I was just speaking with my mother on the phone and she said she was cutting photos of decorating ideas out of a magazine earlier when she realized she had already cut the same photos out of the same magazine -- she bought the same magazine twice and didn't realize it. I laughed and called her "Grace," which has become code for, "early onset Alzheimer's."
My grandmother Grace did in fact suffer from Alzheimer's. And anyone who has dealt with this disease understands that it's equal parts horror, heartache, and humor. To appreciate the horror and heartache, you have to know a little bit of what my grandmother was to me. I'll just scratch the surface for the sake of this blurb. When I was very young, I thought my grandmother, my "Mom" as I called her (my mother was "Mommy"), was Lucy on "I Love Lucy." No, I'm serious. There was a distinct period of time when I couldn't tell them apart. OK, I wasn't a terribly bright child. But she was a superhero to me. She was beautiful, and funny, and worked, and bowled, and played golf, and smoked, and drank... Yes, these are questionable superhero qualitites nowadays, but as compared to my paternal grandmother who was all prim and proper and religion and discipline (in my eyes), "Mom" was nothing short of amazing. What's truly amazing, is that Grace (my maternal grandmother) and Alice (my paternal grandmother) as different as they were to me, were in fact best friends in their early adult years, before they were married. But that's a whooooole other story for another day.
So where was I? Grace was my hero and her strongest quality to me was that she adored me in no uncertain terms. She referred to me as her shadow and I believe I was quite literally attached to her at every possible moment during my childhood. So to watch this magnificent woman start to fade after the death of my grandfather and the onset of Alzheimer's was tragic. Thank God it was also funny. I don't know how my mother and I would have gotten through it if it weren't for the humor.
My grandparents owned a two family house around the block from us when I was growing up. After my grandfather died, my grandmother moved downstairs into the first floor apartment and my mother and I moved into my grandparents' apartment on the second and third floors. The third floor was a finished attic and was my bedroom. It was my mother's bedroom when she was in high school, was where my parents first lived when they married, and was haunted. Again, story for another day.
When my mother, grandmother, and I were living in the same house in the early-to-mid 90s, my mother had two of our local newspapers delivered to the house so that my mother and grandmother, both avid crossword puzzlers, could each do the daily crossword in the newspaper. At some point, my grandmother became confused and began stealing my mother's paper and doing the same crossword puzzle TWICE in one day. I used to ask her if the answers came to her a little more quickly the second time around, but she had no idea what I was talking about.
My mother blew a disk in her back around this time and after two back surgeries, wound up worse off than when she started. As a result, it came to me to tie up all the newspapers in the house and take them out to the curb once a week for recycling. Now, my mother didn't just get the two local papers for herself and my grandmother. There were also several weeklies and I believe no less than three different papers on Sundays. When I moved to Richmond in '96 this resulted in a great backlog of newspapers. I had braces at the time and fortunately drove home to NJ once a month to get them tightened, so I was able to help out. My mother took out very small bundles of newspapers as best she could, but on one particular trip enough newspapers had stacked up that we could build furniture out of them. I was leaving Jersey on a Monday and recycling wasn't until Thursday. But these papers really needed to get recycled, so I trucked them all out to the curb. By the time I was done, we had a pretty hefty seawall running the length of our property. The fact that this was done on a Monday and they wouldn't be picked up until Thursday put my grandmother in quite a little tizzy. I reassured her that it would be fine and that they needed to be out there. Being stubborn and Irish, with a touch of dementia, my grandmother had taken in recent years to lying in an attempt to get her own way. Whenever she wanted my mother or me to do something or not do something, she told us the police had stopped by and had told her that whatever action should or should not be done. We had a never-ending porch light battle with my grandmother that resulted in our front porch looking like a strobe-lit disco on any given night as we repeatedly turned the light on and off. As such, my grandmother told me the police had stopped by at some point and told her the recycling shouldn't go out early. Now, it really shouldn't, but I had no choice as I was leaving on a Monday. I hugged that dear woman, kissed her, said goodbye and drove off for Richmond.
Later that night, my mother called and asked, "Um...what happened with the newspapers?" I assumed my grandmother had said something, so I explained the whole story to her. My mother started laughing and said something to the effect that "Grace has struck again."
You see, when my mother returned from work that afternoon, every last newspaper was ON THE FRONT PORCH! The tied bundles were too heavy for my grandmother to lift, so she had to have made countless trips back and forth to bring all the papers onto the porch. My mother said they were everywhere. And when my mother asked my grandmother why they were on the porch? My grandmother responded, "I don't know. Amy Jo put them up here."
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My grandmother LIED!!! This beloved woman, who adored me and coddled me and encouraged me and proudly displayed me to everyone she knew, LIED AND SOLD ME OUT!!!!!!
It was hysterical of course, which helped stem my shock and sense of betrayal. And what of the newspapers? My mother had a friend come over and help her take them all out to the curb Wednesday night, for Thursday morning's pickup. So the stubborn old Irishwoman got her way, as stubborn old Irishwomen are wont to do...
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
30 Rock
I'd just like to publicly thank 30 Rock for employing Elaine Stritch as Alec Baldwin's mother. Hot damn, what a dame! They don't make 'em like that anymore...
