Fit in this?????......
YES!!!!!!!!
Friday, June 30, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Going Postal (WARNING - MANY BAD WORDS)
I understand. Why. Why people go into post offices with a shotgun and gun down everyone in sight. For me, the source of my firearm fantasy was one very aggressive and nasty postal employee who was standing in the common area answering questions.
I went to the post office. My post office. The local post office just blocks from my house. To put in a change of address. Logical person that I am, I thought if I walked the form over to MY LOCAL post office, I could hand it to a person and be assured that my mail would actually be forwarded. But NOOOOOOOOO. The overly aggressive postal employee informed me I had to put it in the mailbox. Any mailbox would do. I explained that the very post office we were standing in was MY LOCAL POST OFFICE!!!!!, but she didn't care. I had to put it in any mailbox - she even pointed to the mail box in the VERY POST OFFICE I WAS STANDING IN and told me just to drop it in. I asked if I could just hand it in to one of the clerks at one of the windows and she practically blocked my path and reiterated her "put it in the box" mantra.
Of course, I was so blown away by the illogical incompetence of what had transpired that I forgot to drop the change of address form in the mail box of the FUCKING POST OFFICE BOX THAT IS "MY FUCKING POST OFFICE" and ended up putting it in a mailbox uptown, where I was meeting the Martini girls for our almost last "martini date".
You may think I am overreacting to the post office experience, but no, I am not. Because this came right after the HSBC "need address verification to open an online account even though I have a regular bank account in one of your banks and you can see that as you are telling me to send a copy of my last statement" experience.
I actually have to send a copy of my bank statement so they can see I am the same person that spent twenty minutes on the phone revealing things my husband doesn't even know - my first school, my best friend in school, my mother's middle name, to verify that am who I say I am.
Given I am moving out of the country in exactly 11 days and have a "to do" list four pages long, I don't need any more "to do" things, I have enough thank you. What I need is for people to help me do what I need to do quickly with a minimum of stupidity. Perhaps that is asking too much...........hence the shotgun fantasy.
I went to the post office. My post office. The local post office just blocks from my house. To put in a change of address. Logical person that I am, I thought if I walked the form over to MY LOCAL post office, I could hand it to a person and be assured that my mail would actually be forwarded. But NOOOOOOOOO. The overly aggressive postal employee informed me I had to put it in the mailbox. Any mailbox would do. I explained that the very post office we were standing in was MY LOCAL POST OFFICE!!!!!, but she didn't care. I had to put it in any mailbox - she even pointed to the mail box in the VERY POST OFFICE I WAS STANDING IN and told me just to drop it in. I asked if I could just hand it in to one of the clerks at one of the windows and she practically blocked my path and reiterated her "put it in the box" mantra.
Of course, I was so blown away by the illogical incompetence of what had transpired that I forgot to drop the change of address form in the mail box of the FUCKING POST OFFICE BOX THAT IS "MY FUCKING POST OFFICE" and ended up putting it in a mailbox uptown, where I was meeting the Martini girls for our almost last "martini date".
You may think I am overreacting to the post office experience, but no, I am not. Because this came right after the HSBC "need address verification to open an online account even though I have a regular bank account in one of your banks and you can see that as you are telling me to send a copy of my last statement" experience.
I actually have to send a copy of my bank statement so they can see I am the same person that spent twenty minutes on the phone revealing things my husband doesn't even know - my first school, my best friend in school, my mother's middle name, to verify that am who I say I am.
Given I am moving out of the country in exactly 11 days and have a "to do" list four pages long, I don't need any more "to do" things, I have enough thank you. What I need is for people to help me do what I need to do quickly with a minimum of stupidity. Perhaps that is asking too much...........hence the shotgun fantasy.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Saturday, June 24, 2006
"I Know Where They Come From"
The other night we had dinner with a very smart and adorable five year old. After successfully charming the waiter into fetching her various things from the kitchen, she set her sights on me. Her mother had just explained that we were adopting a baby from China.
Her: Why don't you make a baby?
Me: Well, some people make babies and some people adopt babies.
