Trains, Subways and Buses

My mother in law in seeing a bus travel up Clinton Road in Garden City asked me What bus is that and where is it going?

I had no idea.

That puzzled my mother-in-law as she was born and bred in Brooklyn. She was a city person. She knew every bus and subway line by number color and letter. She even knew which ones were express.

Public transportation was her means of transit.

I am a born and bred suburban girl. The only transportation I grew up knowing was my car and before that my mother and father’s car. Driving was and is my mode of commutation—even when I travel to Manhattan.

But my comfort in driving has also created my aversion to public transportation. I must submit to a schedule. I must have external times which are not necessarily tailored to my needs thrust upon me. I must hurry up just to wait. I find myself habitually looking at my watch calculating my arrivals and departures---it distracts me from enjoyment.

And then there is the “ick” factor. I must sit on and touch what complete strangers have physically touched—I fear their lack of lack of hygiene. I fear the germ laden expulsions from their snorting, sneezing, coughing and all other excretory expulsions that I do not care to ponder.

The final blow is the “lost” factor—if I get on the wrong train/bus/subway I cannot simply turn around and/or recalculate.

When it comes to public transportation, I am just not a city girl.

And the other day, for the first time in my almost 53 years I took the LIRR all by myself to and from Manhattan—I had no companion to act as  a buffer to lessen my issues. I sat one seat away from a man who rattled with mucus. I also had to briefly hold on to the unclean bar to balance myself before the train came to a complete stop. I checked my watch every ten minutes instead of enjoying my daughter’s company.

And even though I tried to convince myself that that train was a much better option than sitting in slow moving traffic on the LIE, I remain unconvinced. Deep down, I would have preferred the traffic. And the only solace I will take for having completed my journey was the fact that my mother in law would have been so proud. I am sure she was smiling down at me from heaven—I can even see it if I close my eyes.

Going "Prodigal"--Luke 15:11

If you are Catholic and attend mass regularly, at some point in the liturgical calendar (usually around lent) you will hear the parable of the prodigal son.

To sum it up:  A farmer has two sons: an older one who totally obeys his father and a younger one who is restless and seeks to explore that which  is outside the lines. And so the restless child convinces his father to pre-issue his inheritance only to blow it all and end up in poverty. All the while the stay within the lines child remains obedient to his father on the family’s farm.

Until one day the rebellious child comes to his senses and goes home—repentant, yet uncertain of his reception. But to his surprise he finds his father to be overjoyed at his homecoming. In fact, the father holds a feast in his honor.

The obedient brother however is not so thrilled—he is quite angry. The obedient child thinks Seriously? This is BS. I toil all day and I cannot even get a scrap of goat to share with my friends-- yet golden boy get a hero’s welcome.

 And like the dutiful son, until I had children of my own I could not see past the bad behavior of the prodigal son. I thought the father had absolutely lost his mind.

It was only when I became a parent that  I fully understood.

Because none of my children were perfectly behaved at all times. At some point each of them went prodigal—i.e. ventured outside the lines only to return with their head hung low in regret. Going prodigal was a function of a zest for life and a curiosity for exploration. Because sometimes the only way to learn that an iron is hot is to touch it—a simple warning does not suffice in preventing a blistered finger and an apology.

And there I stood----at the homecoming—frustrated, yet ready with absolute love and forgiveness.

Because no sheep is ever too black or ever too lost.

All homecomings are a cause for celebration.

And there is always something to both love and hate in all your children. Everyone learns lessons in different ways. It is important to remember that bad behavior does not make a bad child—bad intent does. Children become what they are told—which is why the telling is so critical. The telling is the  determiner. And a siblings’ choice takes nothing from what a parent gives to the other sons and daughters—a parents’ balance sheet always zeros out no matter what credits and debits are met along the way.

Because there can be no redemption without forgiveness. And only in giving does anyone receive.

      

A Pampered Cow

I overheard two women talking in June Nail. One said No matter how much that kid gets, she is always unhappy.

And thus the old joke applies:

What do you get from a pampered cow?

The response: spoiled milk. 

