Fly the Friendly Skies...again, and again, and again

I'm on vacation in California. For a week. By the time I go home, I will have been on 8 airplanes. Eight. I have never done such a thing in all of my life. Thing is, my cousin and his wife, who I'm staying with, live near Santa Barbara. So I'm here. But then my friend Rekha got married in San Francisco. So I flew there. I changed planes a lot. My vacation looks like this:

Dec. 23: Boston to LA, change planes. LA to Santa Barbara. (2 planes)
Dec. 26: Santa Barbara to LA, change planes. LA to SF. (2 planes)
Dec. 28: SF to LA, change planes. LA to SB. (2 planes)
Dec. 30: SB to LA, change planes. LA to Boston (2 planes)

The great thing is that I seem to have gotten over my anxiety around flying. I didn't have to go to my "special place" in my head once. I did still locate the exit nearest me, though, in the event of an emergency. Gotta have something.

Annoying Airlines

Hello from Sunny California! Usually I have a lot of tales from my travels, but I had a pretty uneventful flight to CA, so for now there's just one tale to tell: that of the annoying voice of a flight attendant.

She was wearing the standard navy blue uniform, with bright red lipstick and curly black hair done up in a poodle-like poof on top of her head. She went up and down the aisle with one line, "Would you like to buy a snack?" Apparently, gone are the days of meals and bags of Chex Mix; you now have to spend $5 on a stale bagel. I refused.

Thing was, she didn't just ask if anyone wanted to buy a snack. She sort of shrieked it. It sounded like one word, getting louder and more high pitched at the end: "Wouldyouliketobuyasnack???" She sounded like Minnie Mouse on helium, or like a gun was being put to her head and she was told to utter the phrase into the phone so the ransom money would be sent.

By the time she got to the back of the plane, all you could hear was the cry at the end: "Buh bah duh bah eeeee?" I was this close to saying, "Would you like to lower your voice an octave???" I held my tongue, for once. By the time we landed, I was starving. That's a story for the next entry.

Celebrity Sighting sounds inappropriate

I saw kidnapped journalist Jill Carroll in the Sharper Image store tonight in the Copley Square Mall. I'm sure it was her; she had that bright red hair she got right after she returned home. I thought about going up to her, but what would I say? "Glad you're home safely"? By the time I had mustered up the courage, she was gone. It was pretty surreal.

Miscommunication

So at school on Friday it was Owen's first day to stay for Lunch Program, the extended part of our day. His mom (and my good friend) Liz told me in the morning that she would call around 1:00 to check in on him. I told her, "Just call my cell phone; I'll have it right with me wherever I am, so we won't miss the call."

'Round about 11:30, a bunch of us are at the playground, and Yumi's little brother, 18 month old Koh, falls off a climbing structure and cuts his head. His mother Miho was right there, but of course she was worried; the cut was deep, bleeding, and Koh was screaming. We happened to have a mom who is a doctor working that day, and she looked at it and told us to go to the ER.

So Miho, Koh, and I hop into a cab and zip off to Children's Hospital. The family is from Japan; they had never been to an American ER. I was there for moral support and to help with translating (or talking slowly) if needed. Poor Miho; her husband was in Japan.

So by the time we were all checked out and waiting for the three stitches that would need to be put in, Koh had been crying hysterically for an hour nonstop. He could be the next Pavarotti. He cried so hard he was exhausted and fell asleep. And at this point my phone rang.

It was Liz. She said, "How is he?" And I looked at Koh and said, "Well, he's fine now, but man, he was screaming for an hour, poor thing. He needs three stitches." And Liz said in a very high tone, "What??" And I suddenly realized what I had done, and backtracked, yelling, "Not Owen, not Owen! Oh my god, here was Liz, just calling to check on Owen like I told her to, but all I could think about at that point was Koh...I filled Liz in, and she just said, weakly, and still in a high-pitched tone, "Well, okay, I'll just call the Co-op now and check on Owen..." I felt like such a jerk.

So then I was all hyped up on my big goof up and we had to put Koh in a papoose to swaddle him so the doctor could put the stitches in. Not a fun thing to participate in. I felt like an alligator wrestler; that kid is strong! I started to cry but had to stop and hold it together for Miho. When it was all over and Koh was laughing with a popsicle and 3 stitches, Miho and I both cried. Whew.

