Mr Clapton…Respectively

When the weather finally warms up, so do I breaking out of my winter cocoon.

I love nothing more than to idly stroll around the streets of Manhattan as a true flanuer, as the French would have it, quietly observing the rhythms of others. I appreciate a season that allows me to pleasantly do this as I bask in the warmth of a hazy summer breeze.

I sauntered down Bleeker Street in the Village marveling at places that have lasted the test of time, like The Bitter End for instance opening its doors in 1961 where Dylan played as a young man. I stopped to breathe in its history studying the various vintage photos posted on its weathered facade.

One of the great things about the East and West Village is that old buildings still stand unthreatened by the wrecking ball that creates such havoc in other neighborhoods, like the Upper East Side where I live.

I find comfort in this. If only the brick and mortar could talk…what a tale they could tell.

As I turned onto MacDougal Street, Cafe Reggio, another landmark establishment (1927) came into view. Who do I see sitting alone outside sipping an espresso, but none other than the revered rock and roller, Eric Clapton.

I stopped, pretending to peruse a card rack assembled on the sidewalk outside a store…so I could covertly watch him taking in his history that he holds in spades. Although well into his 60s, he is still an extremely handsome man with a face brandishing lines like medals of honor given for acts of bravery.

EC-Mellon_0 My mind immediately pops his file.

He was a member of the band Cream as well as one of the original Yardbirds, the song, For Your Love crooning in my addled ear. He’s known for his amazing guitar playing considered one of the greatest musicians of all time.

He dated women like Janis Joplin, Marianne Faithful and former French First Lady, Carla  Bruni. He, along with Beatle George Harrison, was married to model and 60s icon, Pattie Boyd.

I then went to that sad era when his four and half year old son Conor, who in 1991 due to the negligence of a faulty nanny, fell from a 53rd story Manhattan window to his death causing his father to succumb to heartbreak that brought him to his knees.

He had three other children after that: daughter Julie Rose born in 2001, Ella May in 2003 and Sophie Belle in 2005 by Melia McEnery whom he married in 2001 in a low-key church ceremony.

He also has a grandson Issac, by eldest daughter Ruth born in 2013.

All this data melded together as I feigned reading birthday cards.

The heart is a sturdy muscle. I remember how he went to live on an island somewhere to mourn the loss of his boy in peace. When he came out the other side, as we are all designed to do, he gave lots of money to the town because they were so, so kind to him during what may have been the saddest time of his exceptional life.

This is what reading does for you. You build up an annuity of facts and aspects that nests inside your subconscious ready, at a moment’s notice, to recite what it knows.

I was amazed at how much I knew about the man sitting no more than 20 feet away from me lost in his own reverie.

I didn’t have it in me to be so bold as to sit across from him at that ancient cafe. My manners and respect for another person’s privacy prevailed, frankly proud to possess such a gentle gene.

He did look up as I passed, smiles exchanged.

I more than settled for that as I continued on my way, on such a glorious summer afternoon in the city that is known to never sleep, nor shut its eyes.

It might miss something after all.

SB

Posted in Family, History, kids, Love, music, New York City, parents, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Bully For Me

I came out of my apartment the other morning to find a baby bulldog sitting on the steps. He was all alone and didn’t seem particularly disturbed by it whatsoever. Of course we couldn’t say the same about me.

One of my biggest fears is finding a dog without its owner.

Why?

As much as I love them I really can’t have one for a variety of reasons. The cost for one, and it’s more vet oriented than food. I see what my friends pay for their pets and it’s absolutely staggering. The biggest thing though is my not being home. I don’t think it’s fair leaving a dog by himself in a city apartment waiting for you to make it home. My work schedule is so unpredictable that I’d be eternally wracked with worry.

That said…

There’s no one else on the street but me and him. I knew it was a he since he was gregariously gracing himself like he had a hot date. He looked at me unconcerned and I noticed he wore no collar. Not good news for the thin girl.

I invite him in like a guy I had just met deciding he was my new problem. I happened to have a leash left over from a former neighbor’s dog I used to walk occasionally. The trouble was, I needed to attach it to something.

Who said a faux pearl choker would never come in handy. Fit him like a glove making him look a little Liberacesque which is what I started to call him. I pinned an old belt loop onto the choker and hooked it to the leash. We were now ready to go back out. I needed coffee, and he was coming too.

