Sunday, December 27, 2009

Something Fishy

When we were young, our grandfather came to visit every Saturday, or perhaps it was Sunday. He arrived with arms full of bags stuffed with smoked fish and bagels.

He brought lox, whitefish, smoked salmon, and my favorite at the time, smoked sable fish. I have no idea what fish that is actually called,unless it is sable, and I find it to be unbearably oily, but at the time, it was heaven.

He was a medium sized bald man, always in white dress shirt, and due to high arches, his shoes shined, were always untied in a very fastidious way. I can recall him laughing at some caper of my sister or myself, but mainly he appeared always to be calm silent and sober of mein.

Years later, I found out that he used to fish, go gambling and drinking with buddies, playing cards, and who knows what else, and having a lot of fun, but he never looked much like fun to me.

Because I was closer to my grandmother, he grew closer to my sister. Perhaps she feels differently than I about who he was.

He would come to our house and we would feast and then accompany him to the car wash where you could stay inside the car, watching the soap and water slosh against the windows. It was a perfect entertainment for small children, as it was cheap, we were contained in the vehicle, and it was of short duration ensuring that we were in as good a mood at the end as we were at the outset of the journey.

Today, eating an inferior smoked salmon, (which is not lox, but actual hunks of opaque salmon,) on a dehydrated unfrozen english muffin, I thought of my grandfather and his visits. I realize that I was never aware that those goods were expensive, not available in our suburb, and that he drove there from Philadelphia where he lived.

He never brought my grandmother with him. This was just a treat for his daughter (my mother) and his grandchildren, though my father also enjoyed the bounty of the delectable treats.

I was wondering where my grandmother thought he was. Surely, if she knew where he was, she would want to accompany him.

It's hard to find a good smoked fish these days.

Thursday, December 10, 2009


You know you may have taken the thrift thing too far when you look at the night stand, and realize you have bought the store brand seltzer instead of the generic seltzer you were buying before. It's called Zazz. Really that sounds like something a lot more excitng than seltzer, but it being lateish, I'm not sure what.

I've been trying to make a buck on etsy these days, ( so I have been spending money to make money,like that makes sense, but the thing is, when you are going to make something, food, or crafts, or an arbor (or Ann Arbor, little joke thing there) you are always missing one thing that makes your project unstable, unusable, or just parts with nothing to hold it together.

Don't start me on the craft stores, I am prone to wander in any store I happen into, and come out hours later wondering where the time went, but that's another story. The craft stores are just full to busting with intrigueing looking everythings in little packages hanging on hooks looking desirable. Then there are videos on the net telling you how to use the stuff as if.. and sometimes you learn a thing. But generally I just walk by and only get what I came for, but lately, they have just broken my will and I have bought all manner off odd ink and stamping stuff, and really, it's harmless fun and pretty much needs neither talent nor esthetic judgement, because they take all the trouble out of these projects. I have been using the distress inks. They make it incredibly easy to do what I used to do with acrylic paint. Instant antique papers and documents, photos and all that. I also got some Alcohol inks, but have not gotten into them much yet.
If this sounds like the woozy rambling of a sonambulist, it is. I am wandering in the night kitchen again, but instead of eating, I'm just stream of thought right here.

Monday, November 02, 2009


I was drinking my new favorite tea when Jeff walked in and asked "what stinks in here?" Since he is always asking that, I did not think much of it.

In fact, just moments before, I was wondering if my deodorant had given out, and smelled the inside of my shirt, and found no offense.

It was the tea! How can a harmless flavor like Black Currant, smell so much like human sweat? It's perfectly odd, and yet I like this tea so much...

Perhaps I should dash off a note to Twining's?

Sunday, September 06, 2009

Watching the Feather

Alone on a Sunday on the weekend of Labor Day, I think about the possiblilies for the day.
No friends have called with invitations, and He is sailing, sailing away again, as if he might never return.

In lieu of going out in the car, I decide to breakfast at the Regency. I can walk there in no time at all, and perhaps I might meet one of the neighbors to talk with.

When I get there, Chris, the owner/baker is relaxing outside. I get a nice smile, his curly almond colored hair peeking out of his perpetual baseball cap, his eyes, bright in recognition of a semi-regular customer. Generally, I only go once a week, it being expensive to eat out every morning, and I have a date with my neighbor Mari on the next street. She is busy as a rule, and this is our one time together, though she admits to popping in several extra times a week for her daily au lait.

