I originally wrote this in the Fall of 2009 as the first writing assignment in my NYU Memoirs Class.
_________
My husband, baby daughter, and I recently traveled to my home town of Chicago. I love Chicago. I know Chicago. Everything just seems right in Chicago. I am Chicago. You need directions, just ask. Traveling by foot, car, or public transportation, I can tell you how to get there. Which streets are one way in which direction, you wonder? I can be of assistance. I can teach the bewildered cab drivers a thing or two. Forty plus years, I know the way. After spending a wonderful evening of wine tasting at the East Bank Club, our former health club, we accepted a ride home from our good friends, Perry and Denise. Like Chicago, they seem to be perfect -- the perfect couple. They've been married twenty-something seemingly argument-free years, while maintaining great careers, and raising Ivy League bound, polite teenagers. Perry even likes babies.
On our drive back to the hotel, traffic snarled up. We could clearly see that a cab had stopped right at the corner of State and Erie, preventing a CTA bus from turning. The bus blocked the intersection, which blocked traffic in all directions. People were not happy at all. The people in the cab apparently did not seem to care. They were taking their time. Didn't they realize that other people were being inconvenienced. How inconsiderate and selfish can one get? Have the cab fare ready in advance. It isn't as if they have anything else to do while being chauffeured around town. Maybe there were drunk.
"Can you believe that someone would do something like that," my husband said.
"No, because I'm not a jerk," Perry replied.
We all laughed.
"We are engineers. We just don't do things like that. We know what the fare and the tip will be, and have it ready. At most we just have to wait for change. These people should go back to the suburbs," I said.
Fast forward approximately twenty-one hours. Its' a Saturday night in New York City. My husband, daughter and I are all crammed into the back seat of an overloaded, gas-fume-saturated cab on our way home from LaGuardia Airport. We are at the tail end of our journey. Almost home ... almost. KZ, our 16-month old daughter, has been good, but she is at the end of her rope. There is only so much one can ask of a 16-month old and we are over our limit. Unfortunately, we were blessed with the only cab driver in New York City that seems to knows Brooklyn better than Manhattan.
"We live on Nassau Street, between Spruce and Beekman, right by City Hall and the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge," I instructed the cab driver at LaGaurdia.
He said he understood, and we were off.
Let me stop here to say my husband is not a patient man. If my daughter's first complete sentence does not include the phrase "cock sucking mother fucker", I will be stunned but relieved. When he is forced to be on a plane with a baby, even his own, he is more of a challenge than the baby.
I was sandwiched in the back seat between the 38 year-old, emotionally challenged husband who was watching "House" on his iPhone, and the 16-month old daughter who was rightfully at her wits end. I had been sandwiched between them since we left Chicago. I just wanted it over.
The cab driver turned his head while we were on the expressway and started asking me for directions.
"Which exit do you take? I thought I would take Tillery and go through Flatbush?"
Well, call it my own hearing problem in the back of the cab, or maybe it was just his Nigerian accent (he did have a Nigerian flag air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror), but I had to ask him to repeat himself three times before I realized that I still had no idea what he was talking about.
"Tillery? I've never heard of it. Flatbush? Why would we go through Flatbush," I asked.
My totally annoyed husband, broke away from his iPhone long enough to snap at me.
"Turn it down!"
He had opened the window because of the gas fumes. I had the Cab TV turned on just so I could follow the GPS map of where we were heading. Cab TV, the conversation, and the opened window all combined with the whimpering baby, was too much for him. Finally, after what seemed like hours, maybe five seconds, I told the driver I just didn't know Brooklyn. I'd only seen it from the Brooklyn Bridge, taken a bus tour once with my dad, and ran though it in the 2002 Marathon. That was where my knowledge ended.
"Oh, you mean the Manhattan Nassau Street! O.K., I go there."
Thank God! The driver headed off over the Brooklyn Bridge. It should have been minutes then, just minutes before I was free.
Halfway over the bridge, KZ totally lost it.
Game over. She had hit her expiration date. She had had it with being clamped into a five-point harness system. She wanted out and now. My husband loudly mumbled under his breath, while he pretended to still be watching "House" on his iPhone. Finally, we were over the bridge. Just three left turns and we would have been home. First turn, executed perfectly. Second turn, done. Third turn ... UGH! He missed the third turn and headed back over the Brooklyn Bridge instead.
"No, NO, NOOOO! Stop the cab," I yelled. "I can't take this any more!"
I was holding back my tears.
We were able to get the driver to stop at the bottom of the ramp, right before he went onto the bridge. Thankfully, there were two lanes of traffic. As the driver stopped, right next to a huge pile of garbage, the kind that an entire building deposits for it's twice weekly pickup, I noticed an MTA bus coming up right behind us -- the M103, with a driver who was laying on the horn. My husband was yelling at the top of his lungs things that I don't even want to repeat while he unloaded the trunk. My daughter was beyond consoling, as she bucked like a Linda Blair wannabe on the sidewalk, still trapped in her car seat. Italian tourists were taking pictures for their own version of the story. I can just picture them back in a beautiful stylish home, speaking in their soft voices.
"Oh Giavonne, you wouldn't believe how crude the American people are. Yelling randomly on the street and blocking traffic."
"But, Paulo, are you sure they were not drunk?"
I was trying to pry my wallet out of my pocket to pay the driver. Just get us out of here ... now ... was all I wanted. I gave the driver $32 dollars and asked for three dollars back. He just made a hissing noise. What, a $5.30 tip isn't good enough on a $26.70 ride, I though. Whatever.
We were all on the sidewalk, luggage, screaming baby, seething husband, enough trash to supply an entire NYC building, and an emotionally drained me. I felt so sick that I thought I was going to throw up right there and then. All that kept my airport lunch down was the fact that I didn't want to give the Italians more to photograph. A few of the people on the now moving bus give us sign language as they pass.
We has more luggage than I ever dreamed possible in my pre-baby days. We had to schlep all of this two blocks to our apartment.
