Old Models Never Die…They Just Hop A Cab To Their Plastic Surgeon

My face and I had a meeting that didn’t go too well.  We met in the bathroom in front of a three-way mirror to consult what has turned into Pompeii of the lower regions.

My chin is headed south like a downhill skier, and it’s got me by the short hair, that’s supposed to make a girl appear younger.

Myth number 431.

Alright, I’ll rephrase that.  Chopping off yards of hair does lift your demeanor a tad, those heavy layers draped like a tarp on a baseball field.  But as time has her way, even a good trim can’t erase the droops.

I’ve learned to hold my chin up with my forefingers as I speak to someone, giving the term, keep your chin-up, all new meaning.

I say this with great remorse since I must seem ridiculous.

But so be it.

Going under the knife, the mere thought of it, puts me in such a state of terror, it could summon Dracula from the grave for one last curtain call.

To be knocked out, have some man who smells like Boca Raton, play with your features like Changable Charlie, chills me to the bone, and as you know, Thingirl has many. Did you have him as a kid?  He was a movable puzzle that you could flip around to alter his looks.  images-1

Charlie was reversible, like a Norma Kamari bathing suit.

Bushy eyebrows or skinny ones?  A mustache or goatee?  How bout a big red nose, just in time for Christmas?

I may be remembering wrong, but not that much.

Where am I going with this tale of aesthetic woe?

To my wine cabinet?  To Saks to buy a veil?  To the nearest shrink’s office asking to be hospitalized?

Of course she won’t know what I’m talking about since my index fingers will be holding my face in place.

“Keep your chin-up Susannah,” she’ll say, “and that will be 250 dollars,” same price as a really good haircut.

Sigh.

SB.

Posted in alcohol, Beauty, Fashion, humor, modeling, women | Tagged , , , | 14 Comments

Santa, Is That You?

It’s 6:05 on a Sunday.  With the exception of a few dog walkers and myself, the Upper East Side is deserted.  Toss in it’s still in Thanksgiving mode and it looks like Dodge, just with a Duane Reade on every corner.

So to encounter Santa in my lobby in his red suit, sportin Nikes carrying his boots and beard that looked rather medieval, was a bit shocking even for New York.

Who knew Santa lived in the building, apparently on 4 with a woman who isn’t Mrs Claus, according to Felix the doorman.

Always polite I said,”Hi Santa, how’s it goin?” He looked at me with great irritation before saying, “How do you think it’s going? There are four weeks till Xmas and I’m already in demand.”

Hmm…so my instincts are right, Santa’s crazy.  But figuring I’ll get an essay out of this say, “where exactly do you have to be so early…the North Pole?”

No, he did not laugh.

“Albany.  At a dinner for some rich ass who thought Santa would be amusing.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, don’t you think a little Xmas cheer is in order?”

“No, I don’t. I’m being exploited once again by my agent who knows I need the money.”

Whoa, if there was ever a time not to believe in Santa Claus, or representation, it was now.

“Well, try to think of all the kids you’ll make happy, forgetting about money.” This suggestion did not sit well, as he shook his head, his eyes rolling back like a slot machine before marching out the door.

Felix and I looked at each other, then Felix said, “Do you know he’s Jewish?”

Who knew Santa’s real name was Greenberg.

SB

Posted in humor, kids, New York City | Tagged , , | 28 Comments

The Furry Departed

We’ve all been through it.

Topdown with Chester, Kate with Jake.

Even me, who, whenever I see a tube of any kind, still cries over Carmela the Bassett Hound, who is still among us, just in Jersey.

Or is it Pennsylvania?

But loss is loss that stays with us same as any other wound.

So when I ran into Dot on her corner in a torrent of tears, only one word came to mind.

Tess…as in her beloved Dalmatian last I saw, resembled a Mattel toy one winds up to get it going.

Tess was 16, and Dot had her as long as I’ve known her.  As a matter of fact, I simply can’t imagine one without the other.

You don’t see many Dalmatians, not even at the local firehouse, a myth if there ever was one.

Tess, like all long-legged creatures with grace and fine bones, was a true beauty settling into old age stoically.

As I did my best to comfort Dot, assuring her, mourning was normal losing such a noble comrade, she tearfully told me as if she were the worst person in the world, she hates herself for prolonging Tess’s parting by keeping her on sordid medication causing her last three days to be agony.

Despite my lapsed Catholicism, Good Friday came to mind.