Having exchanged pleasantries with Chris, I go and order my treat for the day, orange plum scone and accidentally latte instead of au lait, with a bit of caramel syrup.

"I'll be outside" I inform the new girl at the register. In fact, everyone is new, and not knowing the facts of their disposition; school, fired, just left, I have to suspect a new regime with none of the colorful regulars to inspire mutiny among the ranks.

I retire with my scone to a black mesh table under the basically unnecessary awning, as it is on the shady side of the street, and pick up my book; interesting enough and well written, but the narrator is back, and I find nearly everything around me diverting and interesting. My internal companion, speaking in my head, will not stop talking, pointing out the interesting and mundane in no specific order.

Chris himself brings my drink, which is when I can tell, by the inscribed feather in the foam, that I have ordered the latte, with espresso, instead of the au lait, with regular coffee. Some days the latte is kind of bitter, but today, with the inclusion of a heavy dose of caramel, is maybe a bit too sweet, but the dark gritty flavor comes through making it totally indulgent.

As I read, I try to measure out the scone to last until I have finished my beverage, but that's just not going to happen. The two flavors, melded with the butter and flour make a soft crumbly pastry, and it is gone though thoroughly savored, before I have finished drinking.

I love it when I get the feather in my drink, and earlier, months before, I thought I was getting special treatment, a little picture just for me. It is a bad habit my sister chides me for, ascribing specialness to myself. In point of fact, I do not actually think it a bad habit, and also believe myself to be an outsider as I am treated as such by the general public.

With every sip, I expect the feather to disappear, and yet, it remains, long after I am convinced it should. The foam on the coffee is very fine and thick, and I can not drink it separately, but combined with the espresso below. Towards the bottom of the cup, the feather, barely changed, the sweetness becomes cloying, but I must finish to find out the end of my quest. Will it remain in the cup, sitting on the bottom, or will it be quaffed three quarters of the way down?

As it happens, the image does not dispel until the last sip, leaving the slightest tracing of white in a coating that looks like the fur on an elk's antlers, velvety and uncompromised. I wonder if there is someone who can read foam as they do tea leaves. Of course there is always someone who will take your money under false pretences, and I don't really know about the tea leaves, either.

Reluctantly, having met no one else I know, I bus my dishes, and head home with only the narrator chatting away, and my eyes pointing out every stray leaf, and patch of blue sky as a possible photograph.

Saturday, September 05, 2009

Post Mortem

Let's face it. Both popcorn and french fries have a shelf life of say, plus or minus five minutes.

I came to work and decided that popcorn would have to be the breakfast of champions today.
As hot and steamy as popcorn comes from the microwave, it soon cools and only minutes after, becomes less fabulous, like a husband, or a diamond, or any other thing which is hard to obtain.

French fries are much the same, first you burn the inside of your mouth on the initial bite, then there is a minute or so where they are delicious, crisp hot oily ambrosia, and then, not.

We always keep eating them to the bottom though. We eat ever faster, trying to recapture the sensation of the first couple, but as the seconds tick by they become soggy, doughy, heavy, similes for the delight we craved when we started eating.

I got nothing else, I'm just calling the shots here.

Lost in Austen Again

I rushed off to the market this morning, tying my bonnet before I had even got in the carriage...
Actually, there was no bonnet involved, but something is afoot.

I was on my way to work at the chandelier restorator where I am employed, and saw a sign for a yard sale. There was nothing enticing about this sign, but follow it I did, to a sale of antiques on a driveway. I asked the guy in the tractor hat how he came to have so much not-junk.

It turned out that he was a clean out guy. In other words, an estate liquidator, or maybe it's the other way. In any case, there was a dazzling array of brass, finely polished, an old silver mirror and brush set, a good deal of depression glass and an impressive collection of black glass which is mysterious and wonderful in itself.

He had a bit of everything, and of course, I needed nothing, but still came away with a tin from his estimable display- Prince Albert, for my father who used to tell of his phone pranks; "well, if he's in a can, let him out!". I also, and for no known reason bought a set of Gumby and his pony Poky, a show from early TV, and what may have been a biker neclace of silver with a claw grasping a rather large chunk of quartz.