I gave him some water and a piece of smoked tofu which he ate in one gulp, and off we went.

My heart was pounding because now what. After my Tall French Roast in a Grande cup, I needed a plan. It was too early to call Jennifer, my friend that heads the rescue organization who would have told me exactly what to do, and frankly I hate to say it, but I was already falling in love.

Who wouldn’t have been?

Liberace was the cutest thing I had ever seen. Though he was still a puppy, he had jumped that fence into pre-adolescence so he had that poise a pup lacks. In other words, he already possessed swagger but that didn’t stop him however, from halting in the middle of the street to give himself a little lick. My sudden pride in his sweetness swelled like a case of mumps.

I immediately took myself aside and said, no Susannah, you can’t keep him. He belongs to somebody, even if they may not deserve him because where the hell are they? How did this happen…how did he get lost in the first place?

I’ve seen this many times. Ignorant owners leave their dogs tied up outside of stores and cafes tempting things to happen. They’re stolen, they get loose. Any dog who finds himself unrestrained will take off like a shot. It’s in their blood. Yippee, I’m free to run, eat and chase anything I want.

Can you blame them? They’re dogs, not West Point Cadets.

Liberace was no different. He was having a grand old time, and I’ll admit, so was I. He was positively adorable.

The first thing I did was call the local police precinct. Had anyone reported a missing bulldog. The cop at the desk, who wasn’t exactly thrilled to be bothered at 6 a.m. wasn’t much help. I’m not even sure she looked so I decided to put the police on the back burner for now.

I then looked around for signs posted: Missing dog…last seen..reward…etc. There were none.

I went to a deli to buy some Alpo for my new boy who kept looking at me as if to say, why can’t I just stay with you. I’m no trouble. I will get a little bigger, but I’ll try very hard to keep my weight down since we both know my breed can pack it on.

Was I in trouble. The longer I had him the harder it would be to let him go. The other sweetness he bestowed upon me was utter, absolute acceptance. We bonded faster than you can say…GET OFF THERE…NOW!

He loved my apartment. The first thing he did after drinking three gallons of water (smoked tofu can be very salty) was jump in the middle of my bed as if it were his. I had to laugh. When I was a kid I had a stuffed dog just like him. I called him Clarence.

After breakfast Liberace took a nap while I wrote. I kept looking up at him with a full heart happy that he was there. No Susannah, the answer is no. When 9 o’clock comes, you need to start making calls.

9 o’clock, 9:15, 9:45…10…I was still scribbling away while my boy snoozed. Shit, what am I going to do.

He suddenly woke up with a face that said, I know..how bout a snack.

Out came a little more tofu and some turkey breast I got from the deli. I took one look at that dog food and put it back in the can. I wouldn’t give that to someone I didn’t like let alone a beautiful boy as this.

We then went out for a walk. I knew he needed an ID, like any other American citizen and forgive my ignorance, but I knew nothing about acquiring dog tags. I’ve always had cats that, let’s face it, travel light.

I called the precinct again. This time I spoke to a nicer policeman. I told him the facts.

“A bulldog huh, bet he’s cute.”

“Yes, he sure is, and I’m getting more attached by the minute. Please tell me what I should do.”

He took down my number and told me to sit tight. He was going to make some inquiries. When one meets a fellow animal lover all bets are off. I now had a partner in all of this who I’ll call Officer Rodrigues who was more than willing to help.

Sadness was starting to set in. You need to be strong Susannah so snap out of it, like Cher says in the movie Moonstruck.

My cop calls back. “Where are you located,” he asks.

My Italian kicks in. “Why do you want to know…did you find his owner?”

“I want to come talk to you. May I?”

I agree to meet him on the street. Hey, I’m not my mother’s cagey daughter for nothing.

He was younger than I expected when he pulled up in his police car. I saw him look for the dog who I left upstairs. My maternal instincts were already in overdrive.

“Where is the little guy?” he asked with I have to say, great disappointment.

“Sleeping. He’s had a busy morning so far.”

He then began a whole rant over the irresponsibility of dog owners. He told me at least once a day an animal is lost due to the stupidity of who owns them.

I listened knowing that everything he said was true.

“What do you suggest we do Officer,” I asked, sincerely seeing that my suspicions of him may have been more than a little unwarranted.