Medical Marijuana

President Obama said I remember when Buzzfeed was something I did at 2 am in my college days.

The president clearly was alluding to his former days of smoking pot.

He is the first US president to have admitted its usage (ie inhaling)—I have no doubt that he will be the first of many.

I have had the experience of watching friends and relatives suffer the debilitating side effects of chemotherapy. And only because it was not my place to do so did I not burst out and say Have you considered using a little weed for that?

Because marijuana has therapeutic and palliative properties.

And the first rule of the Hippocratic oath is do no harm.

I hardly believe that a little reefer could do a cancer patient any more harm than what is already legally prescribed.

More likely than not, becoming a stoner is the very least of their worries.

Relief should not come at the cost of violating the law.

And curiously the biggest backlash from the president’s remark did not come from conservative republicans—perhaps because marijuana is a cash cow that Republican big business would ultimately love to own. No. The backlash came from the extreme left—ultra liberals who resented the fact that the president’s quip did not lead to a stance for the decriminalization or the legalization of marijuana even for medicinal purposes. They resented the fact that there are individuals serving sentences right now in prisons all over this country for that which the president openly admitted to.

And I have to wonder if marijuana is the new “gay marriage”? I have to wonder whether the cracks in the cannibus laws in select states will ultimately lead to changes universally. Because I feel a shift on this one—the same as I felt on gay marriage years ago. And before heredity kicks in on my familial exfolliative glaucoma—I would like some increased options for treatment.

     

It Won't Happen to Me

An acquaintance of mine had only one or two alcoholic beverages under their belt. They were not in the least bit intoxicated. Their blood level was one hundredth of a point or two above that which is deemed sober—barely buzzed—nearly legal.

And so, as it was late at night and the journey home led the acquaintance through a few short residential blocks with no likelihood of encountering another vehicle, they chose to use their keys and drive the very familiar route home.

 It was something that person had done hundreds of times before without issue.

And again because the acquaintance was only driving from here to there in the wee hours of the morning with no moving vehicles likely present in their vicinity they chose to come to a rolling stop at the stop sign which was a mere hundred yards from their driveway.

And that is when the cop in the unmarked police car sought to fracture his own nocturnal boredom by turning on his red flashing lights, pulling the acquaintance over, and issuing two citations: running a stop sign and a DUI.

Because the easy thing to do is to think It won’t happen to me. The easy thing to do is to repeat behavior that has been done hundreds of times before without incident. The easy thing to do is to ignore borderline impairment because you are only traveling from here to there.

The hard thing to do is to accept that if hundreds of times have transpired without incident it means that you are statistically due—your number is up. The hard thing to do is to accept  that a million deleterious things can happen even from here to there—that distance has no bearing on the predictability of mishaps.

Which is why among the hardest things to do in this world is to surrender your keys.

And yet, it is among the bravest.

Because anytime you sit behind the wheel of a multi-ton vehicle and are even a little bit impaired, you risk it all.

Driving a car while impaired in any degree and in any capacity is a flirtation with vehicular manslaughter.

And the certain risk annihilates a wishful reward.

Total Recall

When the title and accompanying paper work needed to be collected for my mother’s dead as a doornail 1999 Mercury Sable, I turned to both my mother and my husband and said Wasn’t there a car loan taken out on that vehicle when it was bought?

They both resoundingly said no.

But I remembered it differently. I distinctly recalled a conversation with my husband 14 years ago while in the process of the car’s purchase whereby he said that since the financing on the car was practically 0%, it made no sense for my mother to buy the car outright. It made sense rather, for her to keep her money invested at a high rate and pay a car loan down at a low rate. Furthermore I recalled John, the seventy-ish year old Italian-Catholic most senior car salesman from Hempstead Ford Lincoln Mercury who stood about 5’7 and wore empire waisted trousers with his belt buckle lying west of his left pant loop being told as such.

As it turns out, I was correct—in every detail.