Come to find out today that Liz had been so sleep deprived from just having her third child 8 weeks ago that when I started talking about "him", she thought I meant her baby, who was with a friend at the time, and I was talking about Koh, and man, when that adrenaline gets pumping in your body, all kinds of miscommunication can happen! What's the moral of this story? Get more sleep? Don't answer your cell phone when you're in the ER? Not possible on either count, so let's just say we can laugh about it now, but we sure weren't laughing then.

Soft as a Baby's Bottom

I have a cashmere sweater. That's right, I'm high society, I'm rich, I live a glamorous life.

Not really. My cashmere is not from a high end catalog or store. It didn't cost $300. Mine is the store brand of Macy's, Charter Club. It probably cost about $30. Still, I feel a sense of luxury just knowing that I actually own a cashmere sweater. That is, I did until the other day.

All of my hand washables had been sitting in my closet for the past year because I hate to hand wash. I finally cleaned out my closet and was reunited with my beautiful red cashmere sweater. I carefully hand washed it in cold water with Woolite, and laid it out to dry. When it was dry, I caressed it, folded it carefully, and noticed the label.

It said, "100% cashmere, 2 ply." Leave it to me to find cashmere that sounds like toilet paper.

Seriusly

Dear Readers:
The following is a description of an actual event. The thoughts inside my head (some would say overactive imagination) are italicized.

I have had so many run-ins with serial killers, it's a wonder I'm still alive. My quick wits and agile mind have saved me from being bound and gagged, stabbed and stuffed in the trunk of a car.

It happened today. I was in an apartment building, waiting to be buzzed in. An older man had just gone in, and he held the door for me, smiling in an older gentlemanly way. Only I knew he was no grandpa; he lured young ladies into his building on many occasions. I told him I wanted the people I was visiting to know I was arriving, so I buzzed anyway but held the door open with my foot.

He waited for me at the elevator, feigning politeness by allowing me to enter the elevator first. I went in, prepared. I cased the elevator for the emergency button, and had my hand on my cell phone in case I needed it to poke him in the eye. I pressed the floor I needed, and he laughed; he was going to the same floor. Coincidence, or trap?

I tensed my muscles and waited to defend myself against this sleazy wrinkled killer. I would elbow him in the stomach and simultanously step on his foot when he grabbed me around the neck. There wasn't enough room to flip him, but amazing things happen when one is under diress.

Luckily for him, when the elevator stopped at "our" floor, he let me go first, and then turned and went in the other direction. Turns out I had saved him from certain death, or at least a nasty and deserved ass-whupping.

Smells like Perfumed Spirit

Today I was sitting at the art table with my co-worker Amy and a few kids, and suddenly I smelled perfume. It smelled just like Poison, that perfume in the purple bottle that was so popular years ago. As I was making a face and inhaling, Amy looked at me, and I said, "Do you smell that?" She did.

This was unusual, because people at my school just don't wear perfume. I looked around; no woman to be seen. We kept smelling it, over here, not over there. I came to the conclusion that there must be a ghost among us. A very nice smelling ghost. I knew it was a ghost, because this same thing had happened to me before. Soon after my mother died (may she rest in peace), I smelled her perfume in my apartment hallway. I knew it was her.

But there at the art table, that was not my mother. It was some other spirit. I spoke to her, and asked her to give us a sign. I put some paper and a marker on the table and asked her to let us know who she was. The kids were blissfully unaware of all of this, except to answer in the affirmative when I asked them if they smelled perfume. It was driving me crazy. Finally, I went upstairs to the church office to see if Mary, the office manager, was wearing perfume and had come downstairs without being seen.

I went into the office and didn't smell anything. I asked Mary if she was wearing perfume, and she said no. Then I saw a can of aerosol spray on her desk. She told me that a homeless woman had come in to get some food, and she smelled pretty bad, so the guy who cleans the church sprayed air freshener around. I sprayed the air with a shot of it, and there she was, the perfumed spirit who had made her way all the way downstairs to the nursery school. Boy, was I disappointed.