That's Gonna Leave a Mark
I started reading this and thought of a friend of mine, but by the time I got to the author, all I could think was, "How the hell would she know???" LOL! Am I the only one with a visual of her walking into walls and closed doors?? I know, I know, it's crude; but damn it's funny!
"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door, that we do not see the one which has opened for us." - Helen Keller
"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door, that we do not see the one which has opened for us." - Helen Keller
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Twofer Tuesday!
My earlier blog was a little too serious for my taste (I loathe overly serious people), so let's see what else I can dig up...
It was the 4th of July 1981 and I was entering seventh grade in the fall. My father, a volunteer with the local Rescue Squad, was set to march in the Plainfield/North Plainfield parade once again. I was going to watch from squad headquarters (a choice viewing location because you could still see the parade from the air conditioned interior) and my mother was somehow charged with walking the dog that day. My mother has never been the most graceful woman on the planet, but much like alerting a child to something's value and warning him not to break it almost ensures its imminent destruction, my father's incessant teasing made my mother even more klutzy. To the point that she had a very difficult time walking anywhere in the 70s or 80s without tripping and/or falling. On this particular day, she tripped while walking the dog and wrenched her ankle pretty badly. I don't remember the specifics, but my mother wound up being tended by the Rescue Squad workers who were on duty and not marching in the parade -- men and women who were friends with my parents or at the very least knew who they were. My mother was very well endowed that particular summer and in a foreshadowing of my own sense of humor, was wearing a tasteful T-shirt that had a saying in large Braille letters across the chest. Anyone looking at the shirt would ask, "What does it say?" to which my mother would respond truthfully, "Let your fingers do the walking."
Bah dum bum.
Off she went to the hospital while word of what had happened got to my father and me. Mom spent the day spreading American Sign Language awareness and a touch of class, while I imagine my father did a good deal of shaking his head and sighing. Mom eventually came home with a large splint around her ankle, crutches, and less love for the dog. I escaped to my grandparents' house around the corner to enjoy the yearly fireworks battle between two of their neighbors. I was all set to hunker down and watch the insanity as two families who lived across the street from each other aimed fireworks at each others' homes and occasionally into the sky. I decided to pop some popcorn for the show. My grandparents had an old popper that could either hold oil in the bottom (which is the way I always did it) or could use butter melted from above the lid. For whatever reason, I went the butter route this time around. I followed the directions and added the butter to the lid. As best I can tell, the butter was supposed to melt, drip down, heat, and then cause the corn to pop. As an adult, I'm fairly confident I DIDN'T read the directions, made that horribly wrong assumption, and screwed the whole thing up. I'm sure the little butter reservoir was just to add butter towards the end of the popping to butter the popped kernels, not to provide the oil necessary for popping. So I added the butter, and nothing happened. And I added more butter, and nothing happened. I must have melted a stick or two in there and all the while the melted butter is heating in the bottom of the popper. At some point, I surrendered and decided to start over with oil. So I flipped the popper over to dump everything into the huge plastic lid -- the way one normally would retrieve the popcorn. Well, what I didn't notice was all the little cutouts around the circumference of the plastic lid -- that is, until the boiling hot butter dripped through the cutouts and down onto my bare foot. Holy hell. The largest blister I had ever seen immediately started forming across the entire surface of my foot and I started screaming my head off. My grandfather came running in and proceeded to rub BUTTER on the blister and I lost it. I never understood what he was doing until years later when I learned that prior to pasteurization, butter used to contain natural antibodies and was routinely used to treat burns. My grandfather, having been raised on a farm, would know this. Sorry I yelled at you, "Dad." (I called my mother's parents "Mom" and "Dad" because that's what I heard her call them. I've always been a terribly confused person!)
Anyway, I survived but went barefoot for the rest of the summer. I returned home the next day and hobbled about in unison with my mother who was on crutches. My father was left tending to us both and there's one other little tidbit....we both had our periods at the time and were crazy bitchy. I remember going with him to the Acme for "mouse mattresses." I had no idea what he was referring to. I kept asking and he kept whispering "mouse mattresses" with more and more emphasis. It was only when I saw him sheepishly approach the checkout line with a package of maxi pads that I understood what he was saying. I really had no chance -- both of my parents were completely bent!
It was the 4th of July 1981 and I was entering seventh grade in the fall. My father, a volunteer with the local Rescue Squad, was set to march in the Plainfield/North Plainfield parade once again. I was going to watch from squad headquarters (a choice viewing location because you could still see the parade from the air conditioned interior) and my mother was somehow charged with walking the dog that day. My mother has never been the most graceful woman on the planet, but much like alerting a child to something's value and warning him not to break it almost ensures its imminent destruction, my father's incessant teasing made my mother even more klutzy. To the point that she had a very difficult time walking anywhere in the 70s or 80s without tripping and/or falling. On this particular day, she tripped while walking the dog and wrenched her ankle pretty badly. I don't remember the specifics, but my mother wound up being tended by the Rescue Squad workers who were on duty and not marching in the parade -- men and women who were friends with my parents or at the very least knew who they were. My mother was very well endowed that particular summer and in a foreshadowing of my own sense of humor, was wearing a tasteful T-shirt that had a saying in large Braille letters across the chest. Anyone looking at the shirt would ask, "What does it say?" to which my mother would respond truthfully, "Let your fingers do the walking."