I went up and got Liberace. It was love the second time that morning. I watched this guy light up like a torch in blue. Found out he was involved on 9/11, downtown that awful day. He also told me he suffers from lung disease because of the time he spent at Ground Zero during and after.

“Wouldn’t you think someone would be out looking for him right now?” He said more than a little miffed.

“I would think, unless he wasn’t lost here. Maybe they’re looking for him somewhere eles.” I couldn’t believe I was the one being so rational.

“I did a wide search,” he said, “nobody put out a call about a bulldog in any of the five boroughs in the past forty-eight hours.”

“What about calling the shelters. The ASPCA, The Humane Society. That might be a good idea.”

For the record, neither one of us grabbed our phones anytime soon.

We agreed to talk later to discuss our finds but I already knew the larceny and animal lover in the both of us were taking the lead, as it were.

Frankly, I was pissed on behalf of this little guy because for the first time since I found him it hit me, what could have happened to him. He could be in the Bronx right now being used as bait at a dog ring, or splattered on the street. Suddenly I was determined to see that he got a home and not necessarily with who originally had him.

We spent the afternoon together like lovers, me reading in bed with him nestled beside me his nose buried in the cuff of my shorts. I have to tell you, I was in doggie heaven. I loved how he snored like an old man sighing every once in a while as if he couldn’t believe his luck.

Then Officer R. called.

“I want-em,” he said. “I talked it over with my wife and she thinks it’s a great idea.”

Suddenly that damned Catholicism of mine reared its ugly head.

“Do you really think we should just pretend he never belonged to anybody? I mean, is that the right thing to do?” UGH, the inconvenience of sudden integrity.

“Look, I made calls. I give you my word I did…and no one, in how many hours has it been, has turned up. Let me ask you something, if this animal belonged to you and he was lost, what would you be doing?”

He had me there.

“Let me call you back.” I did what any other suspicious thin girl with a bulldog she was already smitten with would do…I had him checked out. I called a Sergeant I know that sometimes works for the neighborhood funeral parlor to see if he knew anything about Officer Joseph Rodrigues. Well, it was worse than I thought. He was a hero…decorated for bravery in regards to September 11, loved and respected by all. As my friend nobly put it…”You can do no better humanity wise than Joe Rodrigues.”

Later on that night my bell rang and two five-year old twin boys with Boston Red Sox caps came bounding up my stairs, their dad bringing up the rear.

Liberace knew something was up but held his ground on my bed.

They looked like little bookends when they walked through the door.

“Hi, I’m Susannah…nice to meet you.”

“What do you say,” cued Joe.

“I’m James and this is my brother Will, short for William.”

I shook both their hands even though they hardly noticed since all they saw was you know who.

“How come a coupla guys from Long Island have Boston Red Sox caps, that’s what I want to know.”

“Our Grampa lives in Boston…he’s a big fan,” James said, clearing the spokesman of the group.

I told them they could go sit on my bed. They were so sweet the way they didn’t lunge or try too hard. They let Liberace take his time coming to them. Reality was starting to set in knowing that my day having a four-legged pal was coming to an end.

After an hour or so of watching this family melt over this luckiest of pups, they began taking their eventual leave.

“Wait,” I said. “I  bought him a few things at Petco this afternoon.”

I dragged out 150 dollars worth of affection I just thought my boy might need. Nothing fancy…just a bed, a blanket, a cat that said, I dare you, when you squeeze it. I wanted him to remember me. I know how stupid that sounds, but you do what you do and as long as you own it, there should be no shame.

I knelt down and hugged that little guy for all it was worth then watched him reluctantly waddle down the hall. To his credit, he turned and looked at me as if to say…there’s still time to change your mind. They’re nice and all, but so are you. If if weren’t for you Susannah I don’t know where I’d be. Are you really sure about this?

No Susannah…let him go be a with a family who will love him to pieces..let me run in a yard and allow him to enrich their lives. You’re looking at a hero remember and a hero’s progeny.

Your work is done here.

I quietly closed the door before going into the kitchen to empty Liberace’s water bowl.

I then threw myself right across the spot where he laid all afternoon that still had his doggie smell and cried my heart out.

Sometimes God puts a task in front of you that you so wish he gave to someone else.

But then you think…you would have done it better than me.

No one.

I purposely didn’t take pictures and asked not to be sent any thinking it best. Though I did get a late night text that said…

all is well in Massapequa.

