I originally wrote this in 4/05. Apparently even Bone didn’t read me then!. My Dawg in shining armor, Doug did read Courting. I guess it was before Google spell check and I wasn’t as good a writer as I am now. Aside from all that I love this post.

I no longer focus on Courting as I write for Psychology Todayabout a disorder I suffer from but had never heard of when I wrote this post

Why is this night different than all other nights?

Because I have to go out to Long Island as it’s so much easier than coming to my apartment in Manhattan. LIRR is the acronym for Long Island Railroad. I hated with a vengeance the first ten minutes of the Jim Carrey/Kate Winslet movie, because it took place on the railroad.

I will never know the joy of celebrating a family holiday in my own apartment and I have resented that for a long time.

” Your apartment is too small,” “Too much work.” “We don’t want you to go to any trouble.” “Where are you going to put the turkey?” Oh wrong holiday–”the matzoh kugel.”

I admit that my sister, who I love so much, is a great cook with great dishes, and does wonderful presentations.

So do I. Hardly anybody cooks anymore, and I’m so practiced at the art of presentation, or taking food bought and cooked at some of the best take-out establishments in the world, and making it look really pretty.

Now there are great take-out places on the Island, so my only real argument is moot.

Tonight it’s at my sister’s in-laws.

Tomorrow it’s at my sister’s where I will sleep tonight. I’m usually a first night, no day person, but I promised my niece. Actually I promised her Mom–but a promise is a promise. This brings up many other issues.

My sister’s house used to be my parents house; we moved there when I was twelve–which would have been child abuse–had they have been aware of the consequence of their actions.

The house looks great. It no longer looks like the house I spent the most miserable five years eight months of my life in. Not that I counted the time or anything like that.

I love visiting the house now.

But holidays always make a single woman who is not the host–or the mommy–feel demeaned. They’re designed that way.

It doesn’t matter what you’ve achieved or not achieved in life. It doesn’t matter what people are really thinking or that once you actually get to the dinner you have a good time. It’s the day leading up to the dinner that’s a bitch.

You think that people who have known you all or most of your life are going to silently nod their heads (and later discuss with spouse) “she had so many opportunities; was such a knock out–how could she have let them all slip away?” As if success in life is measured by first the amount of marriage proposals one has had (I’ve had many,) and then by being and staying married.

You think that the people who are going to meet you for the first time or have met you once or twice will think: “She’s a great conversationalist; not bad looking–actually almost pretty. What could be wrong with her?” You know that they’re going to spend the next two hours dissing you. Though rationally you know that you’re not worth two hours of their time. They have kids. They have really important jobs. They have a 5600 square foot house; your entire apartment could fit into their master closet. Though your apartment is worth as much as their newly married daughter’s 2800 square foot house.

Who cares about your accomplishments? Or that you’ve traversed much of the globe by yourself; have never been a single/divorced/whatever person to sit home and pout over your single status. Since it was by choice you really can’t.

Oh that’s a lie. Not the choice part; the pouting part. I have sat home very very occasionally and pouted, because I will do almost anything to get out of taking the LIRR on a holiday.

It’s me, the 20 somethings, a few people in mismatched plaids (who aren’t making a fashion statement,) and some couples of all ages who whine at each other.

Passover happens to be my favorite holiday, though I have no idea if I believe in God or not, and don’t want to hear about how a belief in
God would make me a person who doesn’t complain and is much happier. I even find reading the Haggadah comforting. Though I didn’t go to my first real Seder until I was fifteen, and we visited relatives in Mobile Alabama.

Yes my father found his religious Jewish identity in the deep South.

Holidays were fun then; I felt secure and loved. But both my parents are gone now, and holidays bring up every unresolved issue in my life. As soon as I get to where I’m going, the issues become resolved until the next time.

I am a happy person who loves to complain in print. I know many singles of all major religions who do believe in God, and complain twice as loudly as me about how unfair holidays are.

Two major differences: They only complain to other singles.

Second difference: I don’t want to get married so that I’ll have a Saturday night and holiday date.

Boring. Stupid.

I really would rather read a book, or travel where I want to.

I mastered solo dining in swank restaurants many years ago. If I want to, I can always find somebody to take me or go with.

Truthfully I’m more satisfied with my self and my life than many married people I know are satisfied with their lives

But on the day before, or the day of a major family holiday I turn into a disgruntled childlike idiot.

Excuse me while I go pout.

I feel as if I wrote this in another world.  In many ways it was!

Happy New Year. It’s a beautiful day. I hope that bodes well for the coming year. Were my mom on this earth she would tell me to get out and take a walk. But I was in Central Park until one Am last night, so she might have excused me on those grounds.

We walked passed Tavern on The Green. Last year there had been ice sculptures and everybody was allowed into the grounds. This year it was balmy and Benny E King was singing outside in the courtyard of the restaurant. Remember him from early childhood “There is a rose in Spanish Harlem.” and other great ’50′s song.

At the band-shell there was a DJ who basically played techno music when he wasn’t playing Frank’s version of “New York, New York.” There was hot chocolate, tea, coffee, a mini-marathon, and the night reminded me of everything that’s good about New York. The crowds were further downtown. We had our own fireworks in the park.