Because I am a memory keeper. I possess an uncanny ability to file minutia in my brain for later extraction. And my reward is the affirmation from people who bore witness to my recollections. Some of which are childhood friends—like Elissa who lived through the dropping of Lenten cans in Sister Grace’s class. Some of them are relatives—like my cousin Betty who like me can still taste my grandmother’s frittata. And some are strangers—like Mark Saltzman, Sadie’s son—the accomplished writer and composer who contacted me after he googled our piano teacher Miss Wilkie (Yes, Mark is real.)

They are my testimonial.

And while a select few may doubt the verity of my recollections, and others (like my family) may find it annoying that I may remember things that they do not; I remain untouched. My memories walk with me when I am alone. They inspire and direct my message. The clarity of my recall colors my chosen words. And when I cozy down at night, I sleep in peace. Because I have no lies to confess in the dark.

Everyone is a Little Bit Racist

I made a right, when I should have made a left.

And I found myself smack in the middle of a Baltimore slum. There was no sign saying Caution: You have entered an economically depressed high crime area. There was no statistical posting of the number of drive-by gun shootings. I instead gleaned the nature of my location by observing my surroundings: The brick buildings and streets were poorly maintained. The populace was comprised of largely African American males wearing do-rags or shower caps. Rap music blared from portable stereos. The women wore visibly inexpensive clothing and oversized hoop earrings.

I knew I was in the “hood” via racial profiling.

And part of my fear as I navigated back to the non-ghetto area of the city was that I too was being observed and profiled. Clearly my daughters and I were non-residents. We were three expensively dressed white women in a new Lexus with New York State license plates.

We, without a doubt, did not belong in that area of town.

Which is why upon making an illegal left turn at an intersection I prayed that in doing so a policeman would flash his lights. I would have been at ease to have received a traffic ticket and in return had the armed police officer escort us back to the low crime area where three white women driving a Lexus with New York license plates ought have been driving.

And while George Zimmerman was doubtlessly hunting for prey and Travan Martin did not deserve to die for whatever transpired in their physical altercation, the cure for biased collision is complicated.

Because truth be told, everyone is a little bit racist. Everyone is guilty of racial profiling. We cannot help but use our eyes to accrue information. We all engage in either healthy or unhealthy skepticism. And the likely first step in moving forward is acknowledging that harsh information and using it productively.

Technically Speaking...

My grandmother called her refrigerator a Frigidaire—even though it was an Amana. She also referred to all wallpaper as Sanitas, all aluminum foil as Reynolds Wrap, and all plastic bowls with lids as Tupperware.

And I am guilty of the same thing. All copiers are Xeroxes, all overnight mail is Fedex and I google things even when I use Bing. White school glue is Elmer’s and all tape is Scotch.

I also blur some professions. Every teacher who ever stood in front of me in college was a professor; all accountants are CPAs. Anyone who has the capacity to issue a parking ticket even if their uniform is brown and not navy is a policeman; and all technicians who work in the doctor’s office including the ones whose only task is to rip off the paper from the examining table are called nurses.

I make these references irrespective of paper certification with no intent to deceive.

And so while a label I might apply to myself would be a writer, technically have no business doing so. My bachelor’s degree is in biology and my singular salaried position was in a lab. The only material I have ever had published was an article submitted to The Catskill Mountain News by my Aunt Jackie and cousin Gary 20 years ago.

I am a writer only because I write. I am because I do.

Shakespeare’s Juliet asks What’s in a name? That which we call a rose would still smell as sweet.

Which is why I will continue to blow my nose into a Kleenex, consider myself a writer, and understand that a hospital head nurse is a physician as much as (or even more than) a physician.Because labels are only letters in a  linguistic arrangement; and papers of certification indicate not the degree of know-how.

Snack Packs

There is a whole host of things made small that please.

Among them are miniature cereal boxes—like Kellogg’s Snack Pack. The variety and limited volume satisfy the appetite—they keep things fresh.

There is something wonderfully transformative about choosing Frosted Flakes one morning and Fruit Loops the next. It makes breakfast an occasion instead of a 7-day cereal commitment.

And I was thinking the other day that I could make millions if I could bring that concept to dog food. 

Because Cosmo, my goldendoodle, has a very discerning palate. At all times I must keep at least 3 or 4 varieties of dog food—chicken, salmon, turkey and lamb—in the cabinet for his choosing.

