#95 Car Wreck

I've been thinking a lot about ice skating on oil. Not just any oil, but a very high quality deep grassy green olive oil. It will cover an entire skating rink and will smell fantastic. Of course, it will be incredibly slippery. Given the fact that I cannot ice skate, this activity will be especially innervating and dangerous. I will be able to stand up and slide elegantly with foot over foot steps which will allow me to experience something I have never done before. When I have skated in the past it was not fun. It was humiliating and exhausting. I repeatedly fell on my ass and it hurt. Everyone else dancing effortlessly around me suspended in midair with placid smiling faces.

So, I will join them and it will be fantastic. I will not fall on my ass and will master olive oil skating.

Today my elderly parents got into a car wreck. The sun blocked both their eyes and they ran a stop sign. When the EMT came to extract the elderly woman from the vehicle they hit he told them this:
"It's okay. Everyone has accidents."
This was, of course, utter bullshit. Not everyone has accidents and minimizing a car crash, even one when nobody gets killed, isn't a good idea. Especially when delivered by a well meaning EMT to an old couple: a couple who should no longer be driving.

My father never calls me Lizzy. When he minimized the crash over the phone he called me Lizzy twice. What the fuck. Sorry, that is mighty adorable but won't distract me from the fact at hand.

I never want you to drive a car again.

I don't know exactly how to tell you this, but someone has to do it. The car is wrecked and you will have to cab home or to your concert or dinner date or whatever it is. Boo hoo. Fucking boo hoo and excuse me while I go for a skate on my ultra premium olive oil ice skating rink so I can think about what I will say to you to break your hearts with the truth. The truth is, it's over. The car is in the shop and when it's fixed it goes back to the volkswagen dealership and you will get rid of the lease and open an uber account.

If I sound mad, it's because I am. I hate having to be the one to tell you the facts of late life and burst your Golden Years balloon. It disgusts me to have to pull the plug on one aspect of your independence so you don't risk killing yourself or anyone else, again.
Frankly, it sucks to be here.

So, even if I cannot ice-skate I will think about it a lot. I will be out there with my smile and close my eyes and ease into the wind with the music playing. I will be lost and you can watch me fly, because I've never done it ever before and it will be really great.

I'll call you tomorrow.

#95 Car Wreck

I've been thinking a lot about ice skating on oil. Not just any oil, but a very high quality deep grassy green olive oil. It will cover an entire skating rink and will smell fantastic. Of course, it will be incredibly slippery. Given the fact that I cannot ice skate, this activity will be especially innervating and dangerous. I will be able to stand up and slide elegantly with foot over foot steps which will allow me to experience something I have never done before. When I have skated in the past it was not fun. It was humiliating and exhausting. I repeatedly fell on my ass and it hurt. Everyone else dancing effortlessly around me suspended in midair with placid smiling faces.

So, I will join them and it will be fantastic. I will not fall on my ass and will master olive oil skating.

Today my elderly parents got into a car wreck. The sun blocked both their eyes and they ran a stop sign. When the EMT came to extract the elderly woman from the vehicle they hit he told them this:
"It's okay. Everyone has accidents."
This was, of course, utter bullshit. Not everyone has accidents and minimizing a car crash, even one when nobody gets killed, isn't a good idea. Especially when delivered by a well meaning EMT to an old couple: a couple who should no longer be driving.

My father never calls me Lizzy. When he minimized the crash over the phone he called me Lizzy twice. What the fuck. Sorry, that is mighty adorable but won't distract me from the fact at hand.
I never want you to drive a car again.

I don't know exactly how to tell you this, but someone has to do it. The car is wrecked and you will have to cab home or to your concern or dinner date or whatever it is. Boo hoo. Fucking boo hoo and excuse me while I go for a skate on my ultra premium olive oil ice skating rink so I can think about what I will say to you to break your hearts with the truth. The truth is, it's over. The car is in the shop and when it's fixed it goes back to the volkswagen dealership and you will get rid of the lease and open an uber account.

If I sound mad, it's because I am. I hate having to be the one to tell you the facts of late life and burst your Golden Years balloon. It disgusts me to have to pull the plug on one aspect of your independence so you don't risk killing yourself or anyone else, again.
Frankly, it sucks to be here.

So, even if I cannot ice-skate I will think about it a lot. I will be out there with my smile and close my eyes and ease into the wind with the music playing. I will be lost and you can watch me fly, because I've never done it ever before and it will be really great.

I'll call you tomorrow.

#94 Christmas Ornaments and Summer Dreams

I remember opening a box of old ornaments. They were aligned perfectly: glass ball globes reflecting everything like tiny fun house mirrors. My face is bent in green, pink and red with tiny fish hooks coming from the top of my head. Some are broken like a tiny shark's mouth open and able to cut if handled wrong. They are from the 1960's and not valuable probably. There is a glued saying on some of them in script: "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" slanted across the center of the ball with a cute sled or ice skate underneath the cursive words. The words are white and resemble old calcified snow.