Bah dum bum.
Off she went to the hospital while word of what had happened got to my father and me. Mom spent the day spreading American Sign Language awareness and a touch of class, while I imagine my father did a good deal of shaking his head and sighing. Mom eventually came home with a large splint around her ankle, crutches, and less love for the dog. I escaped to my grandparents' house around the corner to enjoy the yearly fireworks battle between two of their neighbors. I was all set to hunker down and watch the insanity as two families who lived across the street from each other aimed fireworks at each others' homes and occasionally into the sky. I decided to pop some popcorn for the show. My grandparents had an old popper that could either hold oil in the bottom (which is the way I always did it) or could use butter melted from above the lid. For whatever reason, I went the butter route this time around. I followed the directions and added the butter to the lid. As best I can tell, the butter was supposed to melt, drip down, heat, and then cause the corn to pop. As an adult, I'm fairly confident I DIDN'T read the directions, made that horribly wrong assumption, and screwed the whole thing up. I'm sure the little butter reservoir was just to add butter towards the end of the popping to butter the popped kernels, not to provide the oil necessary for popping. So I added the butter, and nothing happened. And I added more butter, and nothing happened. I must have melted a stick or two in there and all the while the melted butter is heating in the bottom of the popper. At some point, I surrendered and decided to start over with oil. So I flipped the popper over to dump everything into the huge plastic lid -- the way one normally would retrieve the popcorn. Well, what I didn't notice was all the little cutouts around the circumference of the plastic lid -- that is, until the boiling hot butter dripped through the cutouts and down onto my bare foot. Holy hell. The largest blister I had ever seen immediately started forming across the entire surface of my foot and I started screaming my head off. My grandfather came running in and proceeded to rub BUTTER on the blister and I lost it. I never understood what he was doing until years later when I learned that prior to pasteurization, butter used to contain natural antibodies and was routinely used to treat burns. My grandfather, having been raised on a farm, would know this. Sorry I yelled at you, "Dad." (I called my mother's parents "Mom" and "Dad" because that's what I heard her call them. I've always been a terribly confused person!)
Anyway, I survived but went barefoot for the rest of the summer. I returned home the next day and hobbled about in unison with my mother who was on crutches. My father was left tending to us both and there's one other little tidbit....we both had our periods at the time and were crazy bitchy. I remember going with him to the Acme for "mouse mattresses." I had no idea what he was referring to. I kept asking and he kept whispering "mouse mattresses" with more and more emphasis. It was only when I saw him sheepishly approach the checkout line with a package of maxi pads that I understood what he was saying. I really had no chance -- both of my parents were completely bent!
T-T-T-Too Much Time on My Hands
Being home lo these many days has allowed me to revisit my Buddhist leanings that I had abandoned ages ago when my life got very loud and busy with the addition of Voldemort (The Dark Lord, my ex-LTR). Not coincidentally, an author appeared on Oprah last week discussing her book “Eat, Pray, Love” and I knew that I had to read it. Sure enough, it’s got me thinking again and remembering – remembering what used to be important to me and the path I was exploring way back when during my time in Richmond. All this quiet and thought has allowed me to start spotting the coincidences again, but it’s also been a little unsettling. There is something to be said for busily distracting oneself. I’m dizzy and excited and forcing myself to do some reality checks. But I’m also feeling somewhat raw and vulnerable. I have my own romantic issues to sort through and in speaking with a good friend of mine earlier this morning, know that she does too. She’s found herself in virtually the same position I was in when I began seeing The Dark Lord. She’s falling for a man who lives some distance away and who is separated from his wife and has two young children. I’ve warned her (from experience) that situations like that tend to lend an immediate intimacy and depth to a relationship that might not have existed if the person was 100% available and in the same city. She says she knows, but knows of no other way to explore this relationship. She’s not ready to throw in the towel because of the circumstances so she must instead forge ahead, hopefully slowly and with her eyes open.
Likewise, I was discussing my current, clearly futile crush with another friend of mine this morning. She asked, “Is there really not anyone in your geographical area that you’re interested in?” I laughed and explained that I’m not a dog – you can’t take away the pillow I’m not supposed to chew and then quickly substitute a bone. She said that’s not what she meant but that I tend to be interested in people who are not available – straight girls or girls across the country. Which is EXACTLY what I said to my other friend earlier – that she seems to really let go and be interested in the guys who aren’t fully available. I’m not entirely sure what to make of any of this. I responded that I like who I like and don’t seek out unavailable people. But maybe that’s my lot in life. Maybe I’m not supposed to be with anyone and I’m supposed to be channeling my energy elsewhere. Who knows? The only thing I know right now is that I have t-t-t-too much time on my hands!!