I am obligated to rotate the flavors to maintain his interest. I pick out a kibble from a bag and wait to see if he eats it or turns his nose in disgust. And if he turns his nose, I must offer a different sample until he agrees what he desires for dinner—and it can’t be what he ate for breakfast.

Because Cosmo refuses to eat the same variety of kibble two meals in a row.

And the longer the bag remains opened, the more his interest wanes.

Just like a human.

Cosmo would do well with a kibble snack pack and a scratch and sniff option on each box.

Because all humans—including the dog-humans-- enjoy small neatly packaged varietal selections.

Good things come in small packages—including my mini-goldendoodle.

Seeing It Coming

My brother recently told me a joke: Two turtles collided in the road. And when a third turtle, who was an eyewitness to the incident was asked by the policeman to recount how the accident occurred, the turtle-witness said I don’t know. It happened so fast.

Not too long ago I bumped into a friend who was at a restaurant bar with her friend. She said Did you hear? So-in-so is getting a divorce. The husband found someone else.

I tried to remain emotionless at the news but my expression clearly said it all.

What had transpired was hardly a surprise.

Which is when the friend I was conversing with turned to her friend and said See. I told you. There isn’t a single person out there who could not see that coming.

Except of course for the wife--- and the turtle-witness—who both refused to recognize a slowly moving collision course in plain sight.

Bitch

There are some words we just don’t use anymore.  We recognize that they are unjust and hurtful.

There is a stop sign on their usage. Disobeying the order is met with adverse consequence.

We no longer use the r-word in reference to those intellectually challenged or the “f” or q-word to refer to gays. We all understand that the n-word is not acceptable nor any other noun/adjective that demeans any ethnic or religious group.

But lately I have been bothered by the fact that no one seems to be offended by the b-word in reference to women. Men and women toss that word around in the same flippant manner in which rappers use the n-word--except that rappers only tolerate the noun among themselves.

Women don’t even do that. They tolerate the derogative term from everyone.

In this so-called politically correct world the b-word still remains appropriate.

Jay-Z sings I’ve got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.

I have to wonder how Beyonce and Blue Ivy feel about those chosen words.

Because the b-word is the n-word—only worse because slavery ended for African Americans in 1863. And at this moment in time all across the world and in this country women are still slaves—ask the 3 women held against their will by Ariel Castro for 10 years.

Amanda Berry, Gina Dejesus and Michelle Knight were Ariel Castro’s bitches.

And what John Lennon sang in 1972 sadly still holds true: Woman is the nigger of the world.

Bitch is in every way a sexist epithet.

And the light bulb needs to go off.

Cicadas

I could run the one block home at night from my friend Elissa’s house to mine in about 2 seconds flat. It had nothing to with superhuman Apollo-like skill or the fact that I was running downhill at a 45 degree incline.

It had everything to do with fear.

I was scared out of my mind. I was desperately afraid that the gyspy moths that I could hear munching away at the leaves in the trees might fall on my head.

Because like most people, I am not a big fan of insects.

And here we are once again--on the blink of another episode of pestilence. This time it is not creepy leaf masticating caterpillars consuming from above. This time it is cicadas—giant slow flying dive bombing blind eyed creatures of disgust. Creatures that crash into my family room windows at night leaving carcasses for me to find on the patio in the morning. Giant buzzing green beetle things that rise from the earth like zombies every 7 years driving all humans from their backyards.

I hate them.

Even more than a cockroach or a wood spider.

And there is not a single thing that I can do about it.

And so I have no recourse but to sweep the lifeless and sometimes semi-lifeless shells away in the morning and wish for more birds of prey to tear the insects’ flesh apart--and hope that the dog doesn’t eat or play with them, and that Fall comes early this year.

Putting a Ring on It

When I heard the Supreme Court’s ruling that proposition 8 was overturned in California, I had a few immediate thoughts. The first one was Yayy for all those couples who are now free to follow their heart.

But my next thought went a bit deeper—especially as it pertains to any and all monogamous couples. I thought Wow I’ll bet a lot of gay couples just broke up over this. I’ll bet there was a substantial amount of gay people who thought Oh sh#* now he/she is going to expect a ring.

