A Return to the Holy Land
This week, I am making a pilgrimage to the land of my ancestors, southeastern Florida. For generations Jewish New Yorkers have migrated towards those sunny latitudes to retire, play cards by the pool, and complain about the heat. At the border each aged traveler is issued a pair of white shoes, a white belt and a white pocketbook (women only). Following a brief orientation, new residents are released into the wild with a list of eateries that offer two-for-one early bird dining specials and directions to the nearest Publix supermarket.
The first time my mom met my soon-to-be wife was on a pre-marriage trip that Janet and I made to Florida. This would be Janet's first direct exposure to my mom's southern habitat. In honor of her future daughter-in-law, my lovely and gracious mom planned an afternoon lunch party to introduce this new member of our family to her friends. The events that followed still tickle me to this day.
The luncheon was a site to behold, a wide variety of Jewish delicacies covered Mom's dining room table, all of which would be a challenge for anyone living south of New Jersey to identify. Janet is not a fan of fish regardless of how it is prepared, and this table looked like cast of "Finding Nemo." Smiling bravely, Janet moved politely along the buffet searching for a glimpse of sustenance. This would be a light lunch for both of us.
Perhaps I was kidnapped as an infant by a band of roving Jewish housewives or perhaps I was switched at birth with an Italian child, but I am not fond of Jewish cuisine. To me, it seems like everything has been passed through a special secret de-flavorizing machine prior to serving. Very bland. I consider a kosher boiled chicken the Al Gore of foods. Nuf said? I had been around this stuff for the duration of my formative years and had successfully managed to avoid ingesting most of it. That day would not be the exception.
Following the feast came coffee and bunt cake. Small conclaves huddled and conversed independently of each other until the subject of hospital transportation was breached. This hot topic appeared to bring all of the groups together on common ground.
Stories of ambulance calamities filled the room, one tale more horrible than the next. One woman was abandoned six blocks from the emergency room (her driver was dispatched to another more dire emergency) and was finally escorted to the E.R. by a passing stranger who asked her why she was walking down the street in her bathrobe.
"I told him that I got lost on the way to the kitchen," she quipped "this a question to ask someone in need of medical attention?"
An elderly man struggling to balance his cake and coffee on his lap, recalled a time when an EMT technician tried to sell him two tickets to a charity dance while he was on the way to the hospital
"I'm on death's door and this yutz wants me to go to a dance? I told him NO, so now he's putting the hard sell on me. He says "you can surprise my wife with the tickets", so I tell him look, my wife has been dead for three years, so seeing her out on the town would be a surprise for everyone including her, and besides I'm not digging her up just to go to a dance."
Every person in attendance had a story hilariously embellished to the point of absurdity. The combination of the tales, the accents and the stage gestures created the perfect storm of rescue squad comedy.
It became immediately clear that this gab-fest had grown into a full-fledged throw-down competition. If "one-upsmanship" was an Olympic event, world records would have been falling like General Motors stock. Janet and I had a ringside seat for every yarn, the principles performing directly to us like a small theatre group interacting with their audience. Although our stomachs were growling, Janet and I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon matinee and would have recommend my Mom's theatre as fun day trip for anyone visiting the greater Fort Lauderdale area, if the Parrot Jungle was closed.
Following the festivities Janet and I dashed to McDonalds, annihilated a few Big Macs and debriefed. Eventually I will return to the Sunshine State, shod in white and eradicating the mere suggestion of taste from some poor chicken. I don't want to go, it's my destiny.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Yard Sale
A tip from your good friend Jon, do not attempt to stage a yard sale in the dead of winter. While this might be obvious advice to most of you, first time front yard vendors like me and my family could have benefited from a recommendation of this kind prior to emptying the contents of our basement on our lawn.
Sincere in our efforts, we decided that the unholy clutter which had swallowed our bottom floor needed to be eradicated before our foundation began to sink. Once swept of unwanted items, the space could serve as a haven for the wayward teenagers who often descend on our den, banishing Janet and I to the chilly confines of the living room.
Whether they are channeling Stevie Ray Vaughn on Guitar Hero or mowing down an online group of foul mouthed hooligans on Halo 2, there is no shortage of noise, food consumption and food related debris left in their wake. Janet and I thought that if perhaps these shenanigans took place below ground we might salvage our sanity for our senior years and remain in the serenity of the den until Will goes off to college or when we deposit his hinny on the curb if he doesn't go to college, which ever comes first. Hence the basement conversion project was born.
