Uncategorized Archives - Page 17 of 26

The Bus

I take the bus down Second Avenue every morning to work….today it was raining and packed with people. I got on, an older woman sat next to me. The window was fogged – she asked what block we were on. There began our conversation – her talking, me nodding.

She’s 62.
Her husband worked in construction.
The Second Ave subway construction has been going on for years – 1 horn blast means get ready, 2 blasts means get out of the way, 3 blasts means all is ok? (I think that’s what she said.)
There’s tickets for everything – for this new bus system, when she went to the deli the other day….everywhere there’s tickets….she has a bag full of them.
She’s been disabled since 1977.
She grew up on 92nd St. between 1st and 2nd, and moved away for 10 or 11 years, then moved back when her dad passed away.
She worked in petty cash.
If she gave someone 25 cents for a cup of coffee, they had to sign for it as she was responsible for all the money.
She was going to the dentist for this (pointing to her mouth with no teeth.)
She knew everything there was to know about the highest end typewriters at work – but doesn’t and can’t work on a computer.
When you call somewhere and you can’t get an answer, ask to speak the manager, someone in charge. Or get their name at least.
Her husband told her to take a cab, but she couldn’t find one, it was raining.
When she worked, it was with the Ministry of something or other.
She hasn’t worn the ankle boot in years but thought she should today.
One leg is shorter than the other – and they can give her an ankle replacement.
There was mention of a hip replacement as well.
The weather in NY isn’t as extreme as it was when she grew up – they used to make snow forts in front of her building.
She used the word indignant.

I didn’t get her name.

Ain’t It The Truth

“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass…. It’s about learning how to dance in the rain”

In Akron, Ohio…years ago…when I was performing in the show Me and My Girl at the Carousel Dinner Theatre (many a story could be told of that place)…there was a rain storm. A big group of us lived in a two-storied apartment complex of sorts – actors, singers, dancers – sharing the separate units. Very non-descript, in the middle of nowhere suburbia.

It was afternoon, of what I can recall, and a summer thunder storm blew in. It grew dark and it poured. Branches came down and there was water everywhere. It was someone’s idea to go out and stand in it…and play. Like children.

As adults we learn to hide from the rain, to seek shelter quickly, umbrella up, shoulders shrugged, cowering. But this day, we embraced it. I was barefoot, wearing a knee-length sleeveless red dress. It was warm. The few of us that ventured out got soaked. No covers over our heads – my hair matted in long spaghetti strands. It felt great. Because for a moment it didn’t matter. It was just water after all. We would dry when the sun returned, which it did. And we laughed and jumped in puddles.

We didn’t wait for the storm to pass, we learned how to take the rain and hold it close. The rain will fall…it is a part of nature, of life. Face what comes, live in the moment, kick the puddles and get a little wet.

Mo Money Mo Problems

The Notorious B.I.G. had it right….mo money, mo problems.

My boss called from his office – “Charlie Sheen’s friends expect him to be dead by the end of the week.”

What? Obviously that’s a media report on steroids, but what a statement, right? Charlie Sheen is on a path of self-destruction.

I blogged awhile ago about his new almost $2 million-dollar-an-episode salary – and how crazy I thought that was. The highest paid actor on television. And here he is now – in the news and tabloids – trashing his hotel room, running rampant with hookers and drugs. People ask – what is he thinking?! – and I say, he ISN’T.

It is painfully obvious that Charlie Sheen is lost…addicted…in need of help. Not because drugs and hookers are the end of the world (I mean look at Keith Richards, he’s still alive)…but because he’s not in control. He’s not thinking because he has no capacity to do so at the moment.

So what he needs is restraints – in a rehab facility – and a serious wake up call before he is, as his friends predict, “worm food.” I mean, with all that money yet to be made, a contract signed, huge success in your chosen profession….and children who need you in their lives, it’s important he comes back from the edge and takes a reality pill.