I left there to pick up a prescription, and going into the Acme (pinnacle of greatness) I was waylaid by the odor of cooking crab, that at 9 am, no less. Yes, just as in days of old, they were cooking crabs over an open fire, surely a code infraction in these fractious and litigious days. I tarried but for a moment, realizing that I could not take hot crabs, nor live ones to work with me, and sighing, moved into the building.

As I rushed past the aisles of artificial boxed foodstuffs, I came upon a tiny display at the side of an endcap that was comprised of English Foods. There was treacle, TREACLE, for God's sake, which foodstuff I had only read about in fairy tales. Also present was a sauce in an A-1 bottle bearing a name that was more like H-4 (the original) it said the original, that was not my addition. There were digestive bisquits, Devon cream custard, pickallili, Coleman't mustard, all antiquated and definitely English foods.

I mentioned it to the beautiful pharmacy girl whose name always escapes me though she knows my name, and she asked "So you feel like you are in another time period?"
Yes, I said, somehow, things are just a bit wonky this morning. She asked where the section was, and I said "somewhere around 6 I think, on the side. Or I could have made it up."

After that, we discussed yogurts, and I suppose the spell was broken, but it made me happy to have a little out of the normal experience. I was not, even after all that, late for work.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Dancing Machine

The other day a funny thing happened. I was at Frolic Wainright's, and we were leaving togther, me to fix my husband's dinner,he to a business meeting involving cowfolk, thus his attire of jeans, cowboy boots, a hat, and impenetrable shades.

As we passed through the parlor, a lively tune burst forth from the phonograph and Frolic, aptly named, began to gyrate, and to my surprise, took my hand in his.

It was Frolic who for years refused to take me dancing,. He hurt me by citing that our heights were too disparate, and worse, that I could probably not keep up on the floor because of his enormous grace and talent. He knew not at all, that petite as I was, we were equals on the dance floor.

So fifteen years later, you can imagine my shock when he dipped me deeply with infinite ease and grace, and in turn, he was surprised when I floated backward, following as if we were of one body, and lifting one leg high over his shoulder while my hair considered the floorboards.

He held me there for almost a minute when in an instant of inspiration I switched legs, kicking up my right leg, light as air, not at all affecting our balance, and as I rose from that position, pivoting away and laughing in pure joy of that short moment- he spun me and said "Not bad at all." and hastily added; "of course you'd have to wear heels, and I would have to wear flats if we danced." but knowing that all those years we could have been dancing together.

In fact, he never would take me dancing nor anywhere else, for that matter.

My broken heart ached as I started the car, turned on the radio, and going down the steeply turning drive, began to plan dinner.

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

The big Book of Aches and Pains

I woke up again with that headache that hurts so much my stomach hurts too. Instead of taking my thyroid meds, I took a Tylenol. I have not been taking them much, trying instead enteric aspirin, as it is an anti-inflammatory. I don’t know. It seems to have subsided. I have waked almost every night this week with the same headache. Of course, at the doctor’s today, I totally forgot to mention them.

The other thing I forgot to mention was the rash on my stomach. It seemed so slight that I put it out of my mind. Really, who am I, Oskar Levant? He was a great pianist and hypochondriac. I am a middling hypochondriac, and I never was really good at the piano. For one thing, I never could learn to read music. I also have trouble telling time, but that’s one you try not to tell people. That’s one that they have trouble understanding.
Also, it makes me sound stupid, and in my estimation, and that of others, I am just the opposite.

It is almost 4 AM, and as usual when I cannot sleep, I wake up and write or read.

Anyway, I am thinking about this stomach rash, and the fact that I thought it was just my normal weed rash which for reasons I have never been able to explain always manifests itself on my legs. I may be getting old and overweight, but the one thing I have (had) was perfect skin. My skin is silken, one man likened it to a velvet skirt I was wearing, and he told me that my skin was far softer. Men have always chosen to tell me how good my skin feels rather than how pretty I am. You should tell your lover she is lovely, or pretty or some such, even if she is not so to the general public. That should be a given. I have not had such luck. One young man, who thought I was asleep, told me I was beautiful. He never said such a thing when I was awake.

Wow, I am a giant digresser! So this rash, I am thinking, it could be heat rash, as I get warm and kind of sweaty when I walk too late in the morning. Or it could be the Black dog t-shirt I got from the Sal. The Sal is the Salvation Army, where I get a lot of stuff.