SB

Posted in animals, humor, kids, Love, New York City, Sports, Uncategorized, Women and men | Tagged , , , , , | 20 Comments

The Camille Chronicles – Part 6

th_high-heels To tattoo, or not to tattoo: that is the question…

Camille and I are sitting on the Metropolitan Museum’s top floor mezzanine drinking overpriced Chardonnay after seeing their new costume exhibit, Punk: Chaos To Couture that, let’s face it, could easily be Camille’s epitaph.

I’m not one to linger over orange hair and spiked clothing, but Camille ran through like she was on a quiz show. It wasn’t as crowded as you’d expect I guess since punk, in all its retro glory, isn’t for everyone.       Punk teaser final

I especially wanted to see the Alexander McQueens gracing its platform and they naturally didn’t disappoint. He was so lavish a designer that you can’t help but to wish he were still here shocking and stunning the fashion world with his swank, swagger and sass. I also thought of his friend and muse Isabella Blow, also no longer here, who one could almost feel beside you as you admired McQueen’s wares, or wears, if you will (both took their own lives..she in 2007…he in 2010).

Camille, despite her abbreviated run through, was very inspired.

“Makes you want to cut holes in your pants and wear a bandanna, doesn’t it?”

“Oh yes, that’s just what I was thinking…WAITER…TWO MORE AND CAN YOU MAKE IT BEFORE NEXT TUESDAY?”

I’m sorry but at these prices the service should be better. A turtle moves faster than our waiter. I have half a mind to just serve myself since we’re sitting so close to the bar, but manage to refrain when I see a security guard eying me like I just stole a mummy.

“Why don’t I get a tattoo…something chic like a satin pump or a French C maybe…somewhere not too invasive of course.”

“You mean like your armpit?”

“No smarty…on my ankle perhaps or alongside a knee…or better yet, a breast.”

“Did you just wink?”

Omigod! I had visions of her wearing fur in July so no one would see it.

“Camille, you’re the woman who wears one thing once then gives it to either me or Carlotta your maid. How long do you think you’d tolerate a tattoo? You’d be scraping it off with a spatula.”

“I just think it might be exciting having your own brand of advertisement.”

“You sound like Angus Beef.”

“I’m really hot on the idea Susannah…did you see that Swedish model with the owl on her clavicle?”

“Yes, she looked like she just flew in from Yellowstone. It scared me actually.”

On cue another gigantic girl lopes by with images along both her arms. Imagine a Marvel Comic in flight. I just never get the aesthetic of it all. Unless you’re a sailor that spent a lot of time drunk on an island, I think it’s best to invest in just a few bangles and have that be that, but Camille begged to differ.

“Excuse me,” she calls out to the painted girl. “I can’t help but to admire your arms. Can I ask you where you had them done?”

Camille asks this as if she were inquiring about highlights or nail extensions. The girl, who makes me look fat, tooled over like a very colorful strand of linguine.

“I huv a mon in Masscoow I gao to” (only in New York would you hear this).

“Oh really? What a shame,” Camille said as if she would really stencil her body parts. I mean you can’t get her to put down shelf paper in the kitchen.

The girl then scurried off like a pelican with crayons. Finally our drinks come, and do we need them.

“You know Camille, if you don’t believe me about the downside of permanently staining one’s body, then you should take a tip from Johnny Depp.”

“What does he have to do with anything?”

“When he dated Winona Ryder way back when, he had her name tattooed on his arm…Winona forever, it said. When it was over, boy was he sorry. Now when you see that famous right upper tricep, it has wino forever across it. It was the best he could do under the circumstances.”

2012_03at          2012_00t          2012_03bt

“And your point is?”

“My point is, they’re not so easy to remove…and I’m betting even in Masscoow. I think this calls for the twenty-four hour rule. You wait to see how you really feel before you do anything rash.”

“But I want to do it now. There must a place on 8th Street and St. Marks. Come on, let’s get a check.”

“No, I refuse to be a part of the biggest mistake you’ll ever make.”

“Harvey the Moroccan was already my biggest mistake.”

“To date…you’re about to make a bigger one. Besides, you can’t just go anywhere, you could get an infection. Like anything, you need a referral.”

“I could go to Moscow. Maybe she’s still here somewhere and I could get the address.”

I finally convinced her tonight wasn’t the night to do this. We ended up going to Gobo, a quasi health food restaurant for moo shu pork without the pork. It’s the only restaurant of its kind with a three page wine list.