Oh dear, I thought, knowing how some owners just can’t make that sad, fateful decision to put a pet down.  Have seen it many times, and to quote Lucille Ball who had a slew of little dogs, it has to be about them, not you.

But alas, it was much too late, even for Lucy.

“You know Dot,” I said, “Tess is no longer in pain, which is what’s important, and I’m sure is running happily in a heavenly park with Homer the Beagle, and Coquette (the gourmet store’s cat who would tease her from the window), so you see, all is well.”

She cried a few moments more taking out Tess’s collar she had wrapped, like an totem, in her coat pocket, so I suggested we go see Sherry the framer to have it mounted.

Did I mention Dot is very, very short?

I thought what an odd couple we must make, as we solemnly crossed Park.

SB

Posted in animals, Family, friendship, Love, New York City | Tagged , , | 21 Comments

Put Up Your Nukes


 


Am I never safe from the assholes of the world?

I’m in Tiramisu, a cheap, casual bistro near my house, eating a little pasta.  I’m in a good mood since, when I’m done, will be heading to the library for a nice, long read.

It’s Thanksgiving weekend, after all, so nothing is pressing, and there’s a certain amount of peace to that.  However, like a sniper packing pizza, this idiot with two lipsticked, heavily mascaraed girls sporting boobs like cannons says to me,” Isn’t it great Castro finally fuckin died?”

Now perhaps it’s because I’m not drinking, or still have decorum so late in life, but this declaration is clearly unacceptable, so on behalf of Fidel and those of us not braindead said,”EXCUSE ME? DID I JUST HEAR YOU RIGHT?”

Now remember, I don’t always hear correctly, so there was a slight possibility I heard wrong.

No chance sparky.

The schmuck with the two Kardashian wannabes, is elated over the news. I know Senor Cuba was a thorn in our side since no one knows history better than me.

Cuban Missile Crisis?  JFK hiring the mob to take him out…hey, I could lecture on the man, but to applaud someone’s demise to a girl from Connecticut who’s stoned sober, is a bit risky.

So I pick up the rope, as they say, in 12 Step.

“Let me ask you something, if you don’t mind…were you dropped on your head?  Do you think it’s prudent to publicly say you’re happy someone died?  I don’t care who it is.”

I realize, at once, he has no clue what prudent means. Then Tart number 1 says, “Can’t we just eat…like whore cazs?”

Whore indeed.

Tart number 2 with cheese dripping down her chin adds,”Not me mother-fucka. The only Castro I know is in my livin-room.”

See, this is my fault for eating at a place to save a few bucks.  If I had gone to my usual joint yes, I’d be in debt, but much less offended.  In the future, we will weigh what’s important.

I know this redneck isn’t worth my time and who cazs what stupid thing, cheesy or otherwise, comes out of his mouth.

I certainly have no attachment to the late Fidel, but we’re supposed to be the example, are we not?

I proceed to put my out of joint nose in a newspaper to detach from The Dukes of Hazard, but then encounter Tart number 2 in the ladies room who says, “Do ya recommen ana-thin fa dassert?”

You, on pie.

No I didn’t say that.

I was gracious and just said…

“What an interesting color lipstick.  Is it blood orange?

AYE

SB

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in alcohol, dessert, food, History, humor, New York City, Politics, Uncategorized, Women and men, words | Tagged , , , , , | 27 Comments

Thanksgiving At The Carlyle

k7905334 I’m so annoyed at Camille who was in charge of reservations.

You would think a hotel dining room with a prix-fix menu for 300 bucks would have an extra table, even if it’s in the kitchen.

Am I exaggerating?

Not all that much.

This is why we’re in the bar waiting like hopefuls at a Patti Smith concert.

“How could you have forgotten Camille knowing how quickly the room fills up?”

“I’ve been busy, I told you.  Having your living room, eyes and tires redone all at the same time can cause you to miss a thing or two.”

This did not make me feel any better perched on a stool in my new holiday dress, after having not bought one in three years.  When Madam suggested we go all out in the name of gratitude, I was straplessly in.

I made it a point, three times, of reminding Camille who insisted on making the reservations, to call because I knew there would be no cancellations since it’s a hotter ticket than Hamilton on Broadway.

I’m surprised scalpers aren’t in front of the hotel doing big business. “HOT SEATS…HOT SEATS…WINGS, BREASTS AND THIGHS.”

Wasps turn out for that turkey like resurrected pilgrims clad in moth eaten Chanel with a considerable amount of tweed about to turn.  This is why they have so much extra money for dinner, they never shop and only eat on holidays.  But once again, I’m digressing.