First came the excavation stage. Will and Janet initiated a search and destroy mission, separating the good junk from the bad junk. Limbless Power Ranger figures were cast in the pit of no return, and a Revolutionary War fort made out of Popsicle sticks became fireplace fodder. In a matter of days this archeological crew was able to unearth what looked like carpeting covering our lost basement floor. Who knew?
Stage two involved schlepping our quality junk to the front of the house, pricing each item and greeting the masses who were sure to come. Yours truly would be enjoying a busman's holiday, serving as the main sales point of contact. My son and his helpful friend Chris papered the neighborhood with home-made advertisements. Janet, who did the lion's share of the pre-sale work would function as inventory manager, re-stocking as goods as they flew off of the tables. We were ready for the onslaught!
As it turned out, our goods were flying off of the table all right, but not selling, the movement was due to a twenty mile per hour easterly gale and temperatures threatening the frost point. In all, our enterprise netted around $83.00, thanks to some hard-boiled, die-hard yard sale mavens who braved the elements in search of a bargain and our benevolent neighbor who took pity upon us and purchased some old toys for her young boys.
Left were a large amount of remnants of my son's youth, a couple of pristine exercise bikes, an equally well preserved treadmill (my plans of building a healthy body were lost sometime during the Reagan administration) and a few odds and ends. Returning these treasures to the cellar was not an option due to the pending construction of Will's new playhouse, leaving us in a bit of a pickle. Following a brief discussion (In such family discussions my wife and son play the part of the hammer and I reprise my reoccurring role as the nail) it was decided that we would rent a storage space to house these unwanted, yet valuable items.
For those who haven't had the pleasure of renting a small metal room in Roanoke, let me tell you it is an experience. The amount of paperwork necessary to execute this transaction rivals that of Donald Trump's standard pre-nuptial agreement. Included in the service pact is a laundry list of do's and don'ts for renters. There are a few do's and volumes of don'ts, including a clause prohibiting the renter from storing any living being alive or dead in the unit. Upon, hearing this rule my wife asked for a clarification, wondering aloud if a deceased husband cooling in a freezer might qualify as a violation of that stipulation. The three women present were enjoying a good laugh as I surveyed the property for a friendly witness.
When I returned home (in an unfrozen state) I checked the Internet for articles about bodies which had been recovered from storage spaces. There were 1,260,000 entries. Perhaps these provisions set forth in the rental contact are merely suggestions to their clientele, rules of thumb as it were, not as regularly policed as their other stead-fast requirements.
If my byline should suddenly disappear from these pages, you might find me in a small storage depot on Peters Creek Road developing some frost on my salt and pepper beard.
If you have easy access to a crow bar and a hairdryer please tote them along, there's a free
like new treadmill in it for you if you arrive before I glaze over.
A tip from your good friend Jon, do not attempt to stage a yard sale in the dead of winter. While this might be obvious advice to most of you, first time front yard vendors like me and my family could have benefited from a recommendation of this kind prior to emptying the contents of our basement on our lawn.
Sincere in our efforts, we decided that the unholy clutter which had swallowed our bottom floor needed to be eradicated before our foundation began to sink. Once swept of unwanted items, the space could serve as a haven for the wayward teenagers who often descend on our den, banishing Janet and I to the chilly confines of the living room.
Whether they are channeling Stevie Ray Vaughn on Guitar Hero or mowing down an online group of foul mouthed hooligans on Halo 2, there is no shortage of noise, food consumption and food related debris left in their wake. Janet and I thought that if perhaps these shenanigans took place below ground we might salvage our sanity for our senior years and remain in the serenity of the den until Will goes off to college or when we deposit his hinny on the curb if he doesn't go to college, which ever comes first. Hence the basement conversion project was born.
First came the excavation stage. Will and Janet initiated a search and destroy mission, separating the good junk from the bad junk. Limbless Power Ranger figures were cast in the pit of no return, and a Revolutionary War fort made out of Popsicle sticks became fireplace fodder. In a matter of days this archeological crew was able to unearth what looked like carpeting covering our lost basement floor. Who knew?
Stage two involved schlepping our quality junk to the front of the house, pricing each item and greeting the masses who were sure to come. Yours truly would be enjoying a busman's holiday, serving as the main sales point of contact. My son and his helpful friend Chris papered the neighborhood with home-made advertisements. Janet, who did the lion's share of the pre-sale work would function as inventory manager, re-stocking as goods as they flew off of the tables. We were ready for the onslaught!