Her: I know where babies come from.....you know, down there.
She then stands up in the booth and proceeds to do a little bump and grind to make her point. She sat down.
Her: Where are her parents and why don't they want her?
Me: Well, I don't know where her parents are. I do know her parents can't take care of her.
Her: What if when you get there they want her back?
Me: We would never take her away from her parents if they wanted her.
Her: But then you wouldn't have a baby.
Well, not really. If that were to happen we would be given another child, one of the thousands abandoned each year. But I couldn't tell that to a five year old.
I couldn't tell a five year old that it was this child's parents who left her in front of the orphanage, or in a market, or in park, or just left of the side of the road. Because they wanted a boy.
I couldn't tell her that in China, couples can only have one child. Actually, if their first child is a girl, they can try for a boy. But if that child turns out to be a girl, they must give her up or face severe fines, fines too great for most of the rural families who are in this situation.
I couldn't tell a five year old that had she been born in China, she may have been one of these girls.
Her: Why don't you make a baby?
Me: Well, some people make babies and some people adopt babies.
Her: I know where babies come from.....you know, down there.
She then stands up in the booth and proceeds to do a little bump and grind to make her point. She sat down.
Her: Where are her parents and why don't they want her?
Me: Well, I don't know where her parents are. I do know her parents can't take care of her.
Her: What if when you get there they want her back?
Me: We would never take her away from her parents if they wanted her.
Her: But then you wouldn't have a baby.
Well, not really. If that were to happen we would be given another child, one of the thousands abandoned each year. But I couldn't tell that to a five year old.
I couldn't tell a five year old that it was this child's parents who left her in front of the orphanage, or in a market, or in park, or just left of the side of the road. Because they wanted a boy.
I couldn't tell her that in China, couples can only have one child. Actually, if their first child is a girl, they can try for a boy. But if that child turns out to be a girl, they must give her up or face severe fines, fines too great for most of the rural families who are in this situation.
I couldn't tell a five year old that had she been born in China, she may have been one of these girls.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Dependent
That is what I am now.
Having just picked up my visa at the Japanese consulate, right there under "category", it says 'as dependent'.
Now, for someone who has worked since she was ten and has virtually never not been able to support herself, being "a dependent" is strange concept.
For someone who has always been very INdependent, it is even stranger.
For someone who enjoys the freedom that comes with being able to keep myself in the lifestyle I want; the power to make my own choices; the knowledge of the concept that no matter how those choices turn out, they were made without having to compromise my desires or make choices based on the need to "be provided for", it is truly bizarre.
I'm just not sure I know how to be 'dependent'.
Having just picked up my visa at the Japanese consulate, right there under "category", it says 'as dependent'.
Now, for someone who has worked since she was ten and has virtually never not been able to support herself, being "a dependent" is strange concept.
For someone who has always been very INdependent, it is even stranger.
For someone who enjoys the freedom that comes with being able to keep myself in the lifestyle I want; the power to make my own choices; the knowledge of the concept that no matter how those choices turn out, they were made without having to compromise my desires or make choices based on the need to "be provided for", it is truly bizarre.
I'm just not sure I know how to be 'dependent'.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Will they have Eggs Benedict in Tokyo??
Things I will miss about New York:
10) Walking down Rockefeller park early in the morning with Tess, with the Statue of Liberty in clear view.
9) Sitting on the subway next to 50 other people, all born in a different country.
8) Century 21!!!
7) Fresh Direct, Trader Joe's, Fairway!!
6) Ludlow Tailors.
5) Ducking into the corner deli when some jerk is following you and have the guy behind the counter walk you home (this really happened).
4) Dog runs
3) Having a conversation about state of politics with an Iranian cab driver who was listening to Air America while on my way to the airport.
2) The fries at P.J. Clarkes, Whitefish salad and red Licorice at Russ & Daughters, the dessert sampler at Landmarc, Carvel, Popeye's, Cheesecake at Junior's, bagels still warm from the oven from any bagel store in the city.
1) Friends, friends, friends....who I could not live without and who I will miss terribly.