I was scared recently by a woman who was kept from flying with me. We lost the plane because it was infested with bugs.
That’s really all they said except that 3 different crews had refused to get on the plane.

The woman was a nurse, and told me a story where she and her family got on a plane from Ireland, and then several days later broke out in a rash which turned out after much medical research, to be scabies, small bugs which burrow under the skin. So I am thinking I have contracted scabies from this shirt, which, well, I don’t know who was wearing it before me, but generally people in Nantucket where the Black Dog is, do not have scabies, unless of course, they got them from an international flight, which at 4 am makes perfect sense.

I washed the shirt today, and all my walking garb, just in case.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Self Explanatory

So, I was tootling around the net and I found this great bakery, and I want to go but it's a good 3 hours away. Not justafiable.

Then, in the margins was an ad to recommend the best stuff, the best lipstick, (ok) and then the best bathing suit. BATHING SUIT??? Sir, I spit on you, and your advice!

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Dress for Success

I need to burn all my clothes. My favorite jeans don't zip.

I bought some crop pants and they make noise when you walk, and ride down when you sit. They are going back, like most things I buy.

I gotta go to a shower, and it's raining. That's appropriate.

No one is going to care what I wear. That's a given, pretty much.

I'm putting a load of it on ebay, but I don't hold out much hope because none of it is juicy couture.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Waiting for the Sale

I put some things on Ebay. Like everyone else on Ebay, I expect to make a killing with my junk.
The thing is, often enough, it is someone else's junk. This time, specifically, it was shoes given to me by a customer at work. I took most of the stuff from her to clear out her front seat, and because I knew I would get to the Salvation Army before she would.

She had some semi pricey stuff, but unfortunately, not knowing my teenage swag, I gave it to the little girl upstairs whose feet are larger than mine. I know of at least two Ebayable items I gave to her, but I felt good about giving her something that cost me nothing but would have cost her mom and arm and a leg. No spilt milk there, really.

I kept the rest to sell or give away but first, I put them up for sale. I have been watching sporadically for a week now, and we are down to the last few minutes, and already two items have gone unsold.

I'm crushed. Brand new shoes listed cheap, and no one is biting. There were the Coach sneakers, but they were not the "cool" ones I guess, and someone paid dearly for them, but they are not turning the cash over to me.

One pair of man made sandals have a big name draw, and I was up to 21 watchers, and I was filled with glee at all the cash I was going to make from this one item, but bidding has been slow, and I may just be able to pay the fees on all of my listings.

So I am wasting your time while killing mine, waiting to see what this lousy pair of shoes brings.

I should just get another job.

Speak no Evil

At the gas station, I rolled down my window, and told the attendant fifteen dollars of regular. I don't know, maybe everyone goes to Jersey, says fill it up, and leaves it at that. I wanted to get the best price, but I was very low on fuel, so I decided to get just about half a tank. This didn't seem like a big deal to me, but the attendant asked, fifteen? Normally in New Jersey, the gas stations are run by some big Sihk organization, and most of the guys have turbans, full beards and heavy accents. The youngish man at my window, though he had dark hair and eyes, had none of those attributes, and so I figured he understood me, and yet he was asking me to repeat my request. Fifteen, I repeated.
Fifteen? He said again.
One, five, I answered him.
One, five? he said?
Wow, I was in the twilight zone again, I was thinking.
Fifteen. I went back to the normal numerical request.
Fifteen?, he aked once more.
Yes, I finally capitulated.
Easy, he said, and proceeded to pump the gas.
Yeah, easy for you to say, I was thinking.

Later, near home, I went to buy milk. The man behind the counter at the local convenience store was friendly enough. He went to put my milk in a plastic bag. I was holding my own shopping bag up on the counter for him to put my purchase. He started to use his own bag again, and I thrust my bag forward again. After the third time repeating this mime, I said "my bag".
He said "I just wanted to see if you would talk".
I laughed, and told him that often, I don't need to talk, and things work out just fine.

It's interesting though, maybe a lot of discussion is what these strangers want from me. It is obvious what I want, and what is going on, but not talking at all seems to them to be aberrant behavior, but for me, it seems okay, particularly early in the morning, when I have not yet spoken to anyone.