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
Likewise, I was discussing my current, clearly futile crush with another friend of mine this morning. She asked, “Is there really not anyone in your geographical area that you’re interested in?” I laughed and explained that I’m not a dog – you can’t take away the pillow I’m not supposed to chew and then quickly substitute a bone. She said that’s not what she meant but that I tend to be interested in people who are not available – straight girls or girls across the country. Which is EXACTLY what I said to my other friend earlier – that she seems to really let go and be interested in the guys who aren’t fully available. I’m not entirely sure what to make of any of this. I responded that I like who I like and don’t seek out unavailable people. But maybe that’s my lot in life. Maybe I’m not supposed to be with anyone and I’m supposed to be channeling my energy elsewhere. Who knows? The only thing I know right now is that I have t-t-t-too much time on my hands!!
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
The Girl That I Marry
The original Irving Berlin lyrics to that song include things like, "The girl that I marry will have to be as soft and as pink as a nursery." I spent most of the day exchanging emails with a friend of mine who I feel may very well have the one characteristic I haven't been able to find in a woman and the one characteristic that might reflect a truly healthy romantic relationship for me: I think she's the girl I can fart in front of.
Now, now, just hear me out. And yes, I know I ended not only a sentence but a whole paragraph with a preposition, but get over it. Because I think she's the girl I can fart in front of and I'm not ashamed to say it! I come from hideously flatulent parents, one of whom is dead and one of whom is thoroughly embarrassed right about now (thanks for coming down here to take care of me, Moo!) My parents made a sport of their gas. My mother has friends she's had since kindergarten who have had to listen to her toot through the decades. She must be one hell of a friend, because I can't imagine anyone putting up with that unless there was a good tradeoff. My father would routinely use his "skills" as a way to embarrass me in public. His fave move was dropping a random bomb in public and then blaming it on me. I can still hear the disgusted cries of the grocery store patrons as they unknowingly walked into his wall of sulfur while we had already moved several aisles away. Oh, the humanity.
But I digress. I was a hostage to my parents' noises and smells throughout my childhood and somehow rebelled and wound up barely flatulent. I'm sure I produce gas, but my body must reabsorb it or something. Maybe I get it all out by belching after a few beers. Who knows? But I am human and I do need to squeak a few out occasionally. I have one hard and fast rule however -- never does this occur in front of another person!! The horror! I can't even imagine. I've had a couple LTRs and I've lived with friends and lovers before, but I have never willingly let fly in front of them. One or two have slipped out and they're still a great source of shame. I know, I know, everyone poots, but for whatever reason, I can't unless solo. And it doesn't really bother me when someone else does. I just can't do it.
But this girl, there's something about her. I think she's the one. The one with whom I'd feel so totally comfortable and at ease and accepted, that I could just blast away. Where's my Kleenex? I'm getting all choked up here. Alas, we may never find out, my friends. She's really not into me that way even though she knows about the flatulence thing. It's just so hard to woo women these days. Wish me luck and if you're ever with me -- whatever you smelled, there's no way in hell it was me!
Now, now, just hear me out. And yes, I know I ended not only a sentence but a whole paragraph with a preposition, but get over it. Because I think she's the girl I can fart in front of and I'm not ashamed to say it! I come from hideously flatulent parents, one of whom is dead and one of whom is thoroughly embarrassed right about now (thanks for coming down here to take care of me, Moo!) My parents made a sport of their gas. My mother has friends she's had since kindergarten who have had to listen to her toot through the decades. She must be one hell of a friend, because I can't imagine anyone putting up with that unless there was a good tradeoff. My father would routinely use his "skills" as a way to embarrass me in public. His fave move was dropping a random bomb in public and then blaming it on me. I can still hear the disgusted cries of the grocery store patrons as they unknowingly walked into his wall of sulfur while we had already moved several aisles away. Oh, the humanity.
But I digress. I was a hostage to my parents' noises and smells throughout my childhood and somehow rebelled and wound up barely flatulent. I'm sure I produce gas, but my body must reabsorb it or something. Maybe I get it all out by belching after a few beers. Who knows? But I am human and I do need to squeak a few out occasionally. I have one hard and fast rule however -- never does this occur in front of another person!! The horror! I can't even imagine. I've had a couple LTRs and I've lived with friends and lovers before, but I have never willingly let fly in front of them. One or two have slipped out and they're still a great source of shame. I know, I know, everyone poots, but for whatever reason, I can't unless solo. And it doesn't really bother me when someone else does. I just can't do it.
But this girl, there's something about her. I think she's the one. The one with whom I'd feel so totally comfortable and at ease and accepted, that I could just blast away. Where's my Kleenex? I'm getting all choked up here. Alas, we may never find out, my friends. She's really not into me that way even though she knows about the flatulence thing. It's just so hard to woo women these days. Wish me luck and if you're ever with me -- whatever you smelled, there's no way in hell it was me!
Monday, December 3, 2007
I Should Have Slid
So here I am the night before my first ever surgery. I guess I should consider myself pretty lucky. I was completely accident-prone growing up but managed to avoid anything serious. And as far as first surgery's go, this one seems pretty innocuous. Hell, my dad's first surgery was 22 hours long, so what's 45 minutes??