I went down and told Amy that we didn't have a ghost, only the lingering scent from a can of aerosol, used to cover up the scent of someone real. She was disappointed too. She suggested that we pretend that it was a ghost anyway, and that's what we played for the rest of the afternoon. With the kids.

I Never Thought About It...

Just now I saw a blind man with his seeing eye dog. The dog was pooping. Now there's something I had never thought about...how does a blind person pick up after his dog? I didn't stick around to find out.

Directing Music

Sometimes when I hear a song, I see a movie. In my head. That I've written and directed. And starred in.

Today I was listening to my iPod on shuffle mode, and "The Long and Winding Road" by the Beatles came on. First of all, that song always makes me want to cry. Today as I listened to it, I saw the final scene in my movie:

I was standing on a hilltop, looking out over the horizon. The barely there grass that covered the hilltop was part green, mostly brown. It was a cool day, late afternoon. I was wearing a long skirt, boots, and had a tan colored shawl wrapped around me; think Robert Redford's Sundance catalog. I was hugging the shawl to me, but standing tall at the same time. My hair was very long, and blonder, for some reason. It was blowing slightly in the wind.

As the credits were rolling up the screen, I stood there, reflecting on my life, and vowing to move on from whatever hardship I had just endured, probably a breakup.

Well, that was the last 3 minutes of the movie, anyway. Now I just need to write the other 120 minutes. Does this happen to everyone when listening to music? I could see that scene with all that detail clear as day; it was just there! Fascinating. I was broken out of my directing fantasy when the next song came on: "Ring My Bell." Different kind of movie.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I went to my friends' house for Thanksgiving dinner. What a feast. I was assigned green leafy vegetables, and I obliged by going to Whole Foods and scooping up all kinds of lettuce and kale. I ended up making The Incredible Shrinking Side Dishes.

First of all, I didn't realize that kale shrunk almost as much as spinach. I had bought a whole pound of kale. It filled the pot. Threw in some free range chicken broth and boiled it for 20 minutes, and voila! I had enough for two people. The other six would have to eat something else.

The salad was diverse. It had two kinds of lettuce, some grape tomatoes, shredded carrots, edamame, and some LaChoy chinese crispy noodles for crunch. I wanted people to experience my favorite Japanese salad dressing, so I doused the mixture with it, tossed it up real nice, then went to take a shower. Halfway through I realized I had made that same mistake once before, and the salad had gotten progressively smaller.

Indeed, when I went to check on it, it had shrunk so much I had to put it in a smaller bowl. Thank god these were my friends, and not my future in-laws. They would understand and not judge me.

Turns out there was plenty of food. The turkey was smoked. Whoa. Everything was delicious. It was all laid out on the table, and it looked good. My dear friend Mike, who makes me look wishy washy, came out with a checklist to make sure everything was out. I had to laugh, because it looked ridiculous, but also because I would have done the exact same thing.

Lisa, Mike's wife, made this really cool soup (yes, I actually said cool soup) that was clear with scallions and carrot slices cut in the shape of fancy goldfish. I'm not kidding, look at the photo.

Mike went into the kitchen to carve the turkey, and it's a good thing he did it there. He had on the same kind of yellow rubber gloves I use when I'm cleaning the bathroom, and he tore that thing apart. I had to get rid of the association of toilets and turkeys, so I went back into the dining room to clear my head.

The turkey came out nicely sliced, and it smelled like smoked turkey, not disinfectant, thank goodness. It was delicious. For dessert there were three kinds of pie, and I had slices of two of them. Pure heaven.

For some reason, as we were all chatting away, satisfied and full to the brim, Mike brought out the turkey carcass and started hacking away at it right at the table. When he was done, it looked like a car that one of my boyfriends once had. He wanted to collect insurance money, so he took it to Harlem and left it there for a couple of days, with the doors unlocked. By the time the miscreants were done with it, it was hardly recognizable as a car. They got the radio, the tires, and some parts, and my boyfriend got his insurance money. I thought about this as I looked at what was once a turkey.