10) Walking down Rockefeller park early in the morning with Tess, with the Statue of Liberty in clear view.
9) Sitting on the subway next to 50 other people, all born in a different country.
8) Century 21!!!
7) Fresh Direct, Trader Joe's, Fairway!!
6) Ludlow Tailors.
5) Ducking into the corner deli when some jerk is following you and have the guy behind the counter walk you home (this really happened).
4) Dog runs
3) Having a conversation about state of politics with an Iranian cab driver who was listening to Air America while on my way to the airport.
2) The fries at P.J. Clarkes, Whitefish salad and red Licorice at Russ & Daughters, the dessert sampler at Landmarc, Carvel, Popeye's, Cheesecake at Junior's, bagels still warm from the oven from any bagel store in the city.
1) Friends, friends, friends....who I could not live without and who I will miss terribly.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Saying Goodby
More than ten years ago, I started volunteering at Ronald McDonald House. Last night, my fellow volunteers wished me well with a cake, a teddy bear, a photo album and an incredible hand-crocheted sweater from Lisa. As I rode downtown in the cab later that night after a few rousing games of Bingo, I thought about how much I had been through with my fellow volunteers and staff, most of whom were there when I first started - through boyfriends and jobs, marriages and divorces, illnessess and promotions, babies and relocations, three different volunteer coordinators, one big volunteer uprising, the sudden loss of one wonderful volunteer and the loss of many wonderful children who had amazed us all with their courage and laughter.
When I walked in last night the signs were there that we were both moving on. The house is changing with a major renovation, transforming itself for the future. It felt alittle strange, not the same old house I have looked forward to coming to week after week. I will be transforming too, from an independent working woman to a "spouse", as I am referred in all of the paperwork we have had to fill out for the visa and insurance. I guess the quote at the start of my blog is appropriate here...."Everything changes, nothing stays the same. Make your peace with that, and all will be well"
Meet my "former friend" Melissa...
Me, decribing Monday's events: "I actually fit my butt into Lori's McClaren stroller and rode around with Juliana in my lap."
Melissa: "Oh, was it one of those giant size McClarens, you know the really big ones?"
Melissa: "Oh, was it one of those giant size McClarens, you know the really big ones?"
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Strollers fit for an Adult
or someone who looks like an adult, but is truly still in child and in no way should be given authority over one...only kidding!!!!I went to visit Lori and Juliana today and I really don't know how it happened, but I ended up with Juliana in my lap as I piloted the two of us around the apartment in the stroller. Me...my butt....in the stroller......it was kinda fun...ok, now before you think I have totally lost my mind, let me explain. Juliana was not taking to the stroller too well and Lori really wanted to get out of the apartment and give her arms a rest after carrying Juliana around all day. I thought maybe if I got in with her and made it into a game, she may feel better about be strapped into a devise that puts her at calf level with the rest of the world and face to face with anything on a leash that she happens to pass.
It worked....
It worked....
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Bundle of Joy #2
At 10 p.m. Sunday night in New York, just as I was taking my final sip of wine at a lovely Italian dinner with Arny and Kevin, Michelle and Evan were meeting their daughter for the first time.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Cleaning House
Arny and I were packing up the rest of the things to be taken to storage. We had decided early on that we would only take what we thought we would need for the next year or so, leaving everything else in the bottomless hole called 'storage' - the place where things go in and you never see them again. Or you only find half of what should be a whole - the other half surely packed in another box, the one all the way in the back under the four others on top of it.
At first, it was easy putting things in various piles. Power tools: to storage, except for the drill - Arny needs a little security tool to take with him, that's ok. Clothes: to japan. Slightly worn clothes: thrift store. Slightly worn clothes with many stains: garbage. As time went on the decisions became harder and harder.
Do I take all of my old greeting cards, so when I am really lonely for New York I can read them and remember a time where my friends were close by and spoke English as their first language?
What about all of the yarn and knitting needles - am I ever really going to knit or should I just finally just let that thought go?