Some just have evergreen trees and dust.  About a half dozen boxes are stored in Gramm's basement filled with other holiday ornaments made by the boys, like a felt elf or a twisted candy cane made of pipe cleaners. They will be placed on the branches of the tree and I can't decide if I should throw out the old storage boxes which have classic vodka and whisky logos decorating the sides. Duct tape and masking tape has been reused over and over and no longer stick to the cardboard. It's time to consolidate the ornaments: the old and new in one box.

It's summer and I enter a pet food store and a large man is speaking loud, excited and fast. I glance over and see he has a wide band aide with cotton wedged underneath sticking out like fake snow. Recent blood work and a quick patch up job after it was done, I figure. I get on line with some cat treats and catch the tail end of his animated conversation with someone who exits. I realize that I want to block him out.

"Have a great day!" He says after them in a manic joyful tone.
He looks me over.
"You're a doctor!" (I'm wearing greenish baggy pants like scrubs).
"Nope!"
"You're a lawyer!"
"Nope!" I'm perplexed now. Where did that assessment come from.
I see he needs something from me.
"I'm in mental health."
I pray this is enough for him.

He has checked out and I put the cat treats on the counter and pull out cash to pay.

"There are a lot of people who need you!" He jokes.
I've heard this many times before and wonder, again, if he was recently hospitalized.
I smile.

"I was diagnosed with kidney cancer 2 years ago and today I had my most recent blood work and I am CANCER FREE!"
He is bursting with life. Bursting with panic joy exultation desire freedom. A gift for a boy on Christmas morning. He won the lottery today.
He will live.

"I'm so happy for you! Have a fantastic day!"
Inside my head I want to say more about myself and my life and my family and I don't. He floats out the door smiling ear to ear. I feel touched by a magical ornament that might break but is suspended like a fragile star giving off and reflecting life.

#93 Alma Thomas's Paintings and an Electrical Fire in New Jersey

When I opened up The New Yorker Magazine a week ago I saw a photo of a painting. It was a painting I recognized immediately: not the particular image, but the artist's work.

When I was a little girl I had a friend who had a very, very fancy house. Her father was eccentric and collected art, large wolfish dogs and sports cars. One of his cars was a MG which was a tiny convertible with a roll bar in the back seat. I rode in the frame of that roll bar once. I got a ride. I was little and the bar slammed against my head when he sped over bumps and it didn't feel fun or safe. I couldn't wait to get out of that car. It looked so appealing and fun but was really the opposite: I think all my hair was knotted or had to be untangled from the roll bar to extract myself from the vehicle. I am exaggerating of course.

I am sure I cried and felt like a baby which is not an exaggeration at all.

When I sat on the brown velvet couch in their split-level house I breathed in the dog breath from their giant German Shepard. His mouth was so big and his tongue so pink and long that his breathing echoed everywhere. I was able to pet his long nose without getting bitten but his fur clung to everything. Even hidden in the white carpet with the brown border which mimicked the design of the tile dining room floor. All custom stuff.

In my perpetual state of panic and curiosity I looked at the artwork. On one particular day I was sitting in the toilet in the downstairs bathroom and a bolt of lighting struck a tree in their back yard which had a power line connected to it. Every one started to scream:
"fire! fire!"
The dog was going wild and everyone ran out of the house. Smoke was everywhere and I was sitting on the toilet in the bathroom adjacent to the living room which held my favorite work of art: yes, the painting in the magazine. The one by Alma Thomas. In fact, as I remember it, the wall which held the painting was on the other side of the same wall which held the toilet, so when the lightning struck I guess I could say the painting and I were energetically connected for a moment.

I panicked and ran outside with my underpants down which really wasn't all that different than how I felt in that house almost all the time (with the exception of sitting in the kitchen watching Bewitched and eating tuna salad and drinking Tab which was an entirely calming experience). I ran out and ladies were yelling, "Liz!Liz!Liz" or so I'd like to believe they remembered I was peeing and the firemen came and everything was back to normal.

Ha!

So there was Alma's painting on the wall. It was modern, colorful and reminded me of something a child could do, except she nailed the rainbow colors and even brushstrokes better than any kid I knew. It was 70's stuff like rainbows and Peter Max colors and big. I sat there after the fire and became one with the purple horizontal hyphen-stripes. I am standing on a purple line and playing hopscotch. Purple purple step step not on a crack and then blue blue blue. Red red red. Pink pink pink. Orange orange orange. Like a Candy Land board but so much better. That looks like a sunrise through the rainbow.