A few hours later at home ... after my daughter was asleep and my husband was pacified watching "House" on a big screen, I counted my money to pay the Chinese food delivery person. I realized at that moment that I only gave the cab driver a 30 cent tip.
I am the jerk in the cab.
Friday 29 July 2011
Sunday 24 July 2011
My Best Friend
Originally written on 04/19/11.
_____________
When I was a little girl, I had a best friend who would go everywhere with me. We were inseparable. We did everything together from doing our hair to traveling cross country in her camper van.
"Tammy, let's to go to the Grand Canyon."
"OK," I said.
We packed our bags, loaded the camper van with plenty of food, and headed off down the road. We would stop and see all the sites along the way or just drive without worrying about a map. We traveled to Cheyenne to see the rodeo, to Colorado to experience skiing in the Rockies, then on to Vegas were we didn't stay long. There wasn't much to do in the 70's for little girls in Vegas. Our favorite places to go were Disneyland in California and Disney World in Florida. The camper van went there most often.
Later, my friend got a plane. This opened up the world to us.
"Tammy, let's go to Paris."
"Paris, I've always wanted to go to Paris," I said
We would fly into Paris, where I could finally see the Eiffel Tower and stand on the very same steps my father did in the '50s. I had a picture of him there, and always wanted to take the same picture of myself.
"Let's go to Germany and England," I said.
Off we went. These were also places that my father had been to while he was in the army. I wanted to see everything he had. Maybe it would give us something to talk about.
When at home, my friend had a great townhouse. It had three levels and an elevator. We would play for hours without end -- running through each room.
Every four years, we would watch the Olympics together. Then, we would work on our routines for when we were in the Olympics. For the Summer Games, we practiced gymnastics and swimming. For the Winter Games, we practiced ice skating and down hill skiing. She was always very good at everything, but very supportive of my efforts. She always encouraged me to do my best no matter what.
My friend could do anything. One day she was a vet, another day a lawyer. When we flew in her plane, she was the pilot. When we drove across country, she was the driver. There was no a career path she couldn't do.
Her townhouse and camper van were a safe place for me. No one yelled at me there to be quiet because they were hung over, or to clean up my toys because they tripped when they were drunk. No one told me I would be pretty if I only had pretty hair. My friend loved me, encouraged me, and helped me dream of the big, wonderful world that I would soon be able to explore.
Thank you my best friend, Barbie.
_____________
When I was a little girl, I had a best friend who would go everywhere with me. We were inseparable. We did everything together from doing our hair to traveling cross country in her camper van.
"Tammy, let's to go to the Grand Canyon."
"OK," I said.
We packed our bags, loaded the camper van with plenty of food, and headed off down the road. We would stop and see all the sites along the way or just drive without worrying about a map. We traveled to Cheyenne to see the rodeo, to Colorado to experience skiing in the Rockies, then on to Vegas were we didn't stay long. There wasn't much to do in the 70's for little girls in Vegas. Our favorite places to go were Disneyland in California and Disney World in Florida. The camper van went there most often.
Later, my friend got a plane. This opened up the world to us.
"Tammy, let's go to Paris."
"Paris, I've always wanted to go to Paris," I said
We would fly into Paris, where I could finally see the Eiffel Tower and stand on the very same steps my father did in the '50s. I had a picture of him there, and always wanted to take the same picture of myself.
"Let's go to Germany and England," I said.
Off we went. These were also places that my father had been to while he was in the army. I wanted to see everything he had. Maybe it would give us something to talk about.
When at home, my friend had a great townhouse. It had three levels and an elevator. We would play for hours without end -- running through each room.
Every four years, we would watch the Olympics together. Then, we would work on our routines for when we were in the Olympics. For the Summer Games, we practiced gymnastics and swimming. For the Winter Games, we practiced ice skating and down hill skiing. She was always very good at everything, but very supportive of my efforts. She always encouraged me to do my best no matter what.
My friend could do anything. One day she was a vet, another day a lawyer. When we flew in her plane, she was the pilot. When we drove across country, she was the driver. There was no a career path she couldn't do.
Her townhouse and camper van were a safe place for me. No one yelled at me there to be quiet because they were hung over, or to clean up my toys because they tripped when they were drunk. No one told me I would be pretty if I only had pretty hair. My friend loved me, encouraged me, and helped me dream of the big, wonderful world that I would soon be able to explore.
Thank you my best friend, Barbie.
Saturday 23 July 2011
Bubbie's Dolls
"I want to give you your Bubbie's doll collection," said Jeremy's mom, Betsy, in 2005, shortly after Bubbie's death.
My husband, Jeremy, was please. He adored his Bubbie. Bubbie adored her dolls. Hence, Jeremy adored the dolls. Bubbie began collecting dolls in the 1950's until her death over fifty years later. At the time, Jeremy just wanted something by which to remember Bubbie.
The years went by. We moved to London, then to New York.
"I really want to get these dolls to you. I know Bubbie would want you to have them," Betsy would tell us again ... year after year after year.
By this point, we had mixed feelings. It was 2011. We had KZ, who was three years old. A perfect age for dolls, but not the Madame Alexander doll collection that I've been hearing about. And just where would we being putting this collection? We live in New York City. We are lucky to fit three people and two dogs into our apartment, let alone a doll collection. But then again, I had no idea how big the collection would be. For all I knew, it could have been one Barbie from the '90's. Jeremy did feel strongly about receiving the dolls. He wanted to pass them on to KZ, who is actually named Kaylia, after Bubbie. It did seem right that she have them, or at least whatever "them" would turn out to be.
"I found a shipper who will take the dolls for $550. The only caveat is that he'll bring them up to New York the next time he has a full truck. We don't know when that will be," Betsy announced over email.
Fine, I'll hold my breath.
Then last week, my cell phone rings.
"Hello, I'm looking for Mrs. Katz," the caller said.
"I'm sorry, but you must have the wrong number," I said.
In the amount of time it would take a person to hang up and redial a phone, my house phone rang. I now thought this is not a wrong number.
