This post is for Bone, Doug, and Dan for living through the prior one. They’re all exceptional bloggers with totally different blogs but are single, (well, Dan’s love life is an interesting subject into itself) straight, from different areas of the country, and I could go on and on but read their blogs.

I’m going to have a post in Bring it on! on Tuesday entitled The belle of the brawl It sounds whiny but is really a political statement about how we devalue aging and every person and thing associated with it.

That title isn’t original to me but is the name of Sar’s new blog. Sar and I began our blogging friendship in what seems to be typical fashion for me, we sparred.

When I lived on East 63rd Street my block was often closed for dreaded parades; that was bad enough. But seemingly weekly until the city made ordinances against filming in one area or one block too often my block was closed off for movies, TV, commercials, et al. They all seemed to star Hal Linden, who looked just like my father. This is important only because I would mistake Hal Linden for my father and tell him he needed to call first. My father thought he owned my apartment which was weird as it was a rental and I held the lease Read more…

Gross and yick alert. I would take it out but I like it. The next post is GP and much cuter

I was sick Friday night through a few hours ago, frankly. Slept from 10:30 AM Saturday to 5:30 PM without waking up once. I thought it was heaven. Then came Saturday night. I have one of the best inner workings of anybody I know; constipation isn’t a word in my vocabulary.

But I hadn’t moved from my bed except to use the bathrooom, and I have one in the bedroom. Bathrooms are incredibly important to me; obviously more important than kitchens as I have a miniscule though granite floored kitchen and two baths, one is marble and has both a bath and stall shower that I can spend way too much time in. Read more…

It hits me, not for the 20th time, that the books and newspapapers are piling up. I have always been a read a book straight through person, then read it again and again, if I like it. Now I read them a third through because I would rather be blogging. But I can’t; I just can’t. If I don’t read who will? Yes I’m a supreme egotist, but I did buy stock in B&N, a bad move, just because I frequent them so much.

Maybe my start button has been stuck; maybe it’s been working all the time and I just haven’t noticed. I think that I have accomplished more than it seems; I think I’m on the royal road to something. But first I need to think about breakfast. Uh, small problem; it’s time to go out to dinner.

This post is Bone inspired. He’s single, straight, a great writer and a great person who lives in Alabama but knows more about Seinfeld than I do.

Frankly any time I can get a cab from Penn Station I consider it a Miracle on 34th Street; but when I was a kid, and still…the original movie with Natalie Wood was one of my five favorite movies, and I watched at least three times during the holidays

I knew the movie so well that once when my family was driving somewhere I screamed at my father to stop the car. As I had never done that before, he did.That’s not true. I would tell my parents to stop the car every time we passed the children’s wing of Creedmore the state mental hospital, and let my sister out. We passed it often so this was a weekly or monthly thing.

My parents found that very funny; so it’s all their fault. I’m very very sorry, fave sis. But, uh, you could be obnoxious also.

I ran up and down the block. It was somewhere around Great Neck/ Lake Success/Manhasset/Roslyn; I believe off the service road from the Expressway which hadn’t been there when the movie was made.

I screamed:
“Buy a house here.” Read more…

Late yesterday afternoon I was emailing a friend when Rafe called. He was in front of my building which has phony “do not park” signs in front of it. Fortunately nobody pays attention. Told my friend that I had to go downstairs to sit with Rafe because who knew when he would be able to get parking? Explained that the balloons were being blown up. Didn’t explain why; thought that the whole world knew. My friend had no idea what I meant and thought that it was a double entredee or pun or something dirty as all three seem to come naturally to me. Read more…

It’s been raining since last night. At times there’s been thunder and lightening but it’s cold and my building either has too much heat or no heat. It’s the later tonight. I had a 10:30 dentist appointment, and left for it at 9:45. Most people wouldn’t have even bothered trying to get a cab but would have taken a crosstown bus and another going down Fifth. But would I? No. I think I’m made of money and always rationalize that since I would have walked if the weather had been nice…

It took fifteen minutes to get a cab; my building entrance is off Riverside Drive, and cabs are on West End, so having a doorman does absolutely no good in a rain/cab situation.

