette about New Yorkers that I wrote while sitting on the step of my brother's apartment building.

There's a woman, very well dressed, getting into her silver Acura. She has on a crisp white blouse and black cropped pants. She's an older woman, and has on a lot of makeup. She looks like Cruella de Ville of Disney's 101 Dalmations. She has a stern look on her face.

She has two bags from Zabar's, the famous Upper West Side gourmet food shop. Before she gets to put the bags in the car, a dog stops by and sniffs them. I silently warn the dog not to sniff the bags of Cruella de Ville; it's a trap!

Suddenly, the woman turns around and offers me a black and white cookie. "Want one?" Did she think I was homeless, sitting on top of my bag, at the door of the apartment building? See, that's the thing about NYC. A nice older rich woman will offer food to a homeless tattooed woman like myself. Or maybe she offers cookies to everyone. I politely decline, in case she had laced it with cyanide while crossing the street. New Yorkers are friendly, but you can never be too sure.

For that Toothy Smile!

Toothpaste has changed so much since when I was a kid. It's changed even in the past five years. Recently I went to the store to get some new toothpaste, and I saw this kind that had glitter in it, so help me god!

Well, Colgate didn't call it glitter. It said, "Max Fresh with Mini Breath Strips!" Breath strips, glitter, it just looked like New Year's Eve for your mouth. I quickly put it in my basket and waited for the party to begin.

Unfortunately, it took awhile for a breath strip to actually make it to my toothbrush. The first few times, all I got was blue gel. I thought maybe it was all a farce, but one day, I got a speck of glitter on my brush, and it's been a sensational soiree ever since.

Does it make my breath fresher? I dunno, but sparkly trumps fresh, in my book.

Olympiman

I love watching the Olympics. Maybe too much. Last night Michael Phelps, Olympic swimmer/hot boy/man, was in my dream. We were in a high school classroom, sitting next to each other in those awkward chairs with the desk attached to the arm. He held me. We weren't in high school, though. I was, and am, 40. He was , and is, 23.

I am fascinated by his extra long torso. So sue me.

NY, NY, cont.

I walked up Columbus Ave., looking at all the fancy storefronts. A guy passing by was staring at my arm so hard he actually turned around to keep looking at it. Just when I was about to tell him to take a picture ('cause I'm a New Yorker too, and I speak my mind), he said, "Nice! That's very nice!" We stopped, and he came over to get a closer look. He studied my arm, and was bold enough to lift up my sleeve to see the continuation of my tat, and you know what? I let him, because I could tell he appreciated the artwork. We told each other to take care, and went our separate ways.

Later, at the Duane Reade drugstore, the line was really long. I was third in line--it wound down the aisle so you couldn't see how long it was when you first came in. I got the brunt of the reactions to the line, being at the front of the aisle. People would come in, look past me, and say, "Oh, god!" One older white balding guy said, "Fuck it!" and put his stuff back. You don't hear that in Boston. It was refreshing. I said something about the length of the line to the woman behind me, and she replied, "I know. This place sucks."

There was a Jamaican woman in front of me who shouted out, "You want me to call for backup? We need backup at the register!" Her accent was so thick you could barely understand what she was saying. I, however, could understand her, being an expert in accented English deciphering. She turned around to me, and we laughed. She asked her friend what she thought about the little girl who was missing.

The friend didn't know the news story. She said, "Woman, don't you watch no news?!" She laughed again and turned around, and I told her that I knew the story she was talking about. We traded thoughts on it, and then it was her turn. She was waited on by a black woman with an Australian accent. I love New York.

New York, New York, it's a Helluva Town

It was a beautiful day. No thunderstorms, as had been predicted. I began the pleasant walk from 56th to 80th, knowing that I would soon find a Starbucks where I could use the restroom. It only took about two blocks.

New Yorkers talk to each other. There was a guy in front of me in the restroom line who looked like he was one sandwich short of a picnic, if you know what I mean. He looked at the stars tattooed on my arm. He said, "Do you have any stars of David?" I said no, just regular stars. He asked if I had any yellow stars. No.

He started mumbling different phrases with the word "star" in them. "Shooting star. Everybody wants to be a star..." Thankfully, it was his turn. When he came out, his parting words were, "When you wish upon a star..." He may have been a little eccentric, but at least he made standing in line more interesting.