I wanted to take one of the nice cloth napkins and cover it up like they do at the morgue. The mother turkey would have to come along and identify her son, who was killed and then smoked, and then hacked to pieces. It would be too much for her; the family friend would have to do the awful deed. "Yes... yes, this is Tom. I'd recognize that pop up thermometer anywhere."

My overactive imagination did not get the best of me, and I had a delightful time. After Mike and Lisa read this, will they invite me over again?

Tattoo You?

My new tattoo has a heart on it with a banner that says MOM. Someone I hadn't seen in a long time saw just the MO part and thought it said MOI. I replied, "Yeah, and it says above it, 'It's all about...'" She laughed and said she wouldn't put it past me. Really? Moi?

I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing

I have always been a late bloomer. While the other 10, 11, and 12 year olds were developing breasts, mine didn't come until I prayed to God when I was 14. I got my period at 16. I graduated high school at 19, and got my college degree after 7 years.

It shouldn't surprise me, then, that at 38, I am just now experiencing a phenomenon that women have been engaging in for years: the old, "eat a whole package of something in one sitting" phenomenon.

I had never done it, had never understood it, could not conceive of it, didn't know how women did it, but today I did it. I ate a whole container of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls, 5 of them, in one sitting. And they were good.

I had a major attack of PMS on the way to the supermarket. PMS is such a strange phenomenom in itself. The littlest thing can set you off. I was wearing the new down jacket I ordered from Land'sEnd Kids, and it was feeling too big. It's a size L, 14-16. I was depressed about having cut off the tags, thinking I couldn't return it. I was thinking how ridiculous it was that a 14-16 kids was too big for me, a grown woman. I should be wearing a woman's size, but instead I was going to order a 10-12, and give my bigger coat away to some 11 year-old. I was going to run up my credit card bill, again. My eyes welled up.

I looked like a schlump. I looked like a white girl trying to be a homegirl. Real homegirls didn't know I really was one inside; all they saw was some white little thing with a ponytail and tied sneakers wearing a too big down jacket. They didn't know I grew up in Brooklyn, listening to Red Alert and The Quiet Storm. I was into rap before it was on MTV.

All these thoughts were running through my head as I went into the store to get some milk and cereal. I suddenly got a craving for comfort food. I went to the Pillsbury section and considered the options. I could get the buttery cresent rolls, lots of fat, but no sugary sweetness. They seemed healthier. There were the Grands!, the huge cinnamon rolls. Eventually I chose the regular cinnamon rolls, the small ones I used to eat as a teenager on a regular basis.

I hadn't eaten Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in at least 3 years, since I'd moved into my studio apartment, and it had probably been more like 5 since I'd had them. As soon as I got home, I called my upstairs neighbor to ask if I could use her oven. She said yes, and 12 minutes later I was back downstairs, with a plate full of goodness and a cup of tea staring up at me from my coffee table.

One by one, I popped them into my mouth, mindful of what I was doing. They were delicious, soft, sweet, and cinnamony. I didn't feel sick afterwards, but I'm sure I won't be doing it again any time soon. It's just not a good thing to do. But I know now how it feels to eat a package of something in one sitting. The PMS attack went away. And my new down coat should be arriving some time this week.

Cosmic Music

I made a CD of songs I think kids should know, to play for the kids at my nursery school:

The Banana Boat Song (Day-O), Harry Belafonte
Cars, Gary Numan
We Will Rock You, Queen
Yellow Submarine, The Beatles
and a couple more, just 'cause they're fun, including a song by Harry Belafonte called Matilda. Know it? I didn't.

A few kids were really into the CD. I taught them the meaning of The Banana Boat song, and what the word "tally" meant (Come, Mr. Tally Man, tally me banana). One boy really rocked out to Cars, and memorized the lyrics. It's so cute to hear him sing it. For We Will Rock You, I pounded out the beat on my legs or on the rug, and they really got it. One kid said to his dad at dinner, "You know, Dad, we all live in a yellow submarine."

I put Matilda on the CD because it's a live recording, and Harry Belafonte has parts of the audience and band repeat the chorus a million times, 10 minutes' worth. I thought it would be easy for the kids to remember when they heard it. The chorus goes, "Matilda...Matilda...Matilda, she take me money and run Venezuela..." One of my girls in particular likes that song because her mom is from Venezuela, and they had been there in the summer.