Once, on a bus, I almost got into trouble. A black man sat next to me on the almost completely empty bus. I was nervous about him, so I did not say anything. Then he said "What, are you skin struck?" a new phrase for me. I was surprised at that and not speaking, pointed at my hand. "He said, hey, you can't talk, can you?" I thought this might make me less attractive to him so I shook my head in the affirmative. Unfortunately, this was just adorable to him, and he continued to make a pass at me. I mimed that I was married, by pointing at my ring finger, and though there was in fact, no ring on my hand, he understood, but still did not seem to mind. He was musing over our future together, when I decided to get off the bus before my stop, hoping that he would not follow me. " Goodbye, my girlfriend", he yelled, at my retreating back, "see you soon!"I had to walk another twenty blocks, but it was worth it not to be a mute any longer than I had to.

Some days I just don't speak on purpose, and some days it happens by accident. It does not seem to matter, odd things just happen to me, and that's all I can figure.

Monday, May 04, 2009

Short Sleeves

It was a very rainy spring, and Nory was stuck inside. She could go out to hunt for the ever elusive cardigan sweater, but inertia and a stomach full of bagel impeded her progress.

She had been looking for suitable sweaters ever since fall when she took all the worn looking and ill fitting sweaters (mostly from the Salvation Army) back to the Salvation army, so they would not be clogging up her tiny closet.

It's a wonder, she thought, that no one seems to think I will need a sweater in Spring or Summer. They are selling shorts and halter tops which are no longer a staple since letting her short body go to wrack and ruin, but there seems to be no place where an open front sweater can be found. It is as if there was no sea air at the shore, or air conditioning chilling one to the bone in Summer. There is a certain age, it seems, where pulling a sweater over one's head just does not feel right, not to mention the ruination of a questionable hair style.

When it is hot outside, it is always cold inside, chilled to meat preserving temperatures in some places, while in others, there is no such provision at all. Once in a while, a girl can get away with a hooded sweatshirt, all too available, but why no cardigan sweaters heavier than tissue? There are tissue sweaters aplenty, but they are designed to wear over not one, but two or three tiny tank and t shirts, artfully disarrayed so as to show off all the different colors. This adds cost as well as bulk to one's outfit and one's person, which is not so much attractive in a postitve sense of the word.

The other mystery is the short sleeved sweater. Why wear a garment meant to keep one's arms warm, when there are no sleeves? Am I supposed to wear a long sleeved shirt under that? And if that is the case, what do I do when I go back outside and it is too steamy for that long sleeved under layer? Frankly, I am stumped, she thought.

In point of fact, Nory had such a short sleeved sweater, left over from college. In those days, she wore it in winter as a sort of vest over a long sleeve t-shirt, under a jumper. She was nice and warm, and enjoyed this outfit immensely. Unfortunately, with age came a thickening in the waistal and stomach areas that are crying out to be heavily disguised. The peasant shirts almost work, but she never quite feels completely comfortable in them.

It wouldn't hurt to lose a few pounds, she thinks for the twentieth time that week, but how? The answer: excersize and eating less food , is anethema to her, and she puts on the hated hoodie over the large and unflattering sweater from her sister, and sits down at the computer.

Sunday, May 03, 2009

Rainy Day Women

It was brillig and rainy on the day Nory decided to garden. Oh, bother, this is not going to work at all, so she threw herself into picking enticing items for the town wide yard sale on the next week.
Lou was in the garage building a dirt sifter for the compost. He insisted on using two by four wood so that with the addition of the dirt, the sifter could not be lifted without the help of a superhero, but Nory left him to his own devices.

Since she lives on a private road, and the nature of yard sales is kind of hit-and-run, Nory decided to set up around the corner at her friend Mia's house, aka; the Castle. It is not going to be fun dragging all that stuff out of the house and around the corner to the other house, only to probably have to drag it back home, but that's the plan.

Now to decide what she can afford to part with. There is so much stuff in her house, it seems incredible, and yet, until they take her to the "home" it seems that almost anything might be needed just after getting rid of it.

Everyone has done this at one time or another, she thinks. Stuff you got rid of and went looking for later, was probably stuff that should have gone anyway. The memory of your old crap is always better than it is when you are looking at it clogging up your closet, she thinks.

Nory goes to root in the attic for possible items to unload.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Dizzy test #1

Lots of rain. Jeff is taking me (2:30) to get the dizzy tests. I hope I am not too sick like the last time. I think they have to try and make me sick to see what I have, but it's almost medieval, the way they go about this stuff even though it includes electrodes and machines hooked up to my head. Actually, maybe it's more Mary Shelley than anything else.