Suddenly without fanfare Camille disappears leaving me stranded like a well-dressed Dickens character. Feeling alone in such an empty room, I hear a little voice say, remember who you’re dealing with here Susannah, so replenish your gloss, smooth out your Armani and stop eating those damned chips.

The maidre d’ appears like an apparition, all smiles and says,”Your friend is waiting for you in the dining room.”

As I gather myself in my silk, navy sheath no one would guess was resale, there she is, all aglow, at the best table in the house.

I smile, thinking, how could I have doubted her, saying nothing, as our waiter politely pulls out my chair.

images-3 images  images-1images-2 images-1  Snoot Family, party of 5, your table’s ready. :) SB

Posted in Fashion, food, friendship, Gratitude, humor, money, New York City, women | Tagged , , | 43 Comments

A Cheeky Word

While speaking with a friend, she called a guy we both know, cheeky.  So not to display my ignorance, rather than ask it’s meaning, I came home to do research.

Cheeky, an adjective…
impudent or irreverent, typically in an endearing or amusing way: a cheeky grin.

Hmm, Gus, I’ll call him, certainly falls within these parameters, though endearing and amusing somehow alludes him. To be truthful, he’s a bid stuffy in my opinion.  A Harvard grad wearing his scroll on his sleeve, I’ve often wondered, if he had anything else to offer a little less dull and tweedy.

Teddy Roosevelt went to Harvard, and look how interesting he was.

T.R. wasn’t at all, insolentimpertinent, cocky or ill-behaved (well maybe a little cocky)…uncivil…disrespectfulinsubordinate, let alone rude, all synonyms for cheeky.

Neither was he brash, brazen or bumptious, which means overbearing, though Edith, his wife, may have disagreed…nor ungracious, discourteous, and certainly, not a bore. 

But back to Gus.

If the shoe fits kemosabe.

It’s a great word, cheeky, the way it rolls off your tongue, it’s Y extended at will.  When Tabitha used it, yes, that’s her name, Tabby for short…she made the most of it.

“Gus is so, so cheek-EEE, if you know what I mean?”

I didn’t then, but do now.  🙂

SB

Posted in History, humor, Women and men, words, writing | Tagged , , , | 27 Comments

Birrr…She’s Here

I was so hoping she’d take her sweet time cruising up the coast, but alas, Winter is finally here…like an old aunt you’d rather not see.

After breaking the news to my 113 pound frame, we made due knowing how Auntie Winter just takes over.

We closed windows, hauled out the humidifier that needed a wash and set, amazed how dusty things get out of season.

Then barefoot Frank, the super, had to be summoned because one of my encasement windows retaliated and wouldn’t stay shut.  If I could interpret it’s wrath would be,

Damn that woman!!! Can’t she just go south once and for all?

After plying Frank with applesauce, a favorite snack of his, he managed to shut Window up with a hefty strip of black electrical tape.  Of course now I have a punk sort of view gazing over the horizon, but what can a Thingirl over ice do?

Then came the march of woolen layers to the tune of Taps causing what resembled snow drifts on both sides of my bed…sweaters, sweats, L.L. Bean turtlenecks along with their trusty silk long johns that make me look like an undernourished Gulliver.

I thought for a second, maybe I’m overreacting and Aunt Winter will only stay a few days, but then ran into Badger, the Beagle on 8, who not only wore his fleece overcoat, but had leg warmers on.  We looked at each other shaking our heads.

“What Badger, what did you say?”

“I said, if I could, I’d bite her so hard.” images-1

“You know Badge,” I said, as I secured my scarf and pulled down my Steve McQueen navy regulation watch cap, ” I would too.”

He slapped me five.

SB

Posted in animals, Fashion, Home, humor, nature, New York City | Tagged , , , , , | 22 Comments

Manners At Large

I often write about the New York subway, it’s ups and downs, the good, bad and the ugly, so when I found myself facing a fellow, quite Kennedyesque…6 feet 3, tawny, rumpled hair waving with arrogance, I can’t claim to be surprised.

It was early, 4:15 a.m. seats all packed with what I call the changing of the guard: hotel workers, cops, the all-nighters who repair the tracks and trains, when this young kid in his 20s gets on.