The Bus Stopped Here

Yesterday I was on the Greyhound bus going from Boston to NYC. I was thinking about how I had forgotten my Metro card and how I'd have to get a new one at the subway station, then go through that long-ass tunnel to get on the subway, and how much I don't like that leg of the trip, but it's unavoidable. It sucks, because I have to go to 80th and Broadway, and the bus always goes right past my block, like it's teasing me. The bus terminal, Port Authority, is at 42nd and 9th.

Suddenly, at 56th and 9th, the bus stopped and the driver said, "For the woman who had to get to the hospital before visiting hours were over." A woman with crutches hobbled off. I yelled, "Can anyone get off?" He didn't stop me, so I grabbed my bags and jumped off. This never happens; they're not allowed to stop just anywhere.

I felt like I had won the lottery. I took it as a sign that this was going to be a good trip.

Holey Crap!

These are my favorite pants. I got them at J.Jill in 2000. I remember when I got them, because that was the year I went to Japan for the first time. They're cute. They're comfortable. They're linen. I've been wearing them for eight years. I like them so much I got another pair of them in black. They're sort of like my trademark in the summer.

Just this year I decided to demote them to working at preschool pants, because, let's face it, they're old and worn out. I recently discovered exactly how worn out they were. How can I put this delicately? I can't. My pants were pulled down in the ladies room, and this is what I saw:



Yes, I've been walking around with holes in my pants for who knows how long. I checked my black pair, and...yep, the black pants have 'em too. I guess the moral of the story is this: always check your pants when they're down. Or you might have a (w)hole different story to tell.

Wham! It's George Michael! Part 3

I forgot to tell you what GM was wearing. He wore a black suit with a black V-neck tee shirt underneath. I kept waiting for him to change into jeans, cowboy boots, and a white tee shirt, for his big "Faith" number, but he didn't, which was really disappointing. He only changed outfits once, and for one song. He came out wearing a state trooper outfit, and I couldn't really understand, but later I did some research. He did a song where he makes fun of the incident where he was busted in a public restroom by an undercover cop. I think that was why he did the whole cop getup, for that song. He looked hot. If I were a gay man, I'd be all over him like white on rice!

I'm telling everyone I know: take 3 minutes and 99 cents, and go to iTunes and download "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" by George Michael. Oh, and have a box of tissues handy. Oh my god, if I was the person he was singing that song to, I think I'd just melt into the floor. When they say on American Idol you have to "feel the song", this is what they are talking about. This man has the most beautiful tone to his voice.

I am obsessed with George Michael. Prince, there's room in my heart for many hot singer/songwriters, calm down.

Wham! It's George Michael! Part 2

The set of the GM concert was pretty simple. There was a screen going from the way top all the way down, all across the stage floor, and it curved down over the stage. There were huge rectangular screens on either side of the stage. The band was way in the back, on two levels. George (we call him by his first name, like we're pals, apparently) had three or four backup singers, but mostly it was just him doin' his thang onstage.

The screens lit up like a screensaver on a computer, with this cool graphic red line pulsating to the beat. When he came out, of course we all went crazy. I can't even remember what the first song was, but suddenly he busted out "Hard Day" from his Faith album. Oh my god, I had totally forgotten about that song, and it was one I love. I went crazy! "Bang, bang, you're dead, could we just make love instead...say yes, 'cause it's what we do best, and I've had such a hard day..." Oh man, it was great. The videos were so cool, all over the floor and up the back wall.

After a couple of songs, he said hello to Boston, and he apologized for being late. The screen showed him up close, and I noticed that George looked a little...thicker than he had in the past. Not fat, really, but I noticed his neck, in particular. He looked like a football player. Liz remarked, "Like Alec Baldwin." Exactly! He's older (though only 45), and methinks the cannabis problem he deals with has not been good to his physique. However...

He can shake that booty, and lordy, did he look good doing that! He gave us quite a show at various times. He's also comfortable with his sexuality, which was nice to see. He made a few references to being gay, including when he was singing "Everything She Wants". He sang, "Because I said you were the perfect girl for me..." and then he said, under his breath, "Yeah, right!" It was pretty funny.

He sang some songs I wasn't familiar with, but most of them I knew. He went all the way back from "Careless Whisper" and "Faith" to "Father Figure", to" Amazing" and "Flawless". He also did some covers that were surprising, but I guess were on one of his albums. He did slowed down versions of "Roxanne" and "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face."

Although he started an hour late, he stayed for over two hours, and finished up by having us all sing "Happy Birthday" to his drummer, whose birthday had been forgotten the day before. His final song was "Freedom 90".

What a show, what a night! I am now completely obsessed with George Michael. Buy his new CD, Twentyfive. You will not be disappointed.