The worst part is waiting in that musty old hallway in that antique building. It's a fantastic old house on Pine street that has been virtually untouched except for the crappy wrinkling carpeting, since the 1800's. That's how long it has been an ENT office, and frankly, the woodwork could use some cleaning.

Anyway, the doctor is supposed to be the best in the country, but he is eccentric as hell.
If he's good enough for Julie Andrews , I suppose he's good enough for me.

The thing is, there is a lot of waiting. You might think that if they were running 3 hours late,they might tell you, but no, they would just as soon have you waiting in the hallway for 3 hours until you are all worked up.

The other thing is: the girl who gives the tests is this pretty red haired Russian woman who has incredible B.O.

It's bad enough being made dizzy, but to have to smell her in a small room in the basement with cold air coming in through the door to the outside is just hell.

You think I'm over sensitive?

Yes I am.

Still, I think I am entitled to my opinons.

Male Dilemma

I have to do a lot of mailing stuff at my job, I kind of enjoy wrapping unwieldy items that are larger than my whole body and getting them out in the world.

Last month I mailed 7 Murano chandeliers to Dubai and did not break one piece of glass which was totally amazing. It makes me even more suspicious of the woman on ebay who sent me a picture of a broken kitchen bowl I sent her. She would have had to hit it with a hammer to break that thing, but that's a different story.

I found out the hard way, that you cannot mail a floor lamp in one piece. I did it twice and they broke both of them beyond redemption. (especially the 1920's glass parts that were triple bubble wrapped and then tubed and then wrapped again.) How they broke that stuff is just crazy. I did notice the forklift holes in the sides of the box when it was returned to me. What that tells me is, if it is not square, don't try to mail, UPS, or FEDEX it.

You can go to and make mailing labels and have your stuff picked up right at your house. Unfortunately, they do not include the cheaper mailing options as media mail, first class, or parcel post on that site. I asked at the post office and they all played dumb.

Imagine a bunch of butch guys in those bad uniforms with bad haircuts (really, I am going to have to do some serious investigation on why postal employees have bad haircuts. Maybe that's what makes them go "postal", they hate their hair!!) Anyway, imagine these guys shrugging and perhaps fooling with their name tags, and denying any knowledge of what is on their web pages.

There is something wrong with that, but I suppose those guys never have to mail anything that does not fit in an envelope.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

Ear, nose and throat.

Went to the nose and thyroid guy and he says "didn't anyone tell you to have a needle aspiration?" And of course, I said no, even though the last time someone did a thryoid scan they stuck the needle in right there, without so much as a "by your leave".

Actually that guy did me a favor because now they want some more blood MORE BLOOD) from me and then the needle aspiration.

So then he sprays some decongestant/anesthtic up my nose and it goes down my throat and I start to panic because my throat is getting numb, and he is all "what's all the anxiety about"? as he opens my nose with a pair of pliers to a size just this side of a golf ball and says "put your head down and relax" as he is pulling up and out. OUCH OUCH OUCH. Let's see YOU relax with a numb throat and a nose full of pliers.

By that time, I am in full hysteria. OK, I'm a hypochondriac, but I really have a problem. Multiple problems, and this guy is so; ho-hum, I've seen a lot worse, like that matters to me.

So then he asks why I am so full of anxiety. You are just radiating anxiety there (in the chair that my feet don't touch the foot bar of). That's no way to live! He's telling me, and I already know this for a fact, that I do not care for the unbidden anxiety.

This sends me toward tears, but I don't bust out and cry, I just mumble some stuff about something.

Then he asks me if I exercise. Well, I spent the whole day digging in the yard, but perhaps that is not what he means, and as I do not spend every day lifting and hauling and digging I say no. He recommends that I walk a mile a day, which is not out of the question if my balance were not compromised as it so often is. I will do it, but not if the temperature is below 50. That's for someone healthy. No arguments here please.

I mention that I used to dance, and he actually says "tsk, tsk, it's even worse for someone who used to be active" Thanks, Doc. I said "You are tsk-ing me?" I cannot believe there is anyone left in the world who does that. He is India Indian but quite Americanized except for his lack of empathy and the tsking. I still cannot believe the tsk.