As it turned out, our goods were flying off of the table all right, but not selling, the movement was due to a twenty mile per hour easterly gale and temperatures threatening the frost point. In all, our enterprise netted around $83.00, thanks to some hard-boiled, die-hard yard sale mavens who braved the elements in search of a bargain and our benevolent neighbor who took pity upon us and purchased some old toys for her young boys.
Left were a large amount of remnants of my son's youth, a couple of pristine exercise bikes, an equally well preserved treadmill (my plans of building a healthy body were lost sometime during the Reagan administration) and a few odds and ends. Returning these treasures to the cellar was not an option due to the pending construction of Will's new playhouse, leaving us in a bit of a pickle. Following a brief discussion (In such family discussions my wife and son play the part of the hammer and I reprise my reoccurring role as the nail) it was decided that we would rent a storage space to house these unwanted, yet valuable items.
For those who haven't had the pleasure of renting a small metal room in Roanoke, let me tell you it is an experience. The amount of paperwork necessary to execute this transaction rivals that of Donald Trump's standard pre-nuptial agreement. Included in the service pact is a laundry list of do's and don'ts for renters. There are a few do's and volumes of don'ts, including a clause prohibiting the renter from storing any living being alive or dead in the unit. Upon, hearing this rule my wife asked for a clarification, wondering aloud if a deceased husband cooling in a freezer might qualify as a violation of that stipulation. The three women present were enjoying a good laugh as I surveyed the property for a friendly witness.
When I returned home (in an unfrozen state) I checked the Internet for articles about bodies which had been recovered from storage spaces. There were 1,260,000 entries. Perhaps these provisions set forth in the rental contact are merely suggestions to their clientele, rules of thumb as it were, not as regularly policed as their other stead-fast requirements.
If my byline should suddenly disappear from these pages, you might find me in a small storage depot on Peters Creek Road developing some frost on my salt and pepper beard.
If you have easy access to a crow bar and a hairdryer please tote them along, there's a free
like new treadmill in it for you if you arrive before I glaze over.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Old
Along with the usual collection of bills and advertisements, yesterday's mail brought a stark reminder of my own mortality. My very own AARP discount card had finally arrived just in time for my fiftieth birthday.
What a stunningly subtle souvenir for one celebrating a half century of life. Why not include a photo of an open grave with a caption reading "Good Luck in Your New Location?" At first, I must admit, I was both appalled and saddened upon the appearance of this laminated indication of my impending doom. I stared at the card as if it was a communication from the governor, refusing to commute my stay of execution.
A glance in the mirror served as an additional suggestion of what is to come. For most of my life, my outward appearance has been likened to the disheveled presence of an un-made bed and I have tried (somewhat unsuccessfully) to trade on that lived-in, rumpled kind of charm to some extent. Now, however, the mattress is sprouting some un-planned additions and I'm not talking dust ruffles. Adding more credence to Darwin's Theory, my ears are growing hair at an astonishing rate. Soon villagers will be chasing me down with torches and silver sticks bent on popping the first lycanthrope of werewolf season. My eyes are drooping as is my posture, and I am beginning to resemble Jedi Master Yoda, but without any of the folksy wisdom.
Similar to many men of my advanced years, my hind-quarters is headed for the endangered species list. I am not certain what laws of nature are at work here, however, I know now why so many older gents wear suspenders. My office chair has become a kind of a kiddie slide when I chance to lean backwards, my rear pockets heading South without any back-up. As many times as I have been to Atlantic City and this is the way I have to lose my butt? How undignified!
I had almost dialed my good friend Tommy, who markets headstones, in hopes of testing the discount waters, but I could not decide on a catchy epitaph. Cemeteries are such sad places; why not provide a smile for a passing mourner? Something like "I told you I was sick" or "If you are close enough to read this message you are probably standing on my head." Perhaps I can promote an advertising sponsorship deal offering the space on my tombstone to the highest bidder as a way of off-setting some of the burial costs? It has certainly worked for NASCAR. Question:
Does Chevy make caskets? I'm sure Tommy would know.