"Hello, I'm looking for Mrs. Katz," the same caller said.
"I'm not Mrs. Katz, but my mother-in-law's maiden name is Katz. Since you just called my cell and now my house phone, I'm going to guess you want to talk to me."
The driver had the dolls and would be over that afternoon between 3-5 pm.
"That's fine. Just leave them with the doorman, please."
"Ok, but there is a $550 COD, in cash payment that is required."
I just found another caveat to the delivery.
The driver was on Florida time, which made the true delivery time the following day around 1 pm. I had left the cash with the doorman and just asked to have the boxes dropped off.
We arrived home to the Great Wall of Boxes.
It took me until last night to inventory the boxes. I carefully unwrapped each box, discovering a lifetime of passion. Bubbie kept most of these dolls in mint condition -- tags, original boxes, even plastic wrapped. But truly fascinating to me were the hand written notes and newspaper clippings. Letters to the Madame Alexander company asking for doll identification, or repairs. Correspondence between Betsy and Bubbie. Hand made get well cards from all the "kids", who are all adults with their own kids. And even the newspaper clipping from The Toronto Daily Star announcing Jeremy's birth.
The sixty dolls are not worth that much monetarily. I looked each up on eBay to get an estimate. Ironically, the two with the most value are the two in the worse condition. Jeremy said that Bubbie let them play with those two dolls for some reason. My speculation on the reason, the money didn't matter to her. What mattered was the enjoyment, the pleasure of collecting, the pleasure of letting her grandchildren play. She keep the price tags on some of the dolls. Many are worth only what she paid for them originally. But I don't think that would matter. I believe that having a part of her passed down to her great grand daughter would be worth it.
Going through these dolls reminded me of my own dolls as a girl. I've written about one in the past, and will post it as my next entry.
Bubbie, thank you for the memories.
My husband, Jeremy, was please. He adored his Bubbie. Bubbie adored her dolls. Hence, Jeremy adored the dolls. Bubbie began collecting dolls in the 1950's until her death over fifty years later. At the time, Jeremy just wanted something by which to remember Bubbie.
The years went by. We moved to London, then to New York.
"I really want to get these dolls to you. I know Bubbie would want you to have them," Betsy would tell us again ... year after year after year.
By this point, we had mixed feelings. It was 2011. We had KZ, who was three years old. A perfect age for dolls, but not the Madame Alexander doll collection that I've been hearing about. And just where would we being putting this collection? We live in New York City. We are lucky to fit three people and two dogs into our apartment, let alone a doll collection. But then again, I had no idea how big the collection would be. For all I knew, it could have been one Barbie from the '90's. Jeremy did feel strongly about receiving the dolls. He wanted to pass them on to KZ, who is actually named Kaylia, after Bubbie. It did seem right that she have them, or at least whatever "them" would turn out to be.
"I found a shipper who will take the dolls for $550. The only caveat is that he'll bring them up to New York the next time he has a full truck. We don't know when that will be," Betsy announced over email.
Fine, I'll hold my breath.
Then last week, my cell phone rings.
"Hello, I'm looking for Mrs. Katz," the caller said.
"I'm sorry, but you must have the wrong number," I said.
In the amount of time it would take a person to hang up and redial a phone, my house phone rang. I now thought this is not a wrong number.
"Hello, I'm looking for Mrs. Katz," the same caller said.
"I'm not Mrs. Katz, but my mother-in-law's maiden name is Katz. Since you just called my cell and now my house phone, I'm going to guess you want to talk to me."
The driver had the dolls and would be over that afternoon between 3-5 pm.
"That's fine. Just leave them with the doorman, please."
"Ok, but there is a $550 COD, in cash payment that is required."
I just found another caveat to the delivery.
The driver was on Florida time, which made the true delivery time the following day around 1 pm. I had left the cash with the doorman and just asked to have the boxes dropped off.
We arrived home to the Great Wall of Boxes.
It took me until last night to inventory the boxes. I carefully unwrapped each box, discovering a lifetime of passion. Bubbie kept most of these dolls in mint condition -- tags, original boxes, even plastic wrapped. But truly fascinating to me were the hand written notes and newspaper clippings. Letters to the Madame Alexander company asking for doll identification, or repairs. Correspondence between Betsy and Bubbie. Hand made get well cards from all the "kids", who are all adults with their own kids. And even the newspaper clipping from The Toronto Daily Star announcing Jeremy's birth.
The sixty dolls are not worth that much monetarily. I looked each up on eBay to get an estimate. Ironically, the two with the most value are the two in the worse condition. Jeremy said that Bubbie let them play with those two dolls for some reason. My speculation on the reason, the money didn't matter to her. What mattered was the enjoyment, the pleasure of collecting, the pleasure of letting her grandchildren play. She keep the price tags on some of the dolls. Many are worth only what she paid for them originally. But I don't think that would matter. I believe that having a part of her passed down to her great grand daughter would be worth it.
Going through these dolls reminded me of my own dolls as a girl. I've written about one in the past, and will post it as my next entry.
Bubbie, thank you for the memories.
Thursday 21 July 2011
Twenty-Two Months and Twenty-Two Days
Originally written on April 6, 2010.
_________
A day in the life with my toddler ...
7:00 a.m. My alarm went off. No other sounds but beep, beep, beep. I hid under my covers trying to be as quiet as possible. Every second of sleep counted.
7:18 a.m. I heard KZ talking, not crying, just playing.
7:45 a.m. KZ wanted out of her crib. I heard the neighbors in the hallway. She could too which is why she was no longer happy just playing.
7:55 a.m. After brushing my teeth and changing, I went into KZ’s room. Her pajama pants were off, but her diaper was on. She was in a good mood.
8:02 a.m. Major screaming fit. KZ wanted my notes. I wouldn’t give them to her. Tried to change her diaper while she was screaming. She hit me in the face. Finally, diaper on. KZ screamed for food. Gave her milk and banana that she asked for. She changed her mind and does not want the banana. While putting away the banana, I looked down to see her trying to eat the dishwashing soap.