Got in the cab and for some reason looked for my wallet. I had left it home. The fare was $6.50 and I found $6.82, I gave him $6.80 and apologized for the 30 cent tip.

The cab driver could have come from infinite ethnic groups, had a familiar but not instantly placeable accent, and his name had been Americanized which I found strange.

“What did you do that for?”

“Too little money.”

Usually I overtip for karma but I just didn’t have it. The dentists office suite is in a large building my sister and I cleverly call “the dentists building,” because there are so many dentists. It’s on Fifth and 61st; just two blocks from my old apartment, and many people still call it “the new building,” though it was built 20something years ago.

I held up one of the quarters he had thrown:
“I gave you $2.75 in quarters plus four singles.”
“No. My money.”
“No. That was my laundry money.”

Laundry money is sacred. People who don’t have washer dryers, don’t have washer dryers in their building that accepts a card, or send their laundry out collect quarters. It hurt when I counted the quarters and gave it to him. And I’m the person who always figures out the check.

He tried locking me in the cab. I waved to a doorman who came over, and the cab driver had to let me out. Now I didn’t have any money to tip the doorman. All the money I have spent on Karma this past year was gone in two minutes.

Never have a checkbook with me, but I was going to deposit a check and had brought it with me instead of my wallet; the onset of dementia, I know.

Though I’m naturally too fast, I slow myself down to do things extra carefully; otherwise I make truly stupid mistakes. I gave my dentist a check for $20, and was able to get home.

The dentist appointment was virtually pain free; I walked down to Barneys and got a cab immediately. Had been planning to go to Barneys but without credit cards or a bank card…or any ID to show with my check, the safest and only place for me to be was home.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving; don’t give up all your hard spent Karma.

The heat is coming on, and there are so many things and people that I’m thankful for.

I’m thankful that I have seen the blowing of the balloons for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade so many times I don’t even have to feign interest in going out in a nor’easter.

My sister’s birthday will be on Thanksgiving this year. I’m thankful for that Thanksgiving weekend so many, uh just a few short decades ago when my sister was born.

I’m thankful for many other things also. You get the gist. Don’t want to go into a political rant; do enough of them elsewhere.

But I’m thankful that to most Americans dissent doesn’t equal disloyalty.

On Thanksgiving I will listen to the Thanksgiving song: “Alice’s Restaurant,” and think about how it was my father’s favorite song. We lived on Long Island, and our community was Democratic then. We even had a great Congressman Lester Wolf, a consummate Jew, who once disguised himself as an IRA member when in Ireland during the height of the troubles. Don’t ask; I don’t remember exactly what he was doing. But our district was gerrymandered and he lost his job.

My dad supported the war in Viet Nam; I found it ironic how much he loved “Alice’s Restaurant,” until I realized that my father might have supported the war but he liked the people who didn’t support it better. Frankly I never knew a person except my father who did support that war.

He was similar to a professional Archie Bunker with class and I was his Meathead. What would you rather I have been Sally Struthers? And forgive me somebody for all the Sally Struthers jokes that I have told over the years. But I can think of five new ones right now without thinking. Forgive me for that also.

End of politics. I am so thankful for all the people I have met this year; for this adventure in self discovery that my blog enabled me to undertake in more ways than just writing, many more ways. Most of all, at this particular moment, I am thankful to The Long Island Press

But mostly I’m thankful that in a life filled with guilt, as I have the Judith Miller gene combo, I have never ever felt that sex outside of marriage is a bad thing or something to feel guilty about. Do I really have to add that I don’t think sex with somebody who is married and not to you isn’t such a wonderful thing or something that I would feel comfortable doing now?

There’s a soaking rain that makes it feel much later than 8:30; I want to get into bed and play possum for a month or three. But life, it keeps getting in the way of such a solitary egotistical pursuit. In the morning I have yet another dentist appointment for implants. Now that the rods are in I feel like my own heavy metal band.

I would have mortgaged my soul to do this. Fortunately I didn’t have to. It’s tedious, has taken forever, and has taught me to understand “it is what it is.” Patience, man. It’s all about patience.

Usually I walk at night; I have turned into a nocturnal creature because the streets are less crowded, and the chain stores don’t glare out at me. It seems more like the old Upper West Side, the one that had grit and that I fell in love with. Panic in Needle Park was filmed in a park on West 72nd where the new subway stop is. It is beautiful, inviting and I have never sat there.