Alma was an African American woman who was born in the late 1800's. This painting was in my friend's fancy living room in New Jersey. I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know who painted it. I didn't care except whoever did had something really great going on. Whoever that kid or person was. I was grateful that painting was there for me.

After the divorce my friend's mom got rid of her ex-husband's art collection and re-did the whole place. I never saw that painting again until last week at the Studio Museum in Harlem. I went to Alma's exhibit in 2016.  I was mesmerized the minute I entered the room. Her paintings are so beautiful and alive. There were different styles and patterns and a variety of bold colors. I was singing in my heart and I felt like it somehow belonged to me.. The whole place.

Across the room was the painting from New Jersey. I wasn't sure at first but it was distinctly different from the others. I stood there and wished I could touch it.
The title is: "Apollo 12 Splash Down". It was painted in 1970.
It was lent to the museum by a gallery.
It seems like nobody owns it now.

Keep Talking: #92 Roses and My Mom Is A Spy.

Keep Talking: #92 Roses and My Mom Is A Spy.: Walking down Second Avenue to join my 7th grader, as a chaperone, on her class trip to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden  to a class trip for my 7...

#92 Roses and My Mom Is A Spy.

Walking down Second Avenue to join my 7th grader, as a chaperone, on her class trip to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden when a cab pulled over. It was one of those lime green cabs, the ones you cannot get unless you live above 96th Street. Frantically waving arms protrude from the cab. 'Who is that?' I think.
It's another mom.
"Get in!" she says as she throws the door open and moves aside to give me room in the back seat. Her daughter is sitting next to her.
"Why?"
"I have to talk to you!"
So I get in. I say hi to her daughter who isn't fazed by her mom's behavior.
I'm not either.
"So, how can I help you?" I ask.
"I want to know about the tutor."
I start to tell her and about 30 seconds later the cab pulls over to the corner where her daughter and I get out. We are a block from school.
"Where are you going?"
"To work. I'm staying in the cab. I'll call you!"

I get out of the cab and walk the block and into the lobby of the school. I don't know where her daughter went.

There is a mom in the lobby talking to the security guard. She has a sticker on her shirt so she has officially signed in.
"Are you here for the field trip?" She asks.
"Yes. You?"
"Yes."
Silence.
I start to make small talk. What class is your kid in? And a few other questions to try to connect.

"Do you have any other kids?"

Well, this just about throws her into a tailspin.
"One is already too much! With all my traveling for work!"
Silence.
"Oh. What do you do?" I wonder.
"One thing I do is consult for Homeland Security."
I'm curious but am not sure if that was code for don't ask. I ask and she freely launches into the topic of her work history. The happy faucet is on and flowing fast.
Within 60 seconds I've learned a lot. She tells me how she was in the military and actually "was a Spook"
A Spook.
I feel like an idiot.
"What's a Spook?"
"A spy."
I'm intrigued, as planned.

Then her 13-year-old walks over and they start to argue about whether or not she remembered to pack a water bottle for the trip.

I walked away and hear from behind me: "Bye, Liz!"

Her name is Ginny.  Later that day when we pass each other on the trip we say, "Hi Ginny!" or "Hi Liz!" like we've known each other for years.

The trip was to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. There are many things I can tell you about going on three (3 transfers) subways with 25 7th graders. Things that would appall their parents. Things that would appall anyone: the dramatic flirting and littering. The addictive use of electronics. The nose picking and bugger eating. The smells and swearing. The self-centered preening and grandstanding for what appears to be nothing, because they all do it and so there really isn't an audience. Only annoyed chaperones who wonder about herding cats and the possibility of leaving them (to go meditate under a Bonsai) or simply wander off like a kooky irresponsible adult because they are actually old enough to find their way back to safety, if necessary. They deserved some impromptu outdoor Scout training to whip them into shape. To be fair not all of them were like that. Most were good or compliant enough, but the rotten apples spoiled the whole barrel of fun.

The truth comes out when the girls who are projectile-venom-eye-stare-beings walked into the rose garden and transform completely. It is as if they are set free from the hormonal gravitational forces which trap them. They begin to dance between the rows of crimson,  pink, yellow and purple bushes and smile. Laugh. Joyfully from one beautiful flower specimen to the next like large bumble bees who have found intoxicating pollen while connecting with nature and invisible scents which celebrate something beautiful which has long since been forgotten.

They are a joy to be with.

I spy them becoming little girls again: princesses who don't want to leave the garden. The white fences and rose festooned trellises are a room to expand and just be free.

All in a day's work.

Keep Talking: #91 MRI: What's Inside There?

Keep Talking: #91 MRI: What's Inside There?: It is time for my annual MRI . West Side Radiology at Columbus Circle. This is my second year at this location. I used to go to Park Aven...