Another wonder recommendation is to use a neti pot 3 times a day. It is a small flower watering can or genie lamp that one pours salt water through one's sinuses with. It's not terribly pleasant for me, but it looks like that's a given. I mixed the solution up, (it has Karo syrup in it! who knew that a doctor would require me to stick corn syrup up my nose?) wishing I could warm it gently somehow without trudging downstairs to the kitchen, and yep, it still burns in my head. My whole head starts to tingle especially in the back of my brain section. It's like ice cream brain freeze with a kick. That's one thing about old age: way too much maintenance. I just did not need another routine to make it more difficult to get out of the house in the morning.

By the time I am 80, should I make it, I will have to stay up all night just to get in all the irrigation, brushing, flossing, slathering of extremities, grooming, makeup, wardrobe, inhalations and a million pills flushed down my throat.

Now it turns out that the tests they want have to be done at inconvenient hospitals and that for no reason I can fathom, they have to make the appointments for me. I can schedule an MRI for a brain tumor, but not anything on the thyroid. One more thing I must endure, only before, when they wanted 20 tests done, I wished they would schedule them for me. I managed that, and suddenly I am annoyed that they will do something for me. Obviously all this nose action has me in a tizzy.

Now I am typing while breaking in some new red shoes from Target. They are the only store that carries shoes in my size. They have some swell designer knock offs that are Palm Beach Tacky but the smallest size is one bigger than my feet. I may try them anyway. That will make me feel better.

I am also cooking a brisket. I was going off meat, but Martha had this recipe, and I do love some brisket. I put the wine in but I am used to a recipe with soy sauce. This had better not be a disaster.

Monday, March 30, 2009

The Kalishnikov Babes

I got this postcard today. It is obviously a send up, but still it seems a bit off. I'm not sure how I got on this mailing list.
Evidently, it is about an actor who takes a job to get into the "big time." It's another case of poor life choices meets bad taste is timeless. (the last a quote from the late Frank Zappa).
You just don't get enough bad art like this any more.
At least I don't.
It's kind of cold again. I was hoping for spring. Yesterday we had hail that varied form marble to golf ball size. It was quite surprising.

Over the weekend we went to a party with a 60's theme. Though most of us lived through it, few of us wore anything resembling our 60's wear. My clothes have not changed all that much. Jeans, boots, and a peasant blouse were pretty much the same. I even had a necklace left over from high school. I could never bring myself to get rid of it.

Harry wore his striped hipster bell bottoms. We were all amazed he could fit into them.

I fit into them standing up, he said. Driving over here was kind of tough, he admitted.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Driving Drunk

Last Night, I could not get to sleep. I came upstairs to the computer and viewed a couple of forwarded youtube movielets. One was of extreme sheep herding, the other was of a drunk girl. I am not completely sure she was kidding, but I thought it was stupid of her to post it anyway...
I finally fell asleep at about 4 AM. I had a long dream and this is what I remember:

I was at work, and there was a leak in the basement. The water was rising at an alarming rate, so we called the plumber, and when he arrived, we showed him the problem and left the building. I was with my boss, and we left Karen alone to watch the business.

We went downtown. It was not a town I know, but it was the downtown district never the less. We wandered around and my boss gave me some gaudy earring/hair things, and I clipped them still on their cardboard, to my turtleneck, and we continued our travels.

At one store he ran in the back door and quickly returned, giving me a pastel printed very large tote bag made of some kind of water proof material which had inside it, a matching umbrella. It looked sort of like a Monet scene but kind of loud as those reproductions sometimes are. I was not sure I liked it, or why he was buying me stuff, and as I was already carrying a large full, heavy tote, I was not sure of the need for it, but I took it and thanked him and we continued on.
I asked him if he had stolen it, as he was in and out in seconds, and he reassured me that it was all right without actually admitting to stealing it.

Eventually we ended up at a French restaurant that was running some kind of special promotion. I recall my boss speaking and waving expansively with his arm while holding a large glass of red wine in a proper if outsized red wine glass. He was standing, not sitting, and walking around the restaurant looking at the posters for music concerts.

I told him that we could leave, or he could order "off the menu", something not so pricey. He said it was ok, but next thing I knew, I was nearing the end of what seemed to be a liverwurst sandwich and the crusts were falling apart. I put the last bits down on the plate as it was getting messy.