Needle Park was danger; it was junkies and bag people with much mental baggage.

A doctor’s widow lived on the first floor of Lucia’s building. Somehow crack dealers moved in and took over her life. When Lucia was robbed, the police told her they knew who was responsible but couldn’t prove it.

There were small kids in the buiding; Little Luce would be born several years later. She turned 15 yesterday and wouldn’t really be shocked to know that there once were crack syringes all over the first floor and the stoop we always sit on and watch the world go by.

The people in the building arranged for the widow to be moved to an adult facility, and were able to have the crack dealers evicted. The woman was killed by a bus a week after moving.

Lucia’s building is my favorite city apartment building. There’s a core group who have been there forever. Gods Love; we deliver, a large AIDS organization, began in the building. I have had friends in that building since I first moved to Manhattan. It is my history too.

My building is old also. But it’s fancier. Its story is similiar; most buildings on the Upper West Side have faded glory stories and rejuvenation ones too. My building had a rent strike before it became a coop; now it’s a big deal. Lucia’s building remained a rental because the owners wanted to keep the stores under it.

Though I love my acidic memories I am very grateful for the present. While I don’t sit on the benches in the new park, I walk down to the river to sit and walk even late at night during spring and summer. In late fall and winter I only go down during the day. Yes I would rather be safe.

I have talked often of how I’m falling out of love with Manhattan, and I am. But I will always desire it.

Though I live in the center of Manhattan, on the Upper West Side, in early morning and on Sunday I can hear many types of birds. Obviously I have always lived in the city or suburbs as sometimes I believe the sounds to be coming from giant pre-digitial stereo speakers.

I was typing in tune to The Subdudes my group of the year. Suddenly my Bose stereo went off; I’m not enamoured with my stereo, It’s one for non music lovers as it lacks depth, or so I think. But it’s reliable; in its place I heard all the people who were at a party in a townhouse, and a loud high c noise–uh, a, uh–car alarm.

My block is so quiet at night that a car alarm is disruptive. I have never lived in such a quiet place; the white noise from The West Side Highway sounds like ocean waves and all I need is a salt machine. I know, Kramer made one. Sometimes I feel as though we share much in common.

The noise went on and on. I called the doorman who knew about it. He suggested that I call 311; the city complaint number. I did and only had to wait a moment or two.

“Are you sure that it’s a car alarm? Could it be a horn?”
Was that a trick question? Once I drove all the way uptown with my friend Patrick when his horn was stuck. He was mortified; Lucia and I couldn’t stop laughing. It did sound like this.

“Well, it could be a stuck horn.”

The woman sighed.
“Can you tell me what model car it is?”

“I have absolutely no idea what car it’s coming from.”

“You have to know something. You have to know if it’s a horn or a car alarm.”

“I think it’s a car alarm. It could be a stuck car horn. I don’t know. It’s very very loud…” I put the cordless phone out the window and played it for her.

“Well, I don’t know….”

“Right, exactly. It’s just very loud.”

“There’s a special noise complaint number. You’re supposed to call your local police precinct.”

“You are? I thought 311 was the number for all non-emergency calls.”

“No. Who told you that?”

“The mayor? Not personally of course but…”

“Well, I’ll be glad to take your complaint. Wait a minute.”

She put me on hold. Five minutes later the call was lost. It’s been an hour and a half and the noise is still going on. My stereo suddenly went back on, and once again I’m typing in time to The Subdudes.

When my sister’s sister-in-law was in South Beach with her boyfriend and his family they walked into what they thought was a museum, sat down and asked somebody where the bathroom was.

It turned out to be Versace’s mansion and when my then ten year old niece heard the story she thought it was the funniest story she had ever heard. They just walked into the house he had been killed in; fabulous security Donatella installed.

In order for my niece to graduate from elementary school she had to do a family heritage albumn that had to include grandparents, parents, and siblings, if any. But not aunts or uncles.

My niece put a picture of my sister’s sister-in-law, her boyfriend and his entire family in the heritage albumn along with the story.