I don't really have anything of note to say tonight, but I kind of felt like I should type something while I still can. Not sure how efficient I'll be when I'm hunting and pecking with my left hand. And no perverts, I'm not adept at one-handed typing!
So, if I'm not around for a few days, I hope you all have a wonderful week and that you keep finding the funny. Here's a nice little story from Saturday night:
I hailed a cab outside Time on Granby Street. The cabbie was older and kind of burly. We were be-bopping along on our way to my house and he asked about my husband and kids. Being a wee bit inebriated, I didn't brush his question off the way I normally did, but instead said that I used to have kids but that they were my ex-girlfriend's and that she's got them. He said, "Ohhhhh, you're gay.....that's cool." And then he added, "You know, I think I might be bisexual................we should hang out some time."
Where do I find these people? He then proceeds to tell me that he lives on my street and points out his house as we go by. Sure enough, I walk my dog by there.
"Oh yeah, that's the one with the Steelers sticker on the garage door!"
"Yeah, that's it."
"I walk by there all the time with my dog; we've said Hi to each other!"
"Hey wait a minute, do you run?"
"Yeah, that's me."
And so, I have a new friend. Who knows where I live. Oh goody! Sometimes it's safer to meet people online instead of the good old fashioned way!
I don't really have anything of note to say tonight, but I kind of felt like I should type something while I still can. Not sure how efficient I'll be when I'm hunting and pecking with my left hand. And no perverts, I'm not adept at one-handed typing!
So, if I'm not around for a few days, I hope you all have a wonderful week and that you keep finding the funny. Here's a nice little story from Saturday night:
I hailed a cab outside Time on Granby Street. The cabbie was older and kind of burly. We were be-bopping along on our way to my house and he asked about my husband and kids. Being a wee bit inebriated, I didn't brush his question off the way I normally did, but instead said that I used to have kids but that they were my ex-girlfriend's and that she's got them. He said, "Ohhhhh, you're gay.....that's cool." And then he added, "You know, I think I might be bisexual................we should hang out some time."
Where do I find these people? He then proceeds to tell me that he lives on my street and points out his house as we go by. Sure enough, I walk my dog by there.
"Oh yeah, that's the one with the Steelers sticker on the garage door!"
"Yeah, that's it."
"I walk by there all the time with my dog; we've said Hi to each other!"
"Hey wait a minute, do you run?"
"Yeah, that's me."
And so, I have a new friend. Who knows where I live. Oh goody! Sometimes it's safer to meet people online instead of the good old fashioned way!
Sunday, December 2, 2007
I've Heard This Song Before
Don't grill me about why I prefer your friend over you. Don't question me when you're not willing to do anything differently. Don't toy with me when you have no intention of fulfilling your fantasies. Don't use me to inflate your ego. Don't waste my time. Don't make me feel guilty for preferring your friend to you. Don't ask me to dance if you don't plan to dip. Don't talk. Don't use me. Don't. Don't.
Friday, November 30, 2007
The Worst Date of All Time
I hope I have the strength to type all this out. I may have to do it in installments. You may want to go grab a beverage.
I was probably about nineteen or twenty years old. I was living at home with my mother. And I had inexplicably found myself dating a man who was just off the boat from Ireland. He lived in Brooklyn, had a beautiful and completely incoherent Irish accent, and we met in the city (Manhattan). He picked me up in a bar and then we got together the next day and walked all through Central Park. Boy, that really glosses over a lot though. We met in a bar in the city. I wasn't staying over at my friend's place for whatever reason so I returned home around 4am -- but not before pulling a mildly inebriated U-turn on the West Side Highway and getting sideswiped by a cab. I then had to turn around and leave Jersey the next morning at 9am to meet him in front of the Plaza. "How about a walk through the park?" "Suuuuuuuuuuuure." He dragged my hungover ass from one end of that park to the other. And during this forced death march, I discovered that he had no idea when I was being sarcastic. He was the sweetest man I had ever met, and thanks to the language barrier, he thought I was the sweetest woman he had ever met and well, we all know that's not true!!
But hey, he was gorgeous (think young Patrick Duffy), and had the most beautiful blue eyes. I agreed to meet him the following Saturday night at a coffee shop on a specific corner in the city. We were going to go out for dinner and then go to see "Born on the Fourth of July." I couldn't stand Tom Cruise even back then, but he really wanted to see it.
I set out from my house with plenty of time to spare. There was some area around the Pulaski Skyway before you got to the Holland Tunnel that was essentially a tunnel. I think it went under train tracks or something. It was backed up, which wasn't surprising, so I sat. I knew I had factored traffic in and still had plenty of time. And I sat. And I sat. Eventually, people started getting out to see if they could figure out what was going on. About 30 minutes into our wait, word got back to us that there had been an accident at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, three people had died, and they were waiting for the photographer from the medical examiner's office to document the dead. We all surrendered to our wait of unknown duration and turned our cars off. After an hour, I began to worry about Seamus, my date. This being the dark ages before cell phones, I had no way of contacting him and even if I could find a pay phone, I didn't have the name of the coffee shop, just the address. And I sat. Somewhere between an hour-and-a-half and two hours, I began to worry what Seamus must have thought -- that I had stood him up. I would never do that and I would never want someone to think that I had. And then around hour two-and-a-half, I began to worry that Seamus had called the house. Doing so, I imagined he would have initiated my mother's panic mode because the last she heard was that I was driving into the city to meet him. If he was calling, something had gone terribly wrong.