The next morning I get a call.

“Susannah, I was just watching E! – Entertainment News and guess who was on?”

“Lindsay Lohan?” She always seems to be on.

“Johnny, and he was talking about his tattoo…isn’t that a weird coincidence?”

“I’ll say…and what did Captain Jack say exactly?”

“He told the interviewer, whose name escapes me, that getting a tattoo is like marriage. You better be really sure you’re signing up for life before you get one.”

“How interesting since he’s in the middle of a divorce.”

“I think the point was, you have to believe you’re in it for the long haul.”

“Did he mention anything about prenups? That’s always an indication how committed a man is to his, till death do us part, part of the deal.”

The long and the short of it is, Camille is very superstitious by nature. Seeing Johnny like that jolted her back into reality. It’s been more than seventy-two hours and she has yet to mention taking the red-eye to Moscow or even a cab to the village to see Sam the Tattoo Man…another tip from a guy she saw sporting a team of soccer players across his middle.

This might have been Camille if Mr. Depp and I hadn’t stepped in. tattoo-girl-ej34f-300x414

If I knew how to reach Johnny, I’d send him a little something, like a bottle of wine he could actually drink.

SB

Posted in Beauty, Fashion, friendship, humor, money, New York City, Uncategorized, women | Tagged , , , , , , | 42 Comments

Enduring Others

Jean Paul Sartre said...hell is other people.

Come to find out, he wasn’t just whistling Dixie that Jean.

I am so bogged down by the bad behavior of others that it’s a miracle I’m upright.

You think you know who your friends are until something unsavory occurs and then you really know…where once stood many now there are few.

It’s as though whatever is happening to you is somehow contagious.

The trick is, not to let it throw you…though I’ll admit, easier said than done.

The first thing you need to do away with is your hurt since it’s almost impossible not to take random slights to heart.

There’s a great 12 Step saying: Don’t take it personally even if it has your name on it.

Again, easier in theory I’m afraid.

Despite my dysfunctional upbringing, I learned somewhere along the line to always try to do the right thing. One instinctively knows what that is, but we don’t necessarily adhere to it. We conveniently sidestep like we’re in a conga line.

Right now I am so hurt by more than one individual, who will stay phantoms on the page, since I make it a practice never to go out of my way to harm anyone.

You have to ask yourself, what did I see in them to begin with?

Pollyanna strikes again.

How often do I think, he is so nice, and she sincere right before the bottom falls out of the tub, to quote Abraham Lincoln.

I recently had asked someone to help me, not easy to be quite honest being as idiotically independent as I am, but at the time had little choice. The outcome was so disastrous that the friendship may never recover. This person has diminished in my eyes so much that I may not be able to look at them again. What I asked wasn’t even that big a deal, it was just the ridiculous ramifications it caused. I still can’t think of it without shaking my head in wonder.

Compassion seems to be out of style, like bell-bottoms and midi skirts. A shame really, because without it, where are we exactly?

In my worst moment I want to be able to be there for a friend without oozing resentment. I know how that kills the spirit of the other person who’s already mired in pain up to their neck.

Love thy neighbor is not a bumper sticker to fray on your tailpipe after a while. It’s the cornerstone of who we’re supposed to be as a collective humanity exhibiting mercy, softheartedness and unconditional understanding.

Why can’t we remember that…why is it so hard?

SB

Posted in Faith, friendship, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 18 Comments

You Make Me Feel So Old

I know that’s not how the song goes.

I’m in the throes of a great new book about the eminent statesman John Hay, Lincoln’s secretary in youth and Theodore Roosevelt’s Secretary of State in his later years (All the Great Prizes, by John Taliaferro) that has me entralled.

As well as Mr. Hay comes off, he was very much taken with two younger women while married to his long time wife Clara.

Who said what else is new?

Hay lived in an era where men married early and pretty much stayed married living their lives quite often independently from their spouses. They traveled a lot on their own, kept company with their male friends without their wives along. The women stoically stayed home nursing and caring for children keeping those hearth fires burning.

You have to feel empathy for them since it’s not like now where you can email and Skype those whom you love feeling more connected than not.

In the 1800s it took a letter well over a month to arrive from anywhere.