I’m not included. Now I have told her funny stories until I have fallen down exhausted; I buy her Juicy clothes and jewelry from Tiffany’s. It’s not the presents that I care about. I have told her some darn funny stories; I am the funny aunt. I’m also the aunt she can ask the embarrassing questions to, and I know that counts more than anything but I really really really want to make it into the family heritage albumn. Don’t they remember me when I’m not around? Do I have to say:
“hey I was adopted. I’m playing the so I’m finally being treated as the adopted one after our parents are dead?”
Or:
“I don’t get into the albumn because I don’t have a male half?”

They’re kinda immature but works as a final way of assuring my place in the family heritage abumn. But I decided to go for mature.

“So why aren’t I in the albumn?”
“I didn’t want her to do aunts at all.”
“So why didn’t you tell her that?”
“Because she really loved the story and had a picture of all of them.”

Have to interject here that if I were my sister I would have said:
“you have two aunts. Both go in or neither do.”

But I’m not my sister. I remembered a story and a great picture; I mean a really good seen by millions picture.

“Remember the picture of me in the national magazine last spring when fave niece was making her albumn?”
“Yes…”
“You called me and told me about it, but didn’t believe it was me because I hadn’t told you?”
“Yes.”
“And I didn’t get my copy until the next day, and then I spent eight hours looking at it until I was sure it was me?”
“Yes…”
“Well wasn’t that a funny story with a good picture?”

The picture had been taken the year before at a launch party for a new magazine. The pictures accompanying the article were individual ones of prototype New Yorkers with a certain edge. Everybody was dressed in all white or brown; I was dressed in all white, and the background had been digitized.

I’m going to be in the family heritage albumn. I also made sure that my niece understood that I lived in the street next to Versace’s East 64th Street Townhouse when he was alive; Ivana Trump lives on that block as does many other famous people.

I made sure that she understood that Rafe’s hairsalon was on 64th but is now on East 65th, and she will be pampered when she chooses to spend the day with me exploring my old neighborhood.

Sometimes I have to fight with whatever means necessary to have my place in the family heritage albumn. I think our parents would have wanted that.

Life is good. Sometimes even I have to accept that. Yesterday I was given an amazing gift; still I have to learn how to graciously accept gifts as I am better at giving them.

Writing has long been my salvation; my way of working out problems and recently physical pain. I am a compulsive writer and now blogger. When Google added a spell check to its toolbar my life felt complete. I dream of a blogger’s convention where all the bloggers I like, and there are so many will meet along with still more bloggers. Then we’ll take over the world.

Blogging has given me the feedback that I have craved; it’s also hardened me. Though Courting has my soul, I am a political blogger too, and I recommend that highly to any person who has ever needed a thicker skin.

Of course you can be too thin skinned to begin with, and literally, I am. But that’s just my outer layer. When Lucia and I were first friends and met in a woman’s group every Saturday afternoon she once described me as being similar to a Ming Vase; fragile on the outside and much tougher inside.

But that was many years ago and I no longer have the protective armor of youth. Have to say that I feel young and that youthful looks run in my family. No I wasn’t born to my parents but they were my models, and damn good ones.

I realize now that when my sinful life was exposed, I was angry because people weren’t just attacking my moral/values but my parents, and their parents lives for my values derive directly from them.

I was wrong to react at that moment because I was in physical pain, and writing from anger is the best pain reliever I have ever found. I should have waited until I felt better and then I should have asked three simple questions:

Why are you so intolerant?
What gives you the right to judge?
Do you believe that America is a democracy where people are free to live as they choose within the confines of the law?

But I could be a drama queen so I chose not to wait. Today I choose to stop being a drama queen and to accept the good that comes my way. I know that I will have setbacks and so I ask my friends, and they know who they are, to accept my occasional tirades and/or looking at the bad instead of all the good for I have been blessed and I know it

Won’t even tell you that if you plan on reviewing my work you should have a love of language, elegance, wit, insight, and neither be overly clever or cute at all. No won’t say that

Not everything in my life had gone the way I planned it and somethings were downright awful. I changed from being a relentless optimist to somebody who saw the bad in things.

That wasn’t really me, and I never felt comfortable in the role though I seemed to embrace it.

Today is a new beginning and I plan on taking full advantage of it.

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