Around three hours or so, we finally learned that the tunnel had been reopened. I was torn between turning around and heading home or just pushing forward to Manhattan to see if I couldn't somehow track him down. Because surely he wouldn't still be at the coffee shop.
It was like a scene in a movie. I found the shop, walked in the door, was STUNNED to see Seamus, and then a roar and a round of applause went out as everyone cheered my arrival! Seamus had in fact waited and a good many people in the coffee shop seemed to be rooting for him as he did so. Several people patted him on the back and I could hear others saying, "I knew she'd show" or "I can't believe she showed!" I explained to everyone what had happened and apologized profusely to Seamus. I was exhausted from just sitting in the car for three hours and really would have preferred going home, but I couldn't possibly leave him after he had waited so long. Besides, he had been drinking coffee the whole time and I suspected someone had to keep him occupied!
Since it was now so late, we decided to just head to the movie. It was opening weekend and the theater was packed. By the time the movie started, there wasn't a single empty seat. I had never seen a movie theater at full capacity. And somehow, in that sea of patrons, I found myself sitting in an odor web of women wearing old lady church perfume. Around the time Tom Cruise is in the VA hospital (in the movie), I decided to excuse myself and go to the ladies' room. I can't remember what was happening in the movie, but I know it was gory, and it didn't bother me.
I got out to the lobby and asked the popcorn guy where the ladies' room was. He pointed, I turned to see where he was pointing, ...................and then I awakened on my back on the floor of the lobby, with someone handing me my wallet and someone else handing me my glasses. It took me a second to put it all together, but then I realized I had passed out! I must admit, I do this fairly regularly. I have really low blood pressure and it's not uncommon for me to get lightheaded. I've dealt with it for so long that I can usually control it when it starts happening so that I don't pass out. I didn't even feel this one coming. I think that between the exhaust fumes I was inhaling in that tunnel and the hideous perfume that engulfed me in the theater, my poor brain just couldn't take it anymore. But according to popcorn guy, it was due to the scene at the VA hospital. He said I was the fifth person to pass out that day at that very scene. I told him that wasn't it, but he didn't believe me.
The folks in the lobby were wonderful and the popcorn guy helped me up and took me outside to get some air. It was winter and cold and just the hint of flurries had started to fall. The cold air was refreshing and was just what I needed. Popcorn guy propped me up against the wall outside and talked to me as I composed myself. He asked how I was doing and as I was telling him I felt better and was okay to go back inside.......................I woke up on my back on the sidewalk!! Poor popcorn guy got me up again, handed me my things again, and stayed with me until he was convinced I was okay.
I think I was gone for all of 20 minutes, although it felt like a lifetime. I couldn't imagine what Seamus was thinking! I shimmied back down our row and into my seat (and damned if the area didn't still reek of perfume - I nearly threw up!) and Seamus whispered, "Did you have a cigarette?"
Now, I was tempted not to tell him right there and then, but I'm usually not one to pass up an opportunity for absurdity when it arises. So I whispered very innocently, "No, I passed out two times in the lobby."
"WHAT??!!" was his very loud and appropriate response. I shushed him, told him I was all right, and that I'd explain after the movie. And so we sat. I can only imagine what was running through his mind this whole time. As soon as the movie ended, he hammered me with questions, and I filled him in.
Once again, all I really wanted to do was go home. I had really had enough at this point and my head was still pounding from passing out. Seamus was worried about my driving and tried to convince me to stay in the city a little longer. We kept talking about it as we left the theater and walked back to my car. As we were walking along, I noticed that the flurries seemed to be picking up a little bit. The city was absolutely beautiful.
I finally convinced Seamus that as much as I'd like to stay, I really needed to get on the road. I was exhausted, my brain had suffered two bouts of oxygen loss, and I thought it was time to call it a day. He said he'd phone the next day and I was on my way.
I'm not sure exactly when the light flurries turned into a blizzard, but I know at the very least that it was before I got on the Pulaski Skyway because by the time I got up there, I couldn't see beyond six inches in front of my car. The Skyway was a special slice of hell on a clear day, let alone at night in the middle of a blizzard. If I remember correctly, it was elevated to a height that could accomodate the passage of a space shuttle, the lanes were just wide enough for travelers on horseback, and there were no places to pull over. And so I soldiered on. My typically 45 minute drive that took upwards of 4 hours earlier in the day now took over two hours on my return, thanks to the snow. Would this day ever end???
When I finally pulled in front of my house, I turned off the car, climbed up the stairs, sat down on my mother's bed and began to cry. I had never in my life been so happy to be home. And my dear mother knew exactly what I needed: a hug and some soup. That was the best soup I've ever had.