Hay had friends like Henry Adams, great-grandson of John Adams and grandson of John Quincy also enamored with a woman named Lizzie Cameron, more than half his age. His wife Marian, otherwise known as Clover, possibly knew of this attachment when she drank developing fluid (she was a photographer) costing her her life. Did Henry mourn? Absolutely, but it didn’t stop him from pursuing his inappropriate obsession who was also quite married.

This brings me to a man I sort of know from the Park. In other words, he’s not really a friend, just someone I run into that I converse with once in a while.

I’ll call him Mel.

A man in his 60s…when I met him he was in great shape dating a girl twenty-four years his junior. He looked like a cat who caught a really big fish. Actually, she caught the fish that was wiggling on her line but, he didn’t realize that yet. But he sure as hell does now.

When I saw him pushing a baby carriage he seemed embarrassed. He no longer was lean and trim sporting one of those tires around his waist that for me always bleats…no more blow jobs for him. His young Missus, on the other hand, who just had her second baby, is positively beaming. Her life got made when Mel agreed to marry her.

Let’s address Mel’s alleged shame. Well, where before he thought squiring around a young girl would keep him oh so youthful, he realizes that all it did was trap him into a delusion that is now costing him in more ways than one.

His older children from his first marriage aren’t too thrilled having siblings younger than their own. What was daddy thinking? That’s just it, he wasn’t. He just didn’t t want to get old, yet he feels older being married to someone who probably had to be told who the Beatles were, than before he met her.

This type of scenario always makes me want to move to France where aging is a practicing art. The women don’t flip out if their tummies stick out a little and the men rarely marry anyone they’re canoodling with. No, I’m not advocating mistress syndrome, but let’s face it…you always do better with someone you can actually talk to.

How many times has it been suggested to me I find myself a little tiny hiny that I could have sex with for hours on end. Let me tell you something, that’s one of those things that look great on paper, like sex on the beach. It’s so much fun pulling detritus out of all your trusty orifices…yes indeed…covered with slime like a dropped creamsicle.

I feel sorry for the Mels of the world.

It’s a pity he didn’t move to France where they would have taught him, along with John and Henry, that you can’t escape getting older because Mother Nature always has the last say.

Excuse me while I get ready for my Botox appointment.

Just kidding.

Recommended reading:

Team of Rivals – The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, by Doris Kearns Goodwin

La Seduction – How the French Play the Game of Life, by Elaine Sciolino

America’s First Dynasty – The Adamses, 1735-1918, by Richard Brookhiser

Clover Adams – A Gilded and Heartbreaking Life, by Natalie Dykstra

With the exception of Clover, all in paperback, E Book and at your local library.

SB

Posted in Beauty, Family, History, humor, kids, Love, money, New York City, sex, sexual relationships, Uncategorized, Women and men | Tagged , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

Mammy

I have no idea what it’s like for a man to have a prostate exam, but I hope it’s as humiliating as having a mammogram. You have to ask yourself, what did my boobs ever do to deserve this?

I realize it’s prevention and how lucky we are that we have this type of test….but…can’t they somehow do something to make it a little less painful?

Perhaps NASA could be consulted.

When I have to go I never sleep the night before…how can I when my boobs are up pacing.

I try talking them off the ledge but they don’t want to hear it. Oh yeah Susannah, you forget how we’re going to be smashed in that vice like a coupla meatballs.

I know several women who refuse to even have one, but I in good conscience know, I can’t join their party. God forbid there is something wrong.

The place I go to is very posh and spa like. You half expect a masseuse to sweep in to say she’s ready for you now. The other thing is, everyone smiles which I suppose is a good thing if you really were there for a sauna and a relaxing rubdown.

May is the woman who always takes care of me. Makes you wonder if she’s on commission like she’s selling Avon. She’s big and blonde with hands that belong on a quarterback. When she squeezes, you see stars and I’m talking Gary Cooper either.

“How are you Miss Bianchi?” she cheerfully asks.

“Oh just peachy thanks, and you? How’s business?”

“We are so busy…it’s a real blessing.”

“You don’t say.”

I mean, tea should be coming out any second as you stand there in your fuchsia robe awaiting those humungous hands that are forever freezing. Does she dunk them in ice water before she strolls in? I never get that, and she knows it too.

“My hands may be a little cold.”

No shit.

“Please remove your robe and stand very close to the machine.”

