Sunday, April 27, 2008

Do you know Kung Fu? Caus’ you’re kickin.’

I'm back at kung fu at the YMCA dojo. I know it's exciting to dream of a brilliant Lord Voldemort-y nemesis because it challenges you and all that, but I have a few hypermobile vertebrae. So I'm training for a nemesis likely to hoist himself on his own petard. My sensai told me if I don't want to take the throws, I can be excused.

Nonetheless, she invited me to the class Bar-B-Que this afternoon at her house. This kind of lifestyle - hard drinking, hand-to-hand combat, Benadril - takes its toll on your body. The antihistamine only came into play because about 10:30am, a yellow jacket infiltrated my sweatshirt and stung me seven times about the neck and shoulder region. It was harrowing. But I'm white belt tough. I grabbed the yellow jacket in between my bare fingers and squashed it like a bug.

My sensai lives next to an illegal daycare. They put a trampoline out in the mini-yard and let the kids jump on it from the roof. Keeps 'em occupied for hours. Although at least once, my sensai has had her quiet afternoon on the patio interrupted by an incoming child.

About a year ago, the outlaw nanny neighbors put their house on the market and my sensai went over there for an under-cover walk through. In a modern twist on the warmed-over "toy chest" concept, they had hammered nails all over the walls. Floor to ceiling. And hung toys off the nails. Barbi dolls warranted two nails, one under each armpit. A plastic lawn mower dangled over the stairwell making it very difficult to circumvent the landing.

The house never sold. Obviously the neighbors never watch HGTV "Designed to Sell." They'd have known about the universal allure of neutral colors. They'd have painted all the toys beige.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

The Crowd Goes Wild; Tom Runs The Boston Marathon

Beantown goes recklessly patriotic for Patriots Day. The citizenry celebrates the vision and fortitude of our founding fathers with all the usual fanfare, like beer in plastic cups at 10am. There is also a lot of flinging one's self around and shrieking encouraging words into an endless expanse of multi-colored, spandex-clad marathon runners.

They don't call it The Poeple's Olympics for nothing. Just like you have to qualify to run the race, I think you have to qualify to spectate the affair. You can't just stand there like a googly-eyed lump, as is so prevalent amongst lesser crowds. You need spirit fingers, bullhorns, sharpie markers, balloons, drum sticks, pompoms, and maybe a good high kick.

Bib #6739 trotted in to the finish with no orthotics and one massive blister. Yet despite defeating Heartbreak Hill and 26.2 miles without an iPod, Tom was frisky enough to immediately deck himself in a new Boston Marathon 2008 windbreaker.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Home Improvement According to Grammy R

My Grammy R has been known to tell other people's relatives that their liver patê could be better. She has been known to do this at soaring volume in the middle of Tom's and my engagement party.

But my Grammy has wrapped her head around more than just liver patê. Yesterday she clued me into some ancient family wisdom. She said that a husband and a wife need to work as a team to make a house a home. She passed on to me her home improvement strategy, which she has perfected over her sixy-five year marriage:
  1. Decide what you want to do.
  2. Discuss with your husband.
  3. Go out and buy whatever you want.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

LIke Moths to the Flame on the Front of the Hudson Hotel over there on 58th Street

Nothing says Friday Night like hoofing around the Village at 4am in pursuit of a public defender and an Ethiopian, aka Kerry's sister and her sister's boyfriend. We found them at the Little Branch Bar, a cross between a crowded speakeasy and your mother's basement with a lot of people in it.

I drank a rum buck made out of real ginger and real ginger juice. It was good. I love ginger. One time, I loved ginger a little too much and ate an entire jar in one sitting. (Please keep in mind that what may seem like an assbad idea to some people may seem like a genius move to other people, especially if they have had between three and seven beers.)

How it became 4am confounds me. One minute we were circling the block between 59th and Tenth searching for a bar actually located on 53rd and 9th; the next minute it was three hours later and we missed what could be considered the entire set of the band my friend's friend's friend was fronting; and then suddenly we were downtown late night in pouring rain desperately seeking Susan.

In the bonus round, Tom and I actually got off the train at the same PATH stop where we had parked our car. Not something I take for granted these days. Especially in the proximity of sunrise.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

What has the Next Generation Come To?

"Can I get a hit?"

- College freshman kid to a girl at the show on Monday night. A wild girl, brazenly sucking a toke. On a Marlboro Light.

Friday, April 04, 2008

Call me Emily Dickinson

I went to college with more than a few Arab sheiks' sons, an Argentinian blue blood and a truckload of your everyday heiresses. They all had rooms in the dormitories. With no beds. They slept off campus in palatial apartments on Rittenhouse Square chockalot with hot tubs and full maid service.

But for those awkward hours between classes, the richlings all held onto their conveniently located pied-a-terre dorm rooms. Which they pimped out with fluffy hand-tooled oriental rugs, sectional couches, big TVs and refrigerators filled with beer and spicy finger food.

The Really Rich get complete and entire new wardrobes every season. If you say you like their shirt they will take it right off and give it to you. There's more shirts where that one came from. The Really Rich go heliskiing and think if you don't go it's not because you can't afford to rent a helicopter for the weekend, it's because you're busy.

The Really Rich don't quite comprehend any other state of personal finance, and if they do, it is with utter detachment. They put on the same third-person in safety goggles viewpoint I do when I watch A Waterhole in the Serengeti on the Discovery Channel.

And in my experience, the Really Rich would no more brag about their possessions than you would about your genetic makeup. Unless, of course, you're an ass and flounce around cocktail parties talking about how you were born with all body parts in perfect working order, no mental retardation and have escaped the heartbreak of scoliosis. And poverty.

So at a minimum, I have a little perspective. At a maximum, I have a minimum of tolerance. On average, I have a notepad I carry around in my handbag.


A Little Poem I Jotted In My Notebook While Not Paying Attention to A Lengthy Soliloquy Mostly Consisting of the Word "Fancy," Specifics on Carat Sizes, IRS Obligations and The Exact Cost for Deluxe Household Appliances of Questionable Utility


Those who boast the most
about what they've got,
have more than a little
but less than a lot.



-

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Locking down the B-Day List

I have informed Tom I would appreciate either a flypress

or a chipper shredder

for my Birthday.