Herein is the point – raging and screaming to be heard…..MONEY – and lots of it – does NOT buy happiness…or peace of mind…or contentment. Most of us think, wow if I had all that money I would never do that. But we don’t know – because being rich distorts your vision – on what is real and what isn’t. It skews your ability to see clearly – to put a value on things – when anything to your liking is for the taking. It changes the dynamic of how you view the world. The more money you have, the more you have to manage. Read up on the wealthiest people of the world – they have interesting stories to tell – of personal struggle and pain despite their burgeoning bank accounts.

Use Mr. Sheen as a reminder….that we are all human…regardless of our paychecks (or lack thereof these days.) We ALL have problems. And we all should remember that the most valuable of things in life can never be bought.

Mo money…mo problems.

Trick or Treat

Trick or Treat
Smell my feet
Give me something good to eat

Halloween. October 31. A day we mark in this country with candy, costumes and celebration. Of what? Our playful natures.

I remember Halloween as a kid. The thought of what you would wear, who you would be. When I grew up, mom took us to the local department type store to pick out a costume in a box. It was brown cardboard with a cellophane cover so you could see the colorful mask of the character you were to become. The mask was flimsy plastic, with a small hole in the lips for breathing, and round Orphan Annie holes for eyes. A stretchy band streamed across the back to keep the mask in place when donned. The costume itself was a long synthetic piece of material, that tied around you, exposing your backside. One errant cigarette spark would’ve turned any of us into a towering inferno…fire retardant costumes were not a consideration at the time…nice goin guys.

I’m sure I was a princess of some sort….some Disney wonder, Snow White or Sleeping Beauty…some female role model forced down our young throats. Breathing was not easy – the mask caused an almost asthmatic reaction as I could hear my own breath wheeze in and out as I moved from candy casa to candy casa. I would sweat….my face moist with condensation created from the release of my own carbon dioxide. An occasional lifting of the mask to get adequate oxygen allowed the continuation of my nightime journey. And peripheral vision, forget it. But I guess it didn’t matter much since the only thing me and every kid for miles was focused on was straight ahead.

My confectionary acquisition vessel was a bucket…an orange, pumpkin faced, hard plastic bucket with a handle across the top…much like the one dad used for washing the car. We didn’t get hip to the pillowcase carrier until we were teens….too late to change the candy casualties of my youth.

Let me explain. Every year, dad would walk us around the neighborhood, standing on the sidewalk as we strove for the doorbell. We were anxious, we were excited, and we wanted to move quickly to maximize the treats booty. To hit as many houses as possible was our mission.

It was usually cold and always dark. There I was – in that mask with its peepholes and costume tenaciously tied, it was a veritable straight jacket – limiting my childish frame. So like clockwork, we would run, adrenaline pumping through our veins. Dad would warn not to run. But since most of my senses were impaired by said costume, my hearing was compromised as well. And run I did…moving my short legs as quickly as I could, hyperventalating behind my plastic princess prison.

And what happened – year after year? I would trip….and fall…my hard won sugar treasures spilling in a projectile fashion out of my bucket into the dark, moist grass. I would try to reclaim, on hands and knees, what I could….but inevitably, I lost more than I could recover. I even have foggy memories of other kids pouncing on my spillage, scurrying away like squirrels preparing for winter.

Why I never learned to keep my feet underneath me I just don’t know. It was the lure of tricks and treats behind each lit doorway that propelled me. Falling was not part of the equation. But fall I did.

As I recalled those memories as an adult I laughed until I cried…not because it was particularly humorous, but because I felt sorry for that little girl inside me, who was far behind the pack, losing her candy to the night.

Over the years, I ditched the box costume and got creative. I was a ballerina, a hippie, a movie star. As the years wore on, I grew in to adolescence and out of the need to beg for chocolate. I was more interested in hanging with my friends, soaping cars as the boys blew off M-80’s to the delight of the neighborhood adults. We called it Mischief Night – the parents called it You Rotten Kids.

I’ve been to Halloween parties over the years…dressed in various apparel – from Flower Child to May Capone (Al’s wife or how I envisioned her). Although cocktails took the place of candy, fun was the primary motive. It is the child in each of us that allows us to dress up, to become someone else, even for just one night. And why not? That’s the true treat.

Happy Halloween!