Here it comes, the moment we’ve all been waiting for when all blood flow from the waist up goes south. You stand there like a contortionist with your hip pressed against that metal menace that’s also cold while one hand is up in the air like you’re hailing a cab and the other dangles like it’s not yours. It’s probably trying to run away, the poor little thing. Your boob is now trapped between two hard surfaces looking, lets just say, not at its best.

“Hold that,” May says, like we’re taking a family photo. The one good thing is, when the X-ray completes the machine releases itself therefore releasing you. But of course, we still have 4 more films on this side and the other boob waiting miserably in the batters box.

When it’s all over you limp back into the little ladies lounge where you can read Oprah Magazine while the radiologist reads your stack of films to see if anything is awry. Frankly, even Oprah can’t take my mind off of, OMIGOD, WHAT IF THEY FOUND SOMETHING!

After fifteen or so agonizing minutes, May reappears and says, “We need to take one more film.”

The main objective here is not to panic as you grab her arm and say…”WHAT IS IT…WHAT DID YOU FIND?”

“Miss Bianchi, it’s just a precaution.”

Are those my boobs running down the corridor? Houston, we have a problem.

Back in the torture chamber, May explains she didn’t press down hard enough so the film wasn’t totally clear. It’s her fault, she says like this should comfort me. I want to take her by her blonde bangs and make them come down a little bit further, like to her knees.

Back into the sandwich slicer.

Back into the lounge.

Oprah whispers, relax..breathe…why not order a years subscription while you’re waiting.

May returns with a super smile and says, “Miss Bianchi, you’re good to go…see you in a year.”

I throw on my clothes so fast, chasing my boobs that are already at the elevator.

This is my 600th post.

Wonders never cease.

SB

Posted in Health, humor, New York City, Uncategorized, women, writing | Tagged , , , , | 18 Comments

Nice Tamatas

Yes, I know I spelled tomatoes wrong…I meant to.

I love my one particular friend who corrects my spelling….never, nice post Susannah…instead it’s always a super sweep of my errors. Now I know this person knows who they are, and I won’t even say whether it’s a he or she, so I ask you…in this case at least…HAVEN’T YOU EVER HEARD OF POETIC LICENSE?

Glad I got that off my chest…

speaking of chests.

I was buying produce at Balducci’s of all places. It’s not in my neighborhood but when I go by I’m drawn in like a moth to a flame, or at least an Italian to fresh vegetables.

There are two men in their 60s standing by a young kid handing out cheese samples they are casually eating as if they’re at a cocktail party at Tony Soprano’s house. They have gold chains draped around overly tanned necks and if I were to guess, some very cheap hair plugs. You know the kind, they look like onions sprouting in the yard. Or better yet, as if they came with a tank of gas.

As I was examining avocados like a diamond dealer, I hear one say to the other, “Nice tamatas.” And believe me, for me to hear it so clearly he said it loud as an umpire. Then I heard him say it again. They were actually openly ogling women as they shopped. I mean it was right out of the film My Cousin Vinny.

I knew they’d never say that about me…maybe nice radishes, but never tamatas. Not that I was upset mind you. Having these two as admirers would scare the hell out of me. Just watching them eat cheese was enough to tell me all I needed to know.

Like what?

Every time the little Latino kid in the glossy white apron crooned out ‘complimentary cheddar,’ these Bozos thought that meant, two more, make it the same.

Forgive my bluntness but they were cheap, tacky and oiled like carburetors. And the cologne factor alone did the trick anyway. I can’t help wondering if many men lack proper nostril function. Don’t you smell it first before you buy it? Garlic cloves on one of those clunky chains would have been preferable. Also, I didn’t know they still sold High Karate. I thought it was retired along with Baby Ruth Bars and the Beta Max. As Humphrey Bogart said in Casablanca, “I came here for the waters, but was misinformed.”

When I was standing in the check-out line they were still there perusing tamatas. I was so turned off I took the three I had in my basket and put them back.

It must be an Italian thing because my grandfather, who I loved so dearly, called them that too. Of course when I was 9 and he said it, it sounded perfectly legitimate.

Love is blind especially when you’re a kid, and Grampa did have actual plants to grant him a little more credibility.

These two just had a collection of toothpicks courtesy of all that cheese.

Women…we need to pack an Uzi even when we shop.

SB

Posted in food, humor, New York City, Uncategorized, Women and men | Tagged , , , , , , | 17 Comments