So we played it every day for about a week, and then one of the dads came in and told me that he and his son were in the supermarket and The Banana Boat Song came on. That was pretty cool, but then the next song was We Will Rock You, and that just seemed freaky. I thought it was pretty cosmic.

And then the mom who's from Venezuela called me today with this story:

She was in CVS buying stuff, and she was distracted and almost didn't pay. She came back to the counter and apologized, and the cashier said, "That's okay, I didn't think you were going to run to Venezuela." And the mom stopped in her tracks and said, "How did you know I was from Venezuela?" and the cashier said, "I didn't, I was just saying that from the song, "Matilda". And the mom said, "My daughter has been listening to that song at her school for the past month." And the cashier thought that she was the only one to know that song, because it's not that popular. The recording I got it from was from 1959.

So now there are 3 references to songs that haven't been in circulation for at least 25 years, all within a week. While I'm not the most religious person, I have to say I think it's a sign from God. A sign of what, I don't know. Any ideas?

Far from Reality

I had a reality TV moment tonight. I was in a building that had an elevator that had doors on both sides. I pretended I was on American Idol, going up to the big room to meet with Simon, Paula, and Randy to see if I made it through to the next round. It was a little nerve wracking for a minute there, wondering what if I should kiss the judges or just shake their hands. Unfortunately, my dream was shortened due to the fact that the building only had 3 floors. When the doors opened, the reality of the parking lot was like a slap in the face. Guess I'll stick to teaching.

Public Transportation Day from Hell

To continue my story from yesterday...
I decided to take the B line and change to the red line at Park Street. I figured I'd be on the T for awhile; I'd listen to my iPod and people watch. I wouldn't be cold with my dress on because I'd be inside the whole time. The trip normally takes about an hour. It was 2:30.

At Blanchard Street the T driver made an announcement that it would be the last stop due to construction. We had to go outside and get on a bus to go one stop to Kenmore, and then we had to go downstairs to get on another T to continue to Park Street. At this point I could have abandoned my trip and just gone home. Thing is, I'm a Taurus, and stubborn, and I was determined to get that goddamn tea you can only get in England and Cambridge, Massachusetts.
There were so many people getting off buses at Kenmore. Oh my god, it looked and felt just like a cattle call. We all filed down the stairs like lab rats and finally got on the next T.

At Park Street, where I usually change to the red line, there was a T employee standing at the top of the stairs. Not a good sign. He told us that there was construction on the red line and to go upstairs outside to take a bus that would take us to Kendall Square in Cambridge. We, the lab rats, did as we were told.

I thanked myself for having the foresight to charge my iPod battery all the way the night before, and cursed the public transportation system of Boston. But then I had to take that back, because when I lived in Japan, I made a vow to myself that I would never complain about public transportation again, because I lived for a year without it at all. I reminded myself that I hadn't had any plans that day anyway, so what was the big deal?

Got to Kendall and went downstairs to wait for another T to take me two stops to Harvard. Went into the store, picked up two boxes of tea, paid, and went back out. The time inside the store was approximately 8 minutes for an hour and a half of travel time, one way.

Got back on the T and did the same trip in reverse, only this time we only had to take one bus back, not two. By the time I got home, my bladder was screaming so loud I thought I might have an accident. Tights under a dress are very nice for slimming the waistline, but not so nice for riding a T for three hours.

Got home at 5:30 and put my pajamas on; I didn't care what time it was. Had a very nice evening in front of the telly with a hot cup of English tea.

Bad Sense of Direction

Man, what a day. Started off great. I was invited to a Bat Mitzvah at 10:00 this morning at a temple on Comm. Ave. I Mapquested it, and read to go up Washington, which is very close to me, then take a left on Comm. Ave. Seemed pretty close. By car, 7 minutes.

Thing is, I don't drive, so I figured I'd walk to Comm. Ave. I don't like the straight shot up Washington, and it seemed a long way to continue all the way to Comm. Ave. I thought I'd go the way I know, also known to me as the "pretty" way. I zipped down to Coolidge Corner, and zipped on down Babcock Street, which has all the pretty houses and trees and whatnot. I didn't realize that was a pretty long walk to Comm. Ave. too.