The new law prompted a relationship reevaluation.

Because I am sure that there were/are lots of gay people out there who were just not into their partners enough to ever marry them in the first place. And they hid behind the fact that marriage was not legal to disguise their true lack of commitment.

They told their partner Well I would marry you, but too bad for us the law forbids it.

And then the law changed.

Because people are people. And relationship issues are relationship issues. Gender has no bearing on affairs of the heart. And the trick, no matter what your orientation is, is to find the one who is true and values you enough to put a ring on it.

What the Eye Sees

The young Asian pharmacist  behind the prescription counter at CVC asked What is your mother’s date of birth?

I replied 9-15-30.

He then smiled and said Ah---perfect multiples of 3.

I saw Stephen Tyler in a televised interview. He mentioned that when he was in school he used music to help him memorize facts. He then sang a song which listed the planets in order.

In an interview with Oprah, Jamie Foxx imitated the provocative sexy model-like walk of a giraffe. He then turned his head and batted his eyelashes coquettishly prompting Oprah to laugh and say How did you think of that? Foxx responded that he sees humor in all things—it is the way he perceives the world.

And from time to time people ask me how I come to write what I write. They wonder if I work at collecting my thoughts. The answer is no—quilted thoughts are the lens I see through. The process is organic. I observe the world as interconnecting vignettes.

And I think we all see the moments in our lives through our individual gifts. Our talents direct our perspective. It is what makes everyone’s view uniquely unique. It is precisely why people agree or disagree-- giving us pause when others see or hear things we do not. We appreciate others who think mathematically or musically or with humor. We appreciate gifts that we ourselves do not possess.

And for as many times as I have thought or said my mother’s date of birth of 9-15-30 out loud, I can honestly say I never made the mathematical connection that the common multiple was 3. it is not the way my brain works. For me, the date was simply the date—and nothing more. Which is why I will stick to writing my blog --and I will leave the math to the pharmacist at CVS.

Not Enough Information

   

Peers did not have profiles. No one could be tracked down by a microchip and a satellite. Clues were not left in 120 characters.  The only means of conversing with another was either in person or on a phone that was connected to a cord inside your house.

No one ever knew for certain where any one else was.

Because there was no social media when I was a teenager. Social arrangements were made by best guesses and faith. The only way to stalk a crush was to actually stalk them.

Which is how I spent hours on end during the months of June, July and August in 1976—cruising for a cause. My girlfriends and I piled into a Chevy Suburban, listened to 8-track tapes of Elton John and Mott the Hoople, and drove every inch of the village of Dobbs Ferry pursuing a beige 9 passenger Buick station wagon whose driver was the object of desire of the leader of our pack.

The process was very inefficient and not particularly “green”—particularly when you consider that we had already survived one gas crisis and were driving around in an 8 mile to the gallon truck.

It was also frustrating. No sooner did we arrive at one location only to discover that the stalk-ee had driven off minutes before into the unknown. And when we did serendipitously spot the wanted vehicle with its carload of Archbishop Stepinac High School rising seniors, it was always traveling in the other direction—and by the time we turned around, the hot lead had gone stone cold.

In my day, meeting up with boys was like chasing the wind.

And while the down side nowadays to having the ability to track someone down at any moment in time is the ability to be tracked down by someone at any time, it is so much better than driving around aimlessly without a seatbelt listening to the same 8 track tapes for hours at a time—even if the company was entertaining.  

Socializing would have been so much easier if only we had had some cell phones. Because while this is a new world of too much information, it sure beats having none at all.  

Going to Church

I was seven years old.

I remember cutting little round circles of construction paper and then putting them in a Dixie cup. I then wore my pink quilted bathrobe backwards and tied my rosary beads to the belt. I lined up all my stuffed animals and affixed tissues with my mother’s bobby pins to the heads of all the “females”. I made the sign of the cross and then administered first Holy Communion to my make-believe congregants.

I was a little girl intrigued with the power of Catholic priests.