Let me say without sounding politically incorrect, most of the riders are Black and Latino and possibly the politest group of New Yorkers you’ll ever meet.  The grace and mutual consideration towards fellow passengers at that hour is truly impressive.  So when this bumbling kid came on and sat himself when there was barely room, between a middle aged Latino man and young African American girl, no one said a word, as he pinned them in like basted hens.

I’m sitting across watching knowing the Spanish man would say nothing, but was waiting for the girl with dreds and mauve eyeshadow to react, and she did not disappoint.

As this elite turd let his wet umbrella fall across her lap, his eyes shut with indifference, she kicked it across the car.

Well done, I silently said. He woke up with a start proceeding to talk down to her which twisted my nose totally out of shape, so yes, enter SB.

“You know pal, you’re not the only one on the train, so I suggest you be more courteous.”

He gave me that Bobby Kennedy, half toothy grin I actually love (but not this time) and said,

“Hey, it’s a free country.”

So now the entire car knew just what an asshole he really was since, an apology was in order to this young lady who was about to garrote him like a goat.

Next stop Grand Central, we hear as he collects his duffle and umbrella that’s now at the other end of the car, gets up and says, “More power to the people,” before stepping off.

I watched the Latino man shake out his crushed shoulders, and the soggy girl settle in with her music and thought, manners make mornings so much nicer, as the Number 6 wormed it’s way down Lex.

SB

Posted in animals, Faith, humor, money, music, New York City, travel, words | Tagged , , , | 12 Comments

Tits On The Bar

I used to be quite the femme fatale, though no longer, having retired my phone number like an all-star who plays no more.

When I hit, I’d say, 58, I no longer had an interest in being the seductress, though occasionally she does make a special appearance, you know, the way Joe DiMaggio sometimes did.

When I encounter women my senior, slithering around like old eels, it’s creepy to say the least.

There’s nothing more of an eyesore than watching one, past her prime, acting like a girl of 20.  Blame it on what she’s drinking, or the Bosanova, but frankly, neither are a good enough excuse.

There’s a lady I know who flirts like she’s got a mad tic.  Doesn’t matter who it with, she bats her eyes at the speed of light while saggy boobs pop out of her top like Pez.

I’ve been in her company, seated like a spectator watching a poorly written play that should be having its final performance.

I’m embarrassed actually as her attempt for attention gets more desperate, watching the discomfort it’s display causes.  Stop it, I want to say, but can’t.  Not my place, plus she’d never believe me anyway, thinking she still has what it takes to lasso a younger man that, by the end of the night, becomes any man.

Maybe it’s the Connecticut in me holding my reserve, but I never want to be Miss Kitty in a twinset that no longer fits…buttons popping, fabric splayed across a middle-aged paunch.  There certainly is no elegance in that, besides, if you really want to be attractive to others, have an affair with yourself.

Self-possession is the key.  It’s what everyone notices, more than your tits, that have seen better days, lolling on the bar like old, out-of-date calling cards.

SB

Posted in alcohol, Connecticut, Fashion, humor, sex, Sports, women | Tagged , , , , , , | 24 Comments

A Public Service Announcement

Life can be quite uncanny at times, so when I found myself at an audition for a PSA to warn the world on the perils of pancreatic cancer, I could only shake my head sobbing, all the way through it.

Bill Hicks died of pancreatic cancer two months after his 32nd birthday many years ago, yet the mere mention of it made it seem like yesterday.

The kid running the session, 25, if he were that, at first, must have thought I was Sarah Bernhardt, till I told him why my emotions ran so high.

Next thing you know he’s interviewing me like a witness to a capital crime, that when you put it that way, is true.  Someone so young and gifted, checking out is indeed more than a misdemeanor.

My recall was impressive.  I said lightly, “oh, it’s the writer in me…ya know how we absorb everything,” then came clean saying, how much I had loved him, and how his sudden passing changed my life.

“How so?” he asked, genuinely riveted by the coincidence of it all.

“My innocence died along with him, that he could be gone from such a hideous, how did he get it…why him, cancer in what seemed like an instant.”

Then it was my turn to ask the big daddy of questions.

How can one prevent something so sneaky, knowing along with ovarian, is a cancer that is slyer than the rest. You can’t live without your pancreas after all.  It’s like a car minus it’s motor.

The session then ended, saved by the bell, because frankly, I don’t think I really wanted to hear the answer since, alas, I don’t think even now, there is one.

Sorry Hicks. So sorry.

SB

Posted in comedy, Faith, Health, History, Love, men, New York City, words, writing | Tagged , , , | 18 Comments