8:10 a.m. KZ wanted banana. She began looking for our younger dog, Kadou.
8:15 a.m. Dressed KZ to take Kadou and Jake for a walk.
9:45 a.m. KZ climbed into the bathroom sink by using the toilet as a step stool. She then used my electronic toothbrush to brush her teeth.
9:47 a.m. She sat quietly playing on her computer.
9:50 a.m. KZ read me her puppy book.
9:59 am Shoes, socks, and coat are on KZ. She screamed for Elmo. Trying to leave the house.
10:02 a.m. KZ kicked and screamed for Elmo in the middle of the apartment hallway. I found Elmo and gave him to her. Once she had him, she still screamed.
10:04 a.m. KZ was eating a cookie in her stroller, and we were heading out the door. All quiet on the toddler front.
10:10 a.m. Gave tourists directions to Brooklyn Bridge.
10:20 a.m. Bought more Dunkin Donuts coffee for me.
10:29 a.m. Dropped KZ off at the Kids’ Club in the gym. I had two hours of me time.
12:15 p.m. Picked up KZ from Kids’ Club. Watched her carefully going down stairs. She did not want or need my help.
12:25 p.m. Shopped at Whole Foods. KZ was surprisingly calm the entire time.
12:50 p.m. KZ had a total breakdown on way home. She screamed her head off for no reason.
12:55 p.m. She screamed in the lobby of our building for the doorman’s walkie talkie. She licked the metal hand rail in elevator.
12:57 p.m. We fought over the keys while entering the apartment.
1:00 p.m. I took KZ out of the stroller. It fell backwards from being loaded with too many groceries. The dogs ran for cover. While cleaning up groceries, I noticed KZ was trying to eat more dishwashing soap while wearing my yellow rubber gloves.
1:07 p.m. KZ had a slice of whole wheat Challah for lunch while playing on her computer.
1:17 p.m. She ate a Potato Latke and watered down juice while still at computer. I return from the wash room to find she had thrown the Tupperware on the floor and was in the oven.
1:40 p.m. KZ was on the kitchen counter playing with the espresso machine.
1:43 p.m. Glorious nap time. I put KZ to bed, took my breakfast vitamins, and went to bed for my own nap.
4:21 p.m. KZ got up from her nap and wanted Kadou.
4:25 p.m. She played with our CD’s by taking all the CDs out of the cases.
4:55 p.m. Diaper changed, not much of a fight, thank God.
5:13 p.m. Time to walk the dogs. KZ ran from me and hid in the bathroom behind the towels, while wearing the lid to the double boiler on her head. We played the KZ/Mommy game, where she says, “Mommy”, and I say “KZ”. Finally got her in the stroller with Elmo, a drink, her pajama bottoms, but no shoes or shocks.
5:17 p.m. Finally out the door.
5:45 p.m. Good walk. She only threw Elmo five times. Walked into house to find that my husband had just returned from a week long business trip to Scotland.
5:55 p.m. While I cleaned the dogs’ paws, KZ ran out of the apartment to play with the twin three year-old girls across the hallway.
6:00 p.m. Brought her back home, screaming. New baby sitter came for a practice run.
6:10 p.m. We left KZ with new sitter. Had dinner.
7:30 p.m. My husband put KZ to bed.
Day Twenty-Three
8:45 a.m. While getting KZ ready for daycare, I found her on the floor ripping up all my writing notes from the previous day.
_________
A day in the life with my toddler ...
7:00 a.m. My alarm went off. No other sounds but beep, beep, beep. I hid under my covers trying to be as quiet as possible. Every second of sleep counted.
7:18 a.m. I heard KZ talking, not crying, just playing.
7:45 a.m. KZ wanted out of her crib. I heard the neighbors in the hallway. She could too which is why she was no longer happy just playing.
7:55 a.m. After brushing my teeth and changing, I went into KZ’s room. Her pajama pants were off, but her diaper was on. She was in a good mood.
8:02 a.m. Major screaming fit. KZ wanted my notes. I wouldn’t give them to her. Tried to change her diaper while she was screaming. She hit me in the face. Finally, diaper on. KZ screamed for food. Gave her milk and banana that she asked for. She changed her mind and does not want the banana. While putting away the banana, I looked down to see her trying to eat the dishwashing soap.
8:10 a.m. KZ wanted banana. She began looking for our younger dog, Kadou.
8:15 a.m. Dressed KZ to take Kadou and Jake for a walk.
9:45 a.m. KZ climbed into the bathroom sink by using the toilet as a step stool. She then used my electronic toothbrush to brush her teeth.
9:47 a.m. She sat quietly playing on her computer.
9:50 a.m. KZ read me her puppy book.
9:59 am Shoes, socks, and coat are on KZ. She screamed for Elmo. Trying to leave the house.
10:02 a.m. KZ kicked and screamed for Elmo in the middle of the apartment hallway. I found Elmo and gave him to her. Once she had him, she still screamed.
10:04 a.m. KZ was eating a cookie in her stroller, and we were heading out the door. All quiet on the toddler front.
10:10 a.m. Gave tourists directions to Brooklyn Bridge.
10:20 a.m. Bought more Dunkin Donuts coffee for me.
10:29 a.m. Dropped KZ off at the Kids’ Club in the gym. I had two hours of me time.
12:15 p.m. Picked up KZ from Kids’ Club. Watched her carefully going down stairs. She did not want or need my help.
12:25 p.m. Shopped at Whole Foods. KZ was surprisingly calm the entire time.
12:50 p.m. KZ had a total breakdown on way home. She screamed her head off for no reason.
12:55 p.m. She screamed in the lobby of our building for the doorman’s walkie talkie. She licked the metal hand rail in elevator.
12:57 p.m. We fought over the keys while entering the apartment.
1:00 p.m. I took KZ out of the stroller. It fell backwards from being loaded with too many groceries. The dogs ran for cover. While cleaning up groceries, I noticed KZ was trying to eat more dishwashing soap while wearing my yellow rubber gloves.