When I got to Comm. Ave., it was 9:50. I was looking for 1845 Comm. Ave., so I looked for the nearest number. It was 1021. Great. Couldn't walk, so I'd either hop in a cab or wait for the B line, which stops every block or so. I waited about 5 minutes, and the B came along. By the time it arrived, it was about 10:05. I got on the T and went up Comm. Ave. and saw one place I could've walked to, and then another. And finally, we passed the place I would have come to had I gone up Washington in the first place. It was very close to the temple. How 'bout that.

Here's a visual: Take your finger and put it at the bottom of a piece of paper. Now drag your finger up to the top, then across to the left. That's what I should've done. Put your finger back down at the bottom of the paper. Now make the letters M, Z, S, and T all over the paper. That's what I actually did. I have a terrible sense of direction. In this case it turned out not to matter.

Got to the temple at 10:15 and didn't miss a thing. The family who was hosting is notoriously late for everything, and this was no exception. They arrived at 10:45. I listened to a lot of Hebrew. It was a beautiful and very touching ceremony.

Afterwards, I debated whether or not I would go home and get into some comfy clothes or just get on the T and go to Cambridge to Cardullo's to get my special tea, made in England. I decided to go to Cambridge. I'd be on the T the whole way, only changing trains once, so it wouldn't be so bad. Guess again.

Halloween 2006

I'm going to be Angelina Jolie for Halloween. See my family photo?

Only in New York

Went to NYC this past weekend and had a blast. There were some funny moments on the subway. You know how sometimes on the subway there'll be a random empty bottle rolling around and everyone ignores it? Well, I was on the subway and there was a full jar of peanut butter rolling around. Peanut butter! No one saw where it came from, and no one claimed ownership. At one point, a guy just picked it up and tossed it in the trash when he got off. I wasn't fast enough with my camera, but man, it would have been a great shot.

Another time there was a panhandler singing for money. Normally I don't give money to anyone, but this guy was busting out some classics, and he wasn't half bad! He started with "Under the Boardwalk", one of my favorites. Then he sang an R & B ballad I hadn't heard in years. When he started singing yet another sappy hit, I had to open my wallet.

He was about to go to the next car when a group of inebriated women stopped him and asked if he took requests. They wanted him to sing Happy Birthday to one of the women, which he did, in his orginial way. They all clapped, and he got off at the next stop.

I took this shot of a guy while he was sleeping. I liked the image of just his legs showing.
And that's my little slice of the big Apple, this time around.

Point of View

There's this big controversy going on over here in Massachusetts, regarding wind turbines. They want to build these big futuristic looking windmills and put them in the middle of Nantucket Sound. These turbines will be a source of renewable energy for Cape Cod, which I think is a very good idea. Opponents say it will ruin the view of the beautiful beaches of the Cape. I have to say, I'm not much into views.

Most people are into views, I think. They hike a mountain, get to the top, and say, "Look at the beautiful views!" They go to a hotel and request a room with an ocean view. They go to a foreign country and...you get the idea. I've never been impressed by views. I can appreciate them, sure, but to me, a good view is looking up at the sky and seeing geese flying in a "V" formation. I love to see a pink sunset through tall buildings.

Most of the time, I'm looking down, not up. I don't drive; I walk all over the place. I'm 5'1", so I don't often notice things way up high. I see insects, flowers, spider webs, small children, and interesting trash.

I think I don't have the view vibe because I was raised in NYC. The only views I ever saw were skyscraper views, which are pretty impressive, actually. I worked at a place called Belvedere Castle, "Belvedere" meaning "beautiful views", incidentally. It's the tallest place in Central Park, and you can go to the top and get a good view of the park from there. I guess I like city views.

So, as far as the wind turbine controversy goes, I'm more interested in renewable energy than I am in a different view of Nantucket Sound. And that's my point of view.

Watch out at Walgreen's

I came upon this scene in my local Walgreen's; the
teddy bear in the middle never had a chance.
Somewhere in Las Vegas, Sigfried and Roy are looking
for their beloved tigers.