On the season finale of Nurse Jackie, a dying patient asks Jackie Do you go to church? She responds No—I stopped going a long time ago. The patient nods and says You may leave the church, but the church never leaves you.

Later in the episode Jackie administers last rites to that dying patient in the absence of a priest—something few Catholics ever have the occasion to do. Because only ordained catholic men may bestow the seven sacraments but for in the rarest of circumstances—like imminent death.

   

And like Jackie, I too do not attend weekly mass. Yet I pray every day and make an effort to accept all that is good as blessings. I consciously aspire to Jesus’ example—doing on to others as I would have them do on to me.

I seek grace.

And forgiveness.

I walk with God behind, next to, and in front of me.

In silence.

With reverence.

I am the same little girl fascinated by transubstantiation.

And while I have left the church, the church has never left me. It remains instilled. And living with belief minus the one hour Sunday obligation per week is a better alternative in my world than attending mass weekly, yet believing yourself abandoned.

Paula Deen

My father referred to the malady as: diarrhea of the mouth and constipation of the brain.

It well described the syndrome of a person disengaged in rational thought and then spewing its refuge uncontrollably.

A few of my daughters fell victim from time to time to this illness during their adolescence. And when the spillage of verbal mess nearly approached its crescendo I would often place my hand over their mouth to muffle the words. I would say Shut up—you are only making things worse.

And that was all I could think of when I watched Paula Deen self-destruct recently on television. Most definitely she had the malady my father described. Her brain seized and the discourse was foul.  I listened to her words and thought Have you lost your mind? What part of politically incorrect do you not understand? And where are your people? Don’t you pay someone to do what I used to do—put a hand over your mouth and force you to stop talking?  

And while some may have deemed my forced muffle as child abuse—I deemed it as child rescue. My forced hand intervention prevented the child from certain death. Had the child continued to speak I would have committed justifiable homicide.

And had someone responsibly intervened and properly coached Paula Deen, butter addicts everywhere would be a lot happier. And so would the thousands of people who had formerly worked for her and now find themselves gainfully unemployed--all because of her stupidity.

 

"Deserve"

Over the course of my marriage people from time to time would ask me How did your father-in-law die? The answer is: lung cancer. To which 99% of the time the inquiry shifts to: Oh. Did he smoke?

Because therein lies the prejudice and judgment—what the inquirers are inferring is: People who smoke deserve lung cancer.

On a beautiful warm Friday night on the first day of summer a 71 year old woman ran a stop sign and collided with my brother who just happened to be riding his motorcycle. My brother was not speeding or driving recklessly in any way. He just happened to be in the path of a woman ignoring traffic laws. Anyone, including a woman pushing a stroller or a 9 year old on a bicycle who would have intersected with her vehicle at that moment in time instead of my brother on his motorcycle would have been seriously injured if not dead.

Yet my brother, who sustains major orthopedic injury and is lucky to be alive, was met with the following inquiry from nearly every single health care worker who stepped into his critical care room: Why were you riding a motorcycle?

The implication was: People who ride motorcycles deserve injury.

Yet in the adjacent hospital room to my brother lied a woman who was left for dead on the side of the road in a hit and run accident. I had to wonder if those same heath care workers asked this woman Why were you jogging near the side of the road? I had to wonder if those same people asked rape victims Why was your skirt so short? Or the person who was mugged Why were you out and about?

And eventually after repeatedly hearing my brother’s wrongful indictment I could not stand it anymore. I felt the need to defend my brother. So when the physical therapist asked Why were you riding a motorcycle? I very nicely chimed in Or the better question might be: Why was the 71 year old woman who ran the stop sign and hit my brother allowed on the road?

Clearly embarrassed—the PT worker said Oh I am sorry I did not realize that she hit you…I thought it was the other way around.

I said nothing more—and neither did she.

And my father-in-law never smoked a day in his life. Lung cancer simply chose him-- just like lung cancer did not choose to kill either of my grandfathers or my grandmother or my father who between them must have smoked for two hundred years.

No one deserves cancer.

Victims do not deserve blame.

“Deserve” is a notion no human has the right to own. And the world would be a better place if thinking was engaged before speaking and all judgment was left up to God.