1:07 p.m. KZ had a slice of whole wheat Challah for lunch while playing on her computer.
1:17 p.m. She ate a Potato Latke and watered down juice while still at computer. I return from the wash room to find she had thrown the Tupperware on the floor and was in the oven.
1:40 p.m. KZ was on the kitchen counter playing with the espresso machine.
1:43 p.m. Glorious nap time. I put KZ to bed, took my breakfast vitamins, and went to bed for my own nap.
4:21 p.m. KZ got up from her nap and wanted Kadou.
4:25 p.m. She played with our CD’s by taking all the CDs out of the cases.
4:55 p.m. Diaper changed, not much of a fight, thank God.
5:13 p.m. Time to walk the dogs. KZ ran from me and hid in the bathroom behind the towels, while wearing the lid to the double boiler on her head. We played the KZ/Mommy game, where she says, “Mommy”, and I say “KZ”. Finally got her in the stroller with Elmo, a drink, her pajama bottoms, but no shoes or shocks.
5:17 p.m. Finally out the door.
5:45 p.m. Good walk. She only threw Elmo five times. Walked into house to find that my husband had just returned from a week long business trip to Scotland.
5:55 p.m. While I cleaned the dogs’ paws, KZ ran out of the apartment to play with the twin three year-old girls across the hallway.
6:00 p.m. Brought her back home, screaming. New baby sitter came for a practice run.
6:10 p.m. We left KZ with new sitter. Had dinner.
7:30 p.m. My husband put KZ to bed.
Day Twenty-Three
8:45 a.m. While getting KZ ready for daycare, I found her on the floor ripping up all my writing notes from the previous day.
Wednesday 20 July 2011
Sunday Morning
Over the past two years, I have written a number of pieces which I've never published. I'm going to use this forum for distributing these works. I wrote this piece in early November, 2010.
Enjoy!
_________
Three-fifteen AM my alarm clock sounded. I smashed it off as fast as I could and pretended that I was not going to get up.
"Forget it. I'm sleeping in this year. They can do it without me," I mumbled to my husband.
But I knew that was a joke as did he. I tossed for about ten minutes before the guilt got me up. I'm a person of my word. What would people say if I didn't show up at 4:00 AM like I said I would? I threw on a pair of jeans, a long sleeve running shirt, and a bright orange winter running jacket. No make-up. I grabbed my gloves and ear warmers then headed for the lobby. My night doorman just smiled.
"I knew I'd see you," he said
"If you hear any screaming, it is just me running from a pack of rats."
He laughed as I peered down the street. The coast was clear. I ran to the Dunkin Donuts as fast as I could.
"What are you doing here at this time?" the night manager asked.
He handed me my usual medium cream and sugar, which he usually gives me four hours later each day. I managed a half asleep thank you as I headed back outside. Two huge rats were right by front door on the sidewalk, but jumped into a garbage can when they saw me. They were only a few feet away, but I steeled myself and ran for it, again.
I hate rats. Rats are my biggest issue with being out on the streets of New York by myself in the early morning hours. I walked towards Broadway where I hoped I could catch a cab to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. It is only about a mile, but I didn't want to run into any more rats. As I waited for a cab, I saw an older women, with short grey hair and a bright yellow running jacket walking briskly down the street.
"Excuse me. Are you going to volunteer for the marathon at Staten Island Ferry Terminal?"
"Yes I am."
"Do you mind if I join you? The rats freak me out."
We walked and talked without ever seeing another person or rat the entire way. We arrived at 4:05 AM. The terminal was already full of people, mostly late night partiers, volunteers, and a few poor Canadian runners who didn't realize we had a time change the night before. I know that nervous feeling of marathon morning. The last thing a runner needs is a time change providing another hour to toss and turn in bed.
The volunteer coordinator handed me a t-shirt to wear over my coat, and a bright orange vest to wear over the t-shirt. I now looked as if I weighted more than two Kenyan marathoners combined, or about 10lbs heavier than my normal weight. Not the look I'm try to project to the world, but who really cares at 4:00 AM on a Sunday morning.
"Ok, you're going to Staten Island," the coordinator told me.
I wanted to stay in Manhattan in the terminal. I liked it there. It was warm,
there were plenty of bathrooms and free food for the volunteers. Plus I would get home around 8:30 AM in plenty of time to watch the start of the race. On Staten Island, I could be freezing in the dark, plus I have to take the ferry home, causing me to miss the start. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't going back home.
My assignment was not hard. I stood with an orange arrow sign pointing people to the direction of the shuttle buses which would take them to the start. I also had a box of plastic bags in case a runner's gear check bag broke, and an informational booklet for last minute questions. Sounded easy. It would have been it if wasn't for the people of Staten Island. I'm not sure where they were off to, but non-marathoners kept running into me, on purpose. One woman even grabbed my arm and bent it around my back, as she disappeared into the crowd. It happened so fast that I didn't have a chance to react.
Every year I've volunteered, I've had locals abuse me. The runners are great. The locals hate the inconvenience of closed roads, or maybe even extremely fit and motivated people entering their worlds reminding them that they are not. I don't think of myself as a sensitive person, but it does get to me.
I volunteer because I could not have run my 30 marathons if others hadn't made the sacrifice to get up at 3:15 AM or earlier in some cases to be there for me. Approximately 36,000 of the 47,000 New York City Marathoners came through Staten Island that morning, most of them stopping to use the ten flush toilets that were behind where I was standing. I hope that I at least helped a few of them have a better race than if I had just stayed in bed.
Enjoy!
_________
Three-fifteen AM my alarm clock sounded. I smashed it off as fast as I could and pretended that I was not going to get up.
"Forget it. I'm sleeping in this year. They can do it without me," I mumbled to my husband.
But I knew that was a joke as did he. I tossed for about ten minutes before the guilt got me up. I'm a person of my word. What would people say if I didn't show up at 4:00 AM like I said I would? I threw on a pair of jeans, a long sleeve running shirt, and a bright orange winter running jacket. No make-up. I grabbed my gloves and ear warmers then headed for the lobby. My night doorman just smiled.