And the records - yes, old vinyl. Should I keep them or just put them all up for sale on Ebay? You know, I am still holding on to the original "Meet the Beatles" album. I can't tell you how many times I have packed up that album or when the last time I actually played it was, but I can tell you that seeing the cover with my name and address scribbled on the cover in black crayon makes me think of my grandmother. I went to Korvette's with my her to buy it - my first record album. About to be a real teenager with a real album of my own, I wandered around the record department until I saw the cover of the fab four on the cover - George, Paul, John, Ringo! - there they were, within arms reach!!. I was so excited as I followed her up to the counter, feeling very grown up - very grown up with my very own record album, not just one of those dinky little 45's.
I stood behind her as she handed it to the rather cute, also real teenager like me sales guy and said "can you play this?" He looked at her like she was from a different planet - planet ANCIENT to be exact. Leering at both of us, he replied, "we don't play the albums, we sell the albums". I cringed right there thinking my first album experience, more importantly, my first album experience with cute boy teenager was being shattered at that very moment. I pleaded "no grandma, he doesn't have to play it". "But how do you know you want it if you haven't heard the songs yet?", she said defiantly to both of us, as if at any moment we would both recognize the wisdom of age and aquience to her wish. In her day that is what you did. You went into a store, picked out a record and the salesman would play it for you. Then after listening to it, you would either buy it or ask to hear something else. As forceful as I dared to be, I said "I know, I know I want it, please can we just buy it" wanting, really wanting to disappear into the floor, with or without my copy of "Meet the Beetles". She stared at me for a minute, as if she was evaluating the level of my desire. Shaking her head, she slowly turned to the guy and said "we'll take it".
As I walked out of the store with my album, still embarrassed at what transpired inside, little did I know many years later, it would be one of the memories of my grandmother that would make me miss her...even after all these years.
P.S. I kept the album.
At first, it was easy putting things in various piles. Power tools: to storage, except for the drill - Arny needs a little security tool to take with him, that's ok. Clothes: to japan. Slightly worn clothes: thrift store. Slightly worn clothes with many stains: garbage. As time went on the decisions became harder and harder.
Do I take all of my old greeting cards, so when I am really lonely for New York I can read them and remember a time where my friends were close by and spoke English as their first language?
What about all of the yarn and knitting needles - am I ever really going to knit or should I just finally just let that thought go?
And the records - yes, old vinyl. Should I keep them or just put them all up for sale on Ebay? You know, I am still holding on to the original "Meet the Beatles" album. I can't tell you how many times I have packed up that album or when the last time I actually played it was, but I can tell you that seeing the cover with my name and address scribbled on the cover in black crayon makes me think of my grandmother. I went to Korvette's with my her to buy it - my first record album. About to be a real teenager with a real album of my own, I wandered around the record department until I saw the cover of the fab four on the cover - George, Paul, John, Ringo! - there they were, within arms reach!!. I was so excited as I followed her up to the counter, feeling very grown up - very grown up with my very own record album, not just one of those dinky little 45's.
I stood behind her as she handed it to the rather cute, also real teenager like me sales guy and said "can you play this?" He looked at her like she was from a different planet - planet ANCIENT to be exact. Leering at both of us, he replied, "we don't play the albums, we sell the albums". I cringed right there thinking my first album experience, more importantly, my first album experience with cute boy teenager was being shattered at that very moment. I pleaded "no grandma, he doesn't have to play it". "But how do you know you want it if you haven't heard the songs yet?", she said defiantly to both of us, as if at any moment we would both recognize the wisdom of age and aquience to her wish. In her day that is what you did. You went into a store, picked out a record and the salesman would play it for you. Then after listening to it, you would either buy it or ask to hear something else. As forceful as I dared to be, I said "I know, I know I want it, please can we just buy it" wanting, really wanting to disappear into the floor, with or without my copy of "Meet the Beetles". She stared at me for a minute, as if she was evaluating the level of my desire. Shaking her head, she slowly turned to the guy and said "we'll take it".
As I walked out of the store with my album, still embarrassed at what transpired inside, little did I know many years later, it would be one of the memories of my grandmother that would make me miss her...even after all these years.
P.S. I kept the album.
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