What of Seamus, you may wonder? We had a couple more meetings in the city, none as dramatic as our movie date. I found it impossible to talk to him over the phone because of his thick brogue. The only chance I had of understanding him was in person when I could read his lips. The poor dear never did understand when I was being funny and I eventually grew tired of explaining and re-explaining everything. He was a beautiful person inside and out, but it had to end. I'm sure I had developed a crush on one of my female friends by then anyway. Time to move on! But I will always remember Seamus. It's a shame I associate such a lovely man with The Worst Date of All Time!
I was probably about nineteen or twenty years old. I was living at home with my mother. And I had inexplicably found myself dating a man who was just off the boat from Ireland. He lived in Brooklyn, had a beautiful and completely incoherent Irish accent, and we met in the city (Manhattan). He picked me up in a bar and then we got together the next day and walked all through Central Park. Boy, that really glosses over a lot though. We met in a bar in the city. I wasn't staying over at my friend's place for whatever reason so I returned home around 4am -- but not before pulling a mildly inebriated U-turn on the West Side Highway and getting sideswiped by a cab. I then had to turn around and leave Jersey the next morning at 9am to meet him in front of the Plaza. "How about a walk through the park?" "Suuuuuuuuuuuure." He dragged my hungover ass from one end of that park to the other. And during this forced death march, I discovered that he had no idea when I was being sarcastic. He was the sweetest man I had ever met, and thanks to the language barrier, he thought I was the sweetest woman he had ever met and well, we all know that's not true!!
But hey, he was gorgeous (think young Patrick Duffy), and had the most beautiful blue eyes. I agreed to meet him the following Saturday night at a coffee shop on a specific corner in the city. We were going to go out for dinner and then go to see "Born on the Fourth of July." I couldn't stand Tom Cruise even back then, but he really wanted to see it.
I set out from my house with plenty of time to spare. There was some area around the Pulaski Skyway before you got to the Holland Tunnel that was essentially a tunnel. I think it went under train tracks or something. It was backed up, which wasn't surprising, so I sat. I knew I had factored traffic in and still had plenty of time. And I sat. And I sat. Eventually, people started getting out to see if they could figure out what was going on. About 30 minutes into our wait, word got back to us that there had been an accident at the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, three people had died, and they were waiting for the photographer from the medical examiner's office to document the dead. We all surrendered to our wait of unknown duration and turned our cars off. After an hour, I began to worry about Seamus, my date. This being the dark ages before cell phones, I had no way of contacting him and even if I could find a pay phone, I didn't have the name of the coffee shop, just the address. And I sat. Somewhere between an hour-and-a-half and two hours, I began to worry what Seamus must have thought -- that I had stood him up. I would never do that and I would never want someone to think that I had. And then around hour two-and-a-half, I began to worry that Seamus had called the house. Doing so, I imagined he would have initiated my mother's panic mode because the last she heard was that I was driving into the city to meet him. If he was calling, something had gone terribly wrong.
Around three hours or so, we finally learned that the tunnel had been reopened. I was torn between turning around and heading home or just pushing forward to Manhattan to see if I couldn't somehow track him down. Because surely he wouldn't still be at the coffee shop.
It was like a scene in a movie. I found the shop, walked in the door, was STUNNED to see Seamus, and then a roar and a round of applause went out as everyone cheered my arrival! Seamus had in fact waited and a good many people in the coffee shop seemed to be rooting for him as he did so. Several people patted him on the back and I could hear others saying, "I knew she'd show" or "I can't believe she showed!" I explained to everyone what had happened and apologized profusely to Seamus. I was exhausted from just sitting in the car for three hours and really would have preferred going home, but I couldn't possibly leave him after he had waited so long. Besides, he had been drinking coffee the whole time and I suspected someone had to keep him occupied!
Since it was now so late, we decided to just head to the movie. It was opening weekend and the theater was packed. By the time the movie started, there wasn't a single empty seat. I had never seen a movie theater at full capacity. And somehow, in that sea of patrons, I found myself sitting in an odor web of women wearing old lady church perfume. Around the time Tom Cruise is in the VA hospital (in the movie), I decided to excuse myself and go to the ladies' room. I can't remember what was happening in the movie, but I know it was gory, and it didn't bother me.
I got out to the lobby and asked the popcorn guy where the ladies' room was. He pointed, I turned to see where he was pointing, ...................and then I awakened on my back on the floor of the lobby, with someone handing me my wallet and someone else handing me my glasses. It took me a second to put it all together, but then I realized I had passed out! I must admit, I do this fairly regularly. I have really low blood pressure and it's not uncommon for me to get lightheaded. I've dealt with it for so long that I can usually control it when it starts happening so that I don't pass out. I didn't even feel this one coming. I think that between the exhaust fumes I was inhaling in that tunnel and the hideous perfume that engulfed me in the theater, my poor brain just couldn't take it anymore. But according to popcorn guy, it was due to the scene at the VA hospital. He said I was the fifth person to pass out that day at that very scene. I told him that wasn't it, but he didn't believe me.
The folks in the lobby were wonderful and the popcorn guy helped me up and took me outside to get some air. It was winter and cold and just the hint of flurries had started to fall. The cold air was refreshing and was just what I needed. Popcorn guy propped me up against the wall outside and talked to me as I composed myself. He asked how I was doing and as I was telling him I felt better and was okay to go back inside.......................I woke up on my back on the sidewalk!! Poor popcorn guy got me up again, handed me my things again, and stayed with me until he was convinced I was okay.