"I knew I'd see you," he said
"If you hear any screaming, it is just me running from a pack of rats."
He laughed as I peered down the street. The coast was clear. I ran to the Dunkin Donuts as fast as I could.
"What are you doing here at this time?" the night manager asked.
He handed me my usual medium cream and sugar, which he usually gives me four hours later each day. I managed a half asleep thank you as I headed back outside. Two huge rats were right by front door on the sidewalk, but jumped into a garbage can when they saw me. They were only a few feet away, but I steeled myself and ran for it, again.
I hate rats. Rats are my biggest issue with being out on the streets of New York by myself in the early morning hours. I walked towards Broadway where I hoped I could catch a cab to the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. It is only about a mile, but I didn't want to run into any more rats. As I waited for a cab, I saw an older women, with short grey hair and a bright yellow running jacket walking briskly down the street.
"Excuse me. Are you going to volunteer for the marathon at Staten Island Ferry Terminal?"
"Yes I am."
"Do you mind if I join you? The rats freak me out."
We walked and talked without ever seeing another person or rat the entire way. We arrived at 4:05 AM. The terminal was already full of people, mostly late night partiers, volunteers, and a few poor Canadian runners who didn't realize we had a time change the night before. I know that nervous feeling of marathon morning. The last thing a runner needs is a time change providing another hour to toss and turn in bed.
The volunteer coordinator handed me a t-shirt to wear over my coat, and a bright orange vest to wear over the t-shirt. I now looked as if I weighted more than two Kenyan marathoners combined, or about 10lbs heavier than my normal weight. Not the look I'm try to project to the world, but who really cares at 4:00 AM on a Sunday morning.
"Ok, you're going to Staten Island," the coordinator told me.
I wanted to stay in Manhattan in the terminal. I liked it there. It was warm,
there were plenty of bathrooms and free food for the volunteers. Plus I would get home around 8:30 AM in plenty of time to watch the start of the race. On Staten Island, I could be freezing in the dark, plus I have to take the ferry home, causing me to miss the start. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't going back home.
My assignment was not hard. I stood with an orange arrow sign pointing people to the direction of the shuttle buses which would take them to the start. I also had a box of plastic bags in case a runner's gear check bag broke, and an informational booklet for last minute questions. Sounded easy. It would have been it if wasn't for the people of Staten Island. I'm not sure where they were off to, but non-marathoners kept running into me, on purpose. One woman even grabbed my arm and bent it around my back, as she disappeared into the crowd. It happened so fast that I didn't have a chance to react.
Every year I've volunteered, I've had locals abuse me. The runners are great. The locals hate the inconvenience of closed roads, or maybe even extremely fit and motivated people entering their worlds reminding them that they are not. I don't think of myself as a sensitive person, but it does get to me.
I volunteer because I could not have run my 30 marathons if others hadn't made the sacrifice to get up at 3:15 AM or earlier in some cases to be there for me. Approximately 36,000 of the 47,000 New York City Marathoners came through Staten Island that morning, most of them stopping to use the ten flush toilets that were behind where I was standing. I hope that I at least helped a few of them have a better race than if I had just stayed in bed.
Monday 18 July 2011
Why, Why, Why Can't a Child Go to Bed Without a Fight?
I would give my right arm to be able to go to bed at 7 pm every night and sleep as long as I wanted in the morning. And it isn't just the bedtime I would cherish, but being able to sleep alone ... in my own bed, without anyone snoring, texting, or iPading.
KZ has the best room in the apartment for sleeping. It is off the street, west facing, overlooking a courtyard that is never used. Dark, quiet, all to herself. How many people have that kind of set up in New York? I know entire families of four or five squeezed into one-bedrooms or studios. But no, as soon as she hears the words, "KZ, it's time for bed," the tears and false screams begin. These are not the screams of someone that just realized they had a bad Botox injection. No, these are the worse fake tears a toddler can exhibit.
"KZ, if you really want to make it to Broadway, you better start walking. You'll never get there with these tears."
She stops and looks at me as if she really is trying to process what I am saying.
Sob ... "I go" ... sob ... "kiss Jake" ... sob ... "and" ... sob ... "Kadou," she says through her tears.
Jake and Kadou our are two Shih Tzu dogs. They are 10 and 9, respectively and very sweet. They put up with her. She walks over, tears streaming down her face, to kiss and hug each dog before bed. We make it to the bathroom to brush teeth and go potty for the first of the many "last times" before she finally walks into her room. We put on PJ's, read stories, and she will only then crawl into bed.
"I need" ... sob ... "I need" ... sob ... "I need", she says.
"What do you need, sweetie?"
"I need" ...
And as if pulling it out of a hat, she'll pick some random object from more water to a tool box. Yes, a tool box. Once I give her a few non-hazardous items, she finally settles down.
The poor kid is exhausted. She has a long day with school from 9-5 five days a week. She really needs and wants her sleep, but for some reason, only know to her, she wants to cry before bed.
When I was a kid, we lived in a very small, thin walled, one-bath ranch style home on the South Side of Chicago. There were only four of us, but when I needed the bathroom, it only took one other person to cause a traffic jam. Not great bathroom memories. My dad worked the 3 pm - 11 pm shift at the Reynolds Aluminium steel mill. He'd get home approximately 11:15 pm each night. I would to stay awake to see him. Mom would let me get up, say hi, and watch a bit of Johnny Carson. I just wanted to be with my dad, but I realize now that after a long day, dad just wanted to be with dad, only dad.
Later on tonight, after I'm finally asleep, KZ will get up to go to the potty. She'll then sneak into bed without my realizing it, move the dogs over, and snuggle in behind my back. I'll wake up in the morning to her smiling face and the words, "Get up, Mommy!" It is sweeter than any marimba tune on my iPhone alarm clock. Now if only she could be that sweet going to bed.