I’m the dodo who asked Lucia and Little Luce what time the fireworks would be. Glad I could be of some amusement value.

I had a bottle of Moet left over from the election. It was the bottle of champagne we were going to celebrate with. (Not the double L’s; it was a school night and Lucia usually stays home when Little Luce has to go to school the next day.)

When I was growing up my parents would go out every New Years to a fancy dress party or costume party. My parents went out every Saturday and I assumed that I would when I grew up.

Well I got married without ever having been on a real date and we had known each other for four years so I don’t know why I thought I would live a sophisticated life.

Okay, we had gone out on about five real dates, but even back in the late ’60′s early ’70′s we traveled in packs. Our idea of a big evening was sitting around looking at each other; our idea of a really big evening was sneaking into the Fillmore East before the main act. (I know that we girls passed for groupies; but I’m not sure what the boys passed for, probably roadies–I mean rock stars, of course.) Or going with a minimum of 20 people to Hong Fat in Chinatown at two AM and running into 40 more people we knew.

I’m thinking about this because the first time I remember meeting INYTBA (an affectionate acronym) was at the Band-shell though we lived on Long Island; and had met there many times. I think the Jefferson Airplane was playing.

The spring before, when I was still in high school, I had seen Country Joe & The Fish “One two three four what are we fighting for,” there. I thought about those lyrics a lot last night. All these years later and I’m wondering again, and the country is polarized once more. I thought about the Band-shell, Central Park, the Be-In’s, the many concerts I have seen there and all the other ways Central Park has been important to me.

I did end up living a somewhat sophisticated life for a number of years. When I lived across from the park in the East 60′s I would have a small New Years Eve party every year for six to ten of my best friends. Then I would have a
First Saturday After New Years Party or Lucia’s Annual Surprise Birthday Party for anywhere from 75 to 200 people. The parties would end somewhere about dawn. I don’t pine for them or the times but sometimes think that somebody else was living my life. I couldn’t have known all those people. Me? But I did.

My friend Patrick would have fancy dress dinners with five courses, and many forks. As my father had been a waiter summers during high school and college, I could set a perfect table by the age of eight.

But Patrick would get so crazed that Lucia or I would use the wrong fork, I would use a wrong fork on purpose just to see his reaction. Patrick and his lover would buy huge tins of Beluga caviar something I proudly hate, and I would feed Patrick my portion by slipping him my portion, by putting my spoon into his hand under the table, so I was never uncouth. It was fun watching Patrick being scared that we would embarrass him in front of his friends from Sutton Place.

I thought about Patrick last night and all the free operas and symphony’s we had attended in The Park.

My Central Park history goes back so long I don’t remember ever not knowing it. My dad would take fave sis and I to climb on rocks–just like the ones he had climbed on when he was growing up in East Harlem, and Central Park was his backyard. Only we wouldn’t go to the northern part of the park then because it wasn’t safe. It is now.

It felt great to be in a place that brings back pleasurable memories and to know that Little Luce was storing her memories in her memory bank to be handed down to still another generation.

It felt great to get away from the real world and its problems for a few hours.
Even the anti-war memories were filtered through a hazed over moon.

I have decided to make a big deal of it. Also my blog has been on life support for years and I want to take it off life support–hopefully with some renewed life. Blogs aren’t people; they can regenerate brain or blog cells. This won’t be until the end of September. I have important things to do, first, such as beat my Exercycle time. (Five miles in 24 minutes is my best so far)
lines I have already written
Bone gave me his ten favorite–well let him say it:
I like to call these Ten Savage Masterpieces.

it can feel as if you’re trapped in a manhole cover or a pot of not quite boiling water. This is about humidity in New York–specifically the Upper West Side

But, and this is a big but

And that’s how I met the man for whom the bells were tolling

The way people have been talking about tents in the local papers you would think they’re as important to good moral character as motherhood, apple pie and lack of taxes. Yeah, a line about here

Sometimes the noted celebrity will also be the crazy person.

If you think of Fairway as a sparring gym for the mind, you’re almost understanding it.

I have no idea what I’m doing. Faking my way through home and garden.

I answered that age old question I never knew I asked

Then I walk four blocks to the beach, actually sit in the fierce gray/brown waves with teal teasing at the horizon and forget everything but how incredible the world is.

CLo and W are exploring their Hispanic/White redneck roots and going to a Dave Matthews concert in New York.

(If you have any favorite lines of mine….There have been articles and blog posts written that just quoted my lines. Unfortunately I don’t have them or they’re somewhere in the abyss called Courting Destiny.

Then of course I had to break a promise to my father–did get special dispensation from my mother and play (and it is a game with absolutely no skill involved anymore) the stock market. For awhile it was incredible. I literally made myself sick and have only myself to blame. I was sick in May and June and have been spending the summer recovering. I really only talk about it to Lil Red and Eldon so most of the world doesn’t realize I didn’t wish for death but thought it was coming soon many days this past spring/early summer. I did wish for a medically induced coma I could be taken out of with a better mind and body–sort of like my blog.