If I was able to raise enough cash during this funeral venture, I could conceivably afford to upgrade my accommodations to a nice air-conditioned mausoleum. It could be a place where mourners could seek shelter from stormy weather and even enjoy a picnic. Ideally, I will not be buried in the conventional way, but stuffed and placed in my trusty recliner, on full public display between the hours of 12:00 and 3:00, Monday through Friday. Visitors could pose for snap shots with me (no flash photography please) and I would have a variety of outfits that I would wear only on specified bank holidays, just like a giant Build-a-Bear.
Hey this getting older stuff is really not that bad. Before the taxidermist loads me up with rags and ships me to my final resting place, I might take a turn as the neighborhood curmudgeon. Chasing kids off of my lawn, complaining about the weather, and allowing my dog Roscoe to fertilize the neighbor's yard seems like a fun way to pass what little time I have left. I have always said that if you gotta go you might as well go obstinate and cranky.
On December twelfth my AARP card will activate and I will begin my slow decent down the other side of the slope. Although I now feel somewhat prepared to face that final curtain, I would prefer to pass as my maternal grandfather (a curmudgeon of note himself) once wished. "If I had my druthers," he said "I would prefer to be shot by a jealous husband at the age of 104."
I am not really sure what "druthers" are, but there is a good chance that they are at least 20% off this month on the AARP website.
Along with the usual collection of bills and advertisements, yesterday's mail brought a stark reminder of my own mortality. My very own AARP discount card had finally arrived just in time for my fiftieth birthday.
What a stunningly subtle souvenir for one celebrating a half century of life. Why not include a photo of an open grave with a caption reading "Good Luck in Your New Location?" At first, I must admit, I was both appalled and saddened upon the appearance of this laminated indication of my impending doom. I stared at the card as if it was a communication from the governor, refusing to commute my stay of execution.
A glance in the mirror served as an additional suggestion of what is to come. For most of my life, my outward appearance has been likened to the disheveled presence of an un-made bed and I have tried (somewhat unsuccessfully) to trade on that lived-in, rumpled kind of charm to some extent. Now, however, the mattress is sprouting some un-planned additions and I'm not talking dust ruffles. Adding more credence to Darwin's Theory, my ears are growing hair at an astonishing rate. Soon villagers will be chasing me down with torches and silver sticks bent on popping the first lycanthrope of werewolf season. My eyes are drooping as is my posture, and I am beginning to resemble Jedi Master Yoda, but without any of the folksy wisdom.
Similar to many men of my advanced years, my hind-quarters is headed for the endangered species list. I am not certain what laws of nature are at work here, however, I know now why so many older gents wear suspenders. My office chair has become a kind of a kiddie slide when I chance to lean backwards, my rear pockets heading South without any back-up. As many times as I have been to Atlantic City and this is the way I have to lose my butt? How undignified!
I had almost dialed my good friend Tommy, who markets headstones, in hopes of testing the discount waters, but I could not decide on a catchy epitaph. Cemeteries are such sad places; why not provide a smile for a passing mourner? Something like "I told you I was sick" or "If you are close enough to read this message you are probably standing on my head." Perhaps I can promote an advertising sponsorship deal offering the space on my tombstone to the highest bidder as a way of off-setting some of the burial costs? It has certainly worked for NASCAR. Question:
Does Chevy make caskets? I'm sure Tommy would know.
If I was able to raise enough cash during this funeral venture, I could conceivably afford to upgrade my accommodations to a nice air-conditioned mausoleum. It could be a place where mourners could seek shelter from stormy weather and even enjoy a picnic. Ideally, I will not be buried in the conventional way, but stuffed and placed in my trusty recliner, on full public display between the hours of 12:00 and 3:00, Monday through Friday. Visitors could pose for snap shots with me (no flash photography please) and I would have a variety of outfits that I would wear only on specified bank holidays, just like a giant Build-a-Bear.
Hey this getting older stuff is really not that bad. Before the taxidermist loads me up with rags and ships me to my final resting place, I might take a turn as the neighborhood curmudgeon. Chasing kids off of my lawn, complaining about the weather, and allowing my dog Roscoe to fertilize the neighbor's yard seems like a fun way to pass what little time I have left. I have always said that if you gotta go you might as well go obstinate and cranky.
On December twelfth my AARP card will activate and I will begin my slow decent down the other side of the slope. Although I now feel somewhat prepared to face that final curtain, I would prefer to pass as my maternal grandfather (a curmudgeon of note himself) once wished. "If I had my druthers," he said "I would prefer to be shot by a jealous husband at the age of 104."
I am not really sure what "druthers" are, but there is a good chance that they are at least 20% off this month on the AARP website.
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