KZ has the best room in the apartment for sleeping. It is off the street, west facing, overlooking a courtyard that is never used. Dark, quiet, all to herself. How many people have that kind of set up in New York? I know entire families of four or five squeezed into one-bedrooms or studios. But no, as soon as she hears the words, "KZ, it's time for bed," the tears and false screams begin. These are not the screams of someone that just realized they had a bad Botox injection. No, these are the worse fake tears a toddler can exhibit.
"KZ, if you really want to make it to Broadway, you better start walking. You'll never get there with these tears."
She stops and looks at me as if she really is trying to process what I am saying.
Sob ... "I go" ... sob ... "kiss Jake" ... sob ... "and" ... sob ... "Kadou," she says through her tears.
Jake and Kadou our are two Shih Tzu dogs. They are 10 and 9, respectively and very sweet. They put up with her. She walks over, tears streaming down her face, to kiss and hug each dog before bed. We make it to the bathroom to brush teeth and go potty for the first of the many "last times" before she finally walks into her room. We put on PJ's, read stories, and she will only then crawl into bed.
"I need" ... sob ... "I need" ... sob ... "I need", she says.
"What do you need, sweetie?"
"I need" ...
And as if pulling it out of a hat, she'll pick some random object from more water to a tool box. Yes, a tool box. Once I give her a few non-hazardous items, she finally settles down.
The poor kid is exhausted. She has a long day with school from 9-5 five days a week. She really needs and wants her sleep, but for some reason, only know to her, she wants to cry before bed.
When I was a kid, we lived in a very small, thin walled, one-bath ranch style home on the South Side of Chicago. There were only four of us, but when I needed the bathroom, it only took one other person to cause a traffic jam. Not great bathroom memories. My dad worked the 3 pm - 11 pm shift at the Reynolds Aluminium steel mill. He'd get home approximately 11:15 pm each night. I would to stay awake to see him. Mom would let me get up, say hi, and watch a bit of Johnny Carson. I just wanted to be with my dad, but I realize now that after a long day, dad just wanted to be with dad, only dad.
Later on tonight, after I'm finally asleep, KZ will get up to go to the potty. She'll then sneak into bed without my realizing it, move the dogs over, and snuggle in behind my back. I'll wake up in the morning to her smiling face and the words, "Get up, Mommy!" It is sweeter than any marimba tune on my iPhone alarm clock. Now if only she could be that sweet going to bed.
What's a Runner to Do?
They say in New York that you can get anything you want any time of day. Sure, if you are the partier needing sex, drugs, and alcohol, or the new mom needing diapers, formula and alcohol, I can see it. But I was a bit taken back when the MRI clinic told me they were open until midnight. My doctor had asked me to get an MRI on my right Achilles on Thursday. I waited until 4pm to call the clinic expecting to be told that sometime next week would work. Instead, the overly perky receptionist asked me if I wanted to come at 10 pm that evening. The only place I ever want to be going at 10 pm is to bed. Unfortunately, I wasn't scheduling the MRI because I love the loud banging noise the machine makes. My Achilles has had me nearly crippled. It seems to be "ok" once I get it warmed up, but the first few steps out of bed, or even out of a chair after a minute or two of sitting, are excruciating. My main motivator for going to the doctor is KZ, my three year old daughter. After sitting on the floor reading bedtime stories to her, I cannot stand up to walk out of the room. I crawl out. She thinks mommy is being funny. We makes jokes and even play horsey back rides to bed. She doesn't know I cannot walk.
I want to walk. I want to run. I want to run fast.
This Achilles thing is chronic. Ever since I was a little girl I had problems with my right ankle. It was just "weak". I couldn't ice skate or roller blade. My ankle always turned inward, sometimes even touching the ground. It hurt like hell, but didn't bruise. I could walk, or stumble, at least enough to be mobile, so I just went on. My final undoing was nine weeks ago when I ran a 10K in Central Park. At about mile 5.5 my Achilles shot a pain though my body that should have stopped me in my tracks. Should have, but my stubborn ego kept me going. I was on pace to break 50 minutes which would have been my fastest 10k since having KZ. I hobbled across the finish line in 51:11. Not bad on time, but bad enough to put me in an emergency care clinic that evening. Did I rest? No! I had plans to go hiking the next day in Utah for two weeks. I wasn't giving that up. The doctors said not to run, shot me in the arm with NSAIDs (I didn't even know they could do that), and prescribed a massive dose of NSAIDs to take daily for the next week, which they said, should get me through Utah. It did. Of course, the NSAIDs didn't cure my Achilles, just masked what was going on. Even if I wasn't running, I did sixty miles in two weeks. These were Utah hiking miles not NYC street walking miles. I'm not sure how much damage I did in Utah, but I'm sure I didn't help the situation either. By the time I made it into the doctor, I was back to running my 25 miles a week and beginning my NYC Marathon training. I could run, but not being able to walk afterwards was beginning to terrify me. I'm 45. I want to be running when I'm 75. I sensed I was on track to permanently ending my running career, or even my walking career, if I didn't take care of this soon. The pain had become constant, nagging, and causing me to be depressed. I wanted the pain to end. I hoped the doctor could make an adjustment or two, and I'd be fine to go. Ok, maybe add some massage, that is always nice.
When I went in for my appointment on Friday morning, the doctor already had the test results. Only in New York can you get a MRI at 9 pm one night and the doctor has the results by 9 am the next morning.
"This is worse than I expected," he said.
He had originally told me three months minimum. What can be worse. In summary, the "Impression" (results) from the MRI read that two different tendons have tears, plus marked plantar facilities. They can do surgery to fix to fix the tears. I looked that up. YouTube is such a lovely invention. You can watch singing cats, dancing babies, or surgeries being performed. Once I saw the surgery, I decided to do everything I could NOT to have that done. Feel free to look it up, but only if you are into that kind of thing.
"When was the first time you sprained your ankle?" the doctor asked.
"Sprained my ankle? I don't think I remember doing that."
"Oh, yes you have. Many, many times."
I guess all those inverted ankles over the years added up.