One of my favorite stories. It was a blog favorite back in the days I had a blog that wasn’t on life support. This Friday the 13th will be six years since my first post. There were years I did nothing but blog 24/7. My blog needs a miraculous resurrection. As does its blogger

Sometime in the late 1980′s Lucia, Noel (a male friend who no longer lives in New York, and yes he’s gay) and I were walking up Lafayette Street, in Nolita, a section of Manhattan that was called Noho then. Nolita stands for north of Little Italy, and Noho for north of Houston. We were walking on the east side of the street where there’s a fire station.

We had just left the architectural studio and store that Lucia managed and was the scene of many parties, and occasionally ended up sleeping there when we were too wasted to make it home. It had a shower, bath and almost all the amenities of home except for a bed, but did have a huge table that we would have to clear the dust off, in order to sleep, but, uh most times, we would forget that step.

This is mostly extraneous to the story I’m telling, but good background, for something. We were young and hot though we were the last two to believe that part. Don’t know why; enough people told us, wanted to know us, or marry us. Lucia was a four by 40 girl. This story takes place before the fourth marriage. I was a Maid (or Matron) of Honor more than most women; and I’m only counting Lucia’s weddings. She used to compare herself to Elizabeth Taylor:
“I believe in marrying them, not living with them.”
I’m more the let’s live together, not get married type.

Okay, now that’s out of the way, are there any other deep dark secrets that I can waste time saying: I once voted for a Republican for president; that’s about it. Oh no am I becoming prudish on my birthday? Can’t happen; no I won’t allow that. Here it goes:

It was a hot June night. Not hot as in oppressive, I want to die weather like today, but hot enough. In New York, the hottest part of the day is always dusk when the heat’s had time to settle on the cement, and the buildings seem to ooze both heat and drops of hot water from the air conditioners. The steam rises both from the street, and subway gratings, and it can feel as if you’re trapped in a manhole cover or a pot of not quite boiling water. One thing you learn in New York early and never forget: heat rises.

I was wearing a blue with little pink and yellow flowers bustier dress; the skirt flowed like a Marilyn dress. Here comes the big confession: sometimes when I would a dress like that I wouldn’t wear underwear; go commando as it’s called now. But, and this is a big but, I had a two piece bathing suit that almost exactly matched the dress; only the flowers were a bit larger. That morning in a burst of clothing creativity, I decided to wear the bottom as underwear. To make the dress work appropriate I had worn a blue silk fitted jacket that I had left at the studio.

Noel was walking to my right, and Lucia to my right. The subway grating was right underneath me. The fire station bells began ringing as it did whenever notable people passed it. I couldn’t understand why suddenly Lucia and Noel were trying to tame my dress that was whirling with the blast of hot air from the subway. Their faces had turned bright red, and not from the heat.

Something made me turn around, and face three very well dressed men who were trying not to smile. Two of the men were young, very good looking; “bodyguards,” I thought before my brain had time to register exactly who they were guarding. Or maybe I really didn’t want to realize this. I thought of something clever to say, but before I could say it I began laughing. Real laughter; not girly giggles or shameful bursts of restrained laughter that turns into coughing fits. I knew that as long as I lived I would never forget this meeting. But I just couldn’t stop laughing; the six of us were standing on Lafayette Street, laughing until tears came.

And that’s how I met the man for whom the bells were tolling; the boss of bosses himself, John Gotti, shortly before he went to prison.
If Lucia comments, and she will, do not believe her version. I wasn’t just wearing underpants, I was wearing a shield of armor, a belly covering bathing suit bottom.

No I don’t approve of him or anything he did. Just getting that out of the way. But it’s a hell of a story.

OK I might do this everyday so that it shows my work, the good, bad, ugly and sometimes almost great. This was a post about Fairway, a store that just being two blocks from my coop played a big part in my life as it does every West Sider’s–well now there’s Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s, but then….This post was written in December 2004. It’s just a slice of life.

Fairway’s a dirty, much loved and much hated grocery/produce/take-out store on Broadway in the Upper West Side. It has high quality food for a lower price than we are used to. You never know if you’re going to bump into or be bumped by a noted West Side celebrity, or a crazy person spouting verbiage at everybody or at one person in particular (me). Sometimes the noted celebrity will also be the crazy person.

For many years I would avoid it because crowds make me crazy, or I would go late at night when the store’s much less crowded, and many of the customers are Broadway and other stars. Since I’m really bad at spotting famous people they would have to be pointed out to me. Sometimes they’d be a little annoyed that I didn’t recognize them and introduce themselves to me.

As I said in a prior post, I can gauge my mood by how I react to the daytime crowds. Somehow Fairway can bring out the worst in many people. When somebody would joustle me, I would either apologize for being alive or scream at them. (It’s a Fairway game.) Though the person was the one who stepped on my feet, they would usually accept my “I’m sorry,” by screaming, cursing or saying something sarcastic.

If I would bump into somebody, and apologize the above would happen also.

In the past year for various reasons I’ve become a much calmer person. Therefore I usually find the antics that go on in Fairway amusing. Fairway’s also less crowded (though only a regular would notice that) because of the competition from Whole Foods, other