I think I was gone for all of 20 minutes, although it felt like a lifetime. I couldn't imagine what Seamus was thinking! I shimmied back down our row and into my seat (and damned if the area didn't still reek of perfume - I nearly threw up!) and Seamus whispered, "Did you have a cigarette?"
Now, I was tempted not to tell him right there and then, but I'm usually not one to pass up an opportunity for absurdity when it arises. So I whispered very innocently, "No, I passed out two times in the lobby."
"WHAT??!!" was his very loud and appropriate response. I shushed him, told him I was all right, and that I'd explain after the movie. And so we sat. I can only imagine what was running through his mind this whole time. As soon as the movie ended, he hammered me with questions, and I filled him in.
Once again, all I really wanted to do was go home. I had really had enough at this point and my head was still pounding from passing out. Seamus was worried about my driving and tried to convince me to stay in the city a little longer. We kept talking about it as we left the theater and walked back to my car. As we were walking along, I noticed that the flurries seemed to be picking up a little bit. The city was absolutely beautiful.
I finally convinced Seamus that as much as I'd like to stay, I really needed to get on the road. I was exhausted, my brain had suffered two bouts of oxygen loss, and I thought it was time to call it a day. He said he'd phone the next day and I was on my way.
I'm not sure exactly when the light flurries turned into a blizzard, but I know at the very least that it was before I got on the Pulaski Skyway because by the time I got up there, I couldn't see beyond six inches in front of my car. The Skyway was a special slice of hell on a clear day, let alone at night in the middle of a blizzard. If I remember correctly, it was elevated to a height that could accomodate the passage of a space shuttle, the lanes were just wide enough for travelers on horseback, and there were no places to pull over. And so I soldiered on. My typically 45 minute drive that took upwards of 4 hours earlier in the day now took over two hours on my return, thanks to the snow. Would this day ever end???
When I finally pulled in front of my house, I turned off the car, climbed up the stairs, sat down on my mother's bed and began to cry. I had never in my life been so happy to be home. And my dear mother knew exactly what I needed: a hug and some soup. That was the best soup I've ever had.
What of Seamus, you may wonder? We had a couple more meetings in the city, none as dramatic as our movie date. I found it impossible to talk to him over the phone because of his thick brogue. The only chance I had of understanding him was in person when I could read his lips. The poor dear never did understand when I was being funny and I eventually grew tired of explaining and re-explaining everything. He was a beautiful person inside and out, but it had to end. I'm sure I had developed a crush on one of my female friends by then anyway. Time to move on! But I will always remember Seamus. It's a shame I associate such a lovely man with The Worst Date of All Time!
The End??
Son of a gun, it's the last day of November! Hence, the end of National Blog Posting Month. I have to say, I have mixed feelings about this. For the most part, I really did like having an excuse to write every day. Most of the posts seemed almost effortless when I thought of a topic and I enjoyed the chance to air out some stories and participate in some word play. However, there were days, most notably yesterday, when I had absolutey nothing to say. Fortunately (or unfortunately depending on your view!) those days were few and far between.
I was surprised to discover that I'm much more private than I ever would have thought. Most of the pieces were not serious, as I discovered I didn't really want to delve deep into my psyche in public. I've been double-posting these blogs on my Myspace page and knowing my audience over there limited much of what I was willing to divulge. Part of me would like that to change because I'd like to write my way through different feelings and emotions, not only for myself but for others who may take something away from it. I've thoroughly enjoyed the comments my MS buddies have left me (and the ones Gloria and Monica have left here) and am curious what everyone would have to say if I explored more serious topics. I guess we'll have to wait and see.
I would like to keep this going. Alas, I'm having surgery on my arm on Tuesday and may be out of commission for a while. Not sure how efficiently I can type with just my left arm!
So, I think I should go out with a bang. Not in this post, but in the one that follows. Think of it as the last ten minutes of a fireworks display.
And thank you dear readers, whoever you are, for reading my unsolicited words and views. I greatly appreciate it!
I was surprised to discover that I'm much more private than I ever would have thought. Most of the pieces were not serious, as I discovered I didn't really want to delve deep into my psyche in public. I've been double-posting these blogs on my Myspace page and knowing my audience over there limited much of what I was willing to divulge. Part of me would like that to change because I'd like to write my way through different feelings and emotions, not only for myself but for others who may take something away from it. I've thoroughly enjoyed the comments my MS buddies have left me (and the ones Gloria and Monica have left here) and am curious what everyone would have to say if I explored more serious topics. I guess we'll have to wait and see.
I would like to keep this going. Alas, I'm having surgery on my arm on Tuesday and may be out of commission for a while. Not sure how efficiently I can type with just my left arm!
So, I think I should go out with a bang. Not in this post, but in the one that follows. Think of it as the last ten minutes of a fireworks display.
And thank you dear readers, whoever you are, for reading my unsolicited words and views. I greatly appreciate it!
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