The waiter gave us a cupon for a free ice cream. The picture was of a nutty Buddy ice cream cone that we used to get from the grocery store.
There was a giant Dairy Queen across the parking lot, and we went in.

At this point, my boss became Meredith Viera from TV. She used to do news, but now does a morning show and a quiz show. More money, less work. Good for her.

The inside of the building was nothing like the outside which was larger than a regular DQ but inside it was like a fancy gelato store. We were looking for the flavors on the wall, and though there were enough signs, we could not find any flavors listed. Meredith was getting cranky and loud.

Unfortunately, Meredith was very drunk from the red wine at the restaurant. She wanted an ice cream for each of us although we only had one cupon. I asked the counter person for an extra, but they said it would have to be a prescription, and promptly signed one with a prescription for an extra ice cream and handed it to me. We never found the flavors, and in fact I don't know if we ever got the ice cream. I think we left without it.

It gets a bit fuzzy here, but we got into a large black car to get back to work, but suddenly we were in Tucson, Arizona. I do not recognize where we were, but there was an empty lot with a person sitting like the little ceramic souvenirs; wearing a sombrero and a blanket, and sitting with knees up and head down, the man was sitting in an almost empty red dirt lot. Meredith drove off the sidewalk and onto the red dirt yard, and I hollered at her to stop so that I could drive.

I was surprised that she capitulated so easily. I was feeling tired and kind of drunk myself, but I thought maybe I could drive without hitting anything. When I looked up, the man in the yard had turned into a woman in native dress, frozen in a tableaux with one arm outflung behind her and the other cocked partially over her face. She was alarmed by the rogue car and was calling her children who were running around in the area.

I started driving back, and realized we were never getting there by closing time.

Finally, I woke up and was feeling pretty dizzy and tired. I decided it was best to get up and get on with things. The house is freezing. It is just Spring, but it is cold out today, and the heat in the house has not yet been turned on.

Friday, February 20, 2009


I have a new online friend. Maybe my only online friend and she talks cute. I have a bad habit, when I meet someone who speaks pidgin English, I imitate them thinking that they will understand me better. Sometimes it works. I used to go to cosmetology school (got my licence and all) (yeah, now you don't respect me any more) and there was an Italian lady. You really had to speaka likea dis for her to get it. I spent a year with her, and frankly, in the end she needed to take a translator to the test to get through it even though she could speak English, she did not always understand it unless things were mispronounced her way.

Don't tell me I'm talking down, I'm just trying to get my message across. This drives my relatives to distraction, but I am sort of convinced that it works.

Anyway, back to the online girl, I like her, and to be friendly. because sometimes my writing comes off a little too hard edged, I have started to be cutesy back. I can't tell anyone because then they would be nauseous and judgemental, but it's kind of fun masquerading as a nice person.

Really, I would rather confess to something worse, but that's all there is. For now, anyway.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Ex Post Moisture

"Your sister's on the phone!" comes the voice from upstairs.
"Tell her to call back later, I'm half slathered" Nory rumbles.
The thing about getting older, is there is so much maintenance one must do on the corpus delectus. First, you just have to shave legs and armpits, then just a light lotion on the legs, and by the time you pass twenty five, you have added 4 or 5 other things, and have to pay way more attention to flossing than you ever expected to. Anywhere after 50 and suddenly you are immersing yourself in potions, lotions, and anything to get rid of the jowls, wrinkles and dry extremities. You start to tell people things like: "a whole lot of stuff you are never going to want to see is going on under these clothes." Anyway:
"Get the phone!" again. "get the phone!!"
Ufff, Nory steps lightly across the wooden floor so as not to break a hip, sliding on heavily lotioned toes, and then hip hops across the thick carpeted hall, trying not to leave spots she would have to tend to later, and then skids onto the flooring of the library room where she snatches the reciever off the phone with slippery fingers.

"What??" she shouts.
"Well, if you're going to be that way, we can talk another time" barks the younger of her two sisters.
"It's just that he wouldn't listen to me, and I had to get the phone full of moisturizers" Nory says, "I'm too slippery to talk right now"falling onto the couch with and audible phhuff.
"Never mind, then." says Lili.
"Well, now I'm seated, I'm more receptive to comments"
"No, you put me off, I'm calling another day"Lili waxes imperiously.
It's always something, isn't it(to herself).
Nory hangs up the phone and flails limbs, willing the unguents to sink in.