Waiting to Get There. Usually on the A/C/E in Chelsea, New York City.

"When I was a girl, maybe twelve years old, my Mama said to me, 'What is it with the red-haired boy? The one that acts like a girl?' I say, 'Mama! He's a feygela!' My Mama doesn't understand these things. She came from the old country. She says to me, 'What's this, a feygela?' I explained to her how it is. Mama says, 'Gey Avek! You are kidding. He is a boy .' Then we walked along. 'Takka? Really?' she says. A little while later, I hear, 'Roite. The red-haired boy. A feygela!' And she shakes her head like this.

One of my customers mentioned his wife got this Martha Stewart monthly calendar for Christmas. When to hang out your Easter egg flag. When to invite the fambo over for tiny sandwiches. When to stow away your toe peeper sandals for winter. All the important dates lined up like crisp croissants on a baking sheet. As for himself, my customer thought the major pro of the calendar was that on one day in the spring, Martha advised calling up all your doctors and making all your appointments for the year. Meh. Not a bad idea, Martha. I told my customer I was on board with it. I don't know why I set up an appointment earlier than the earth starts rotating. But what was done was done, so this morning, I slithered into the doctor's office at the appointed ungodly hour. First, I had a fight with the countergirl. My insurance changed and she wanted me to fill out a bulging clipboard full of forms. Again. These boring ass forms I already filled out. At least once. I told the countergirl tha

Pablo Picasso sits at the bar minding his own business, staring into the bottom of his Pernod snifter and trying to remember which one or more of his wives and/or girlfriends he currently lives with. Some dude rolls up and says to Picasso, "I am a great admirer of your art. Could you draw something for me?" Picasso has some work ethic, so he answers, "Sure." He whips a pencil out of his leather European man-purse, grabs a bar napkin and spends ten minutes sketching up something. He hands it to the admirer. "That will be ten thousand dollars." The admirer blanches speechless. Finally, he says, "But it took you ten minutes to do this!" Picasso replies, "Yes, but it took me fifty years to learn how to do this in ten minutes. And that is what you are paying for." What a noodler of an anecdote! Eventually, after you think about it, you understand the point is that the perfection of the end game is what counts, not how long or hard you day-la

The little subway map I carry around in my pocket only covers Manhattan. Brooklyn is uncharted wilderness. And any time you skulk into the unknown, you really need to be hauling around a purple lampshade. Yep, that's how I showed up at the Tarot Club meeting in Park Slope. Looking bewildered, drenched by seriously enormous rain drops, and accompanying this must-have purple lampshade. Back in Manhattan, the lampshade had seemed like a solid idea. I picked it up in the Just Shades store, which is so convenient right there on the way to the R Train stop on Prince Street. Just before the little R Train yellow route line ends suddenly at the edge of the known mapped universe. "So who's your friend?" asked one of the tarot readers upon my tardy arrival because the R train apparently covers some distance over the river and through the wood. I introduced my purple lampshade and took a seat. My first reading partner sported two large hoop earrings and a frilly scarf. Turns out

Dad smashed up his ankle pulling an over-cocky down a double black diamond trail. He got what looks like a rack and pinion steering system installed in his new bionic foot. Too cool for crutches, Dad elected to rent a knee-scooter. He's getting his money's worth: "I just got back from a 3.5 miler on the scooter. I went with my friend Owen from down the street. "Owen is a party to my scootering." "I clocked myself at 14:46 minutes per mile. I was moving. Yesterday, I'd thought I hit my plateau at 15:04 minutes a mile. And that was a full 45 seconds faster than my previous personal record, which was the 15:49s I did last week. Owen was surprised. He had to break into a run two times to keep up with me. According to the GPS, I topped out at 7.05 mph. Going down the hill by the high school." "Grade and road surface are key when speed is your top priority." "I took the scooter out into my shop and adjusted all the settings. I lowered the h

I really found it embarrassing to be standing out by the side of the highway, waiting for one of the other girl scouts to roar by in the backseat of her mother's station wagon. My own mother refused to drive me up to the meetings herself. "What a waste of non-renewable fossil fuel," she proclaimed. "We live right on the way." And so Tuesday evenings I found myself on the shoulder of Route 934 in my green sash with a pack of magic markers and glitter glue for Craft Hour. Fortunately, Beth's mom's car had a broken muffler so I had solid advance warning that my time for arm-flailing approached. When I spied her car rounding the bend, I stepped out into traffic and waited for my wood-paneled ride to slow to a roll before I made a running leap into the backseat. I recall Beth's mom, her curly 70's afro perm kinky in the wind sucking through her rolled-down window. Glancing back, she said loudly in her annoyed voice, "If this is a carpool, why doe