For the foreseeable future, six months minimum, I can only do a stationary bike and upper body weights. I can "walk", but I am not suppose to go out for three hours without breaks. He must also be a mind reader knowing that is exactly what I was planning to do. On a good note, after approximately a week of not running and two treatments, I am feeling better. It still hurts to stand up after sitting, but I can now do it without the aid of furniture.
He asked me why I kept running myself into the ground when clearly I've been in pain for years. Good question. I could say I don't want to get fat, which I don't. But I also know that I don't lose weight by running. If anything, I have to make sure I don't gain it because I'm so hungry from all the training that I eat everything in sight. I really just love the long runs. When I'm out there for over an hour and half to two hours, my mind clears. I'm at peace. I can think new and creative thoughts. All the stress finally melts away. It is a reset button for my mind, body, and spirit. I'm a bit terrified of not having a way to reset. I'm not sure what to do, or how to react. I'm relieved that the constant pain is lessening and that I'll be healthy enough to run again. The doctors promises that I'll run again if I want to.
I've always identified myself as a runner. I feel as if that identity is being put on hold in order for the next opportunity to come into my life. They say that if you hold on too tightly to one thing, you'll never be able to open up to something new. Maybe this is the Universe's way of bringing something new into my life. Or maybe just giving me a chance to heal. In either case, I do plan to run again. When I can, I'll break that 50 minute 10k.
This morning, KZ noticed that my ankle looked as if it had a boo-boo. I had been wearing a very fashionable Strassberg sock, which looks like a straight jacket for the foot. She took my hand and said, "Come with me, Mommy." We walked to the bathroom where she asked for one of her Hello Kitty Band-Aides. She carefully unwrapped it, placed it on my ankle, then kissed it to make it better. She is the sweetest girl in the world.
I want to walk. I want to run. I want to run fast.
This Achilles thing is chronic. Ever since I was a little girl I had problems with my right ankle. It was just "weak". I couldn't ice skate or roller blade. My ankle always turned inward, sometimes even touching the ground. It hurt like hell, but didn't bruise. I could walk, or stumble, at least enough to be mobile, so I just went on. My final undoing was nine weeks ago when I ran a 10K in Central Park. At about mile 5.5 my Achilles shot a pain though my body that should have stopped me in my tracks. Should have, but my stubborn ego kept me going. I was on pace to break 50 minutes which would have been my fastest 10k since having KZ. I hobbled across the finish line in 51:11. Not bad on time, but bad enough to put me in an emergency care clinic that evening. Did I rest? No! I had plans to go hiking the next day in Utah for two weeks. I wasn't giving that up. The doctors said not to run, shot me in the arm with NSAIDs (I didn't even know they could do that), and prescribed a massive dose of NSAIDs to take daily for the next week, which they said, should get me through Utah. It did. Of course, the NSAIDs didn't cure my Achilles, just masked what was going on. Even if I wasn't running, I did sixty miles in two weeks. These were Utah hiking miles not NYC street walking miles. I'm not sure how much damage I did in Utah, but I'm sure I didn't help the situation either. By the time I made it into the doctor, I was back to running my 25 miles a week and beginning my NYC Marathon training. I could run, but not being able to walk afterwards was beginning to terrify me. I'm 45. I want to be running when I'm 75. I sensed I was on track to permanently ending my running career, or even my walking career, if I didn't take care of this soon. The pain had become constant, nagging, and causing me to be depressed. I wanted the pain to end. I hoped the doctor could make an adjustment or two, and I'd be fine to go. Ok, maybe add some massage, that is always nice.
When I went in for my appointment on Friday morning, the doctor already had the test results. Only in New York can you get a MRI at 9 pm one night and the doctor has the results by 9 am the next morning.
"This is worse than I expected," he said.
He had originally told me three months minimum. What can be worse. In summary, the "Impression" (results) from the MRI read that two different tendons have tears, plus marked plantar facilities. They can do surgery to fix to fix the tears. I looked that up. YouTube is such a lovely invention. You can watch singing cats, dancing babies, or surgeries being performed. Once I saw the surgery, I decided to do everything I could NOT to have that done. Feel free to look it up, but only if you are into that kind of thing.
"When was the first time you sprained your ankle?" the doctor asked.
"Sprained my ankle? I don't think I remember doing that."
"Oh, yes you have. Many, many times."
I guess all those inverted ankles over the years added up.
For the foreseeable future, six months minimum, I can only do a stationary bike and upper body weights. I can "walk", but I am not suppose to go out for three hours without breaks. He must also be a mind reader knowing that is exactly what I was planning to do. On a good note, after approximately a week of not running and two treatments, I am feeling better. It still hurts to stand up after sitting, but I can now do it without the aid of furniture.
He asked me why I kept running myself into the ground when clearly I've been in pain for years. Good question. I could say I don't want to get fat, which I don't. But I also know that I don't lose weight by running. If anything, I have to make sure I don't gain it because I'm so hungry from all the training that I eat everything in sight. I really just love the long runs. When I'm out there for over an hour and half to two hours, my mind clears. I'm at peace. I can think new and creative thoughts. All the stress finally melts away. It is a reset button for my mind, body, and spirit. I'm a bit terrified of not having a way to reset. I'm not sure what to do, or how to react. I'm relieved that the constant pain is lessening and that I'll be healthy enough to run again. The doctors promises that I'll run again if I want to.
I've always identified myself as a runner. I feel as if that identity is being put on hold in order for the next opportunity to come into my life. They say that if you hold on too tightly to one thing, you'll never be able to open up to something new. Maybe this is the Universe's way of bringing something new into my life. Or maybe just giving me a chance to heal. In either case, I do plan to run again. When I can, I'll break that 50 minute 10k.
This morning, KZ noticed that my ankle looked as if it had a boo-boo. I had been wearing a very fashionable Strassberg sock, which looks like a straight jacket for the foot. She took my hand and said, "Come with me, Mommy." We walked to the bathroom where she asked for one of her Hello Kitty Band-Aides. She carefully unwrapped it, placed it on my ankle, then kissed it to make it better. She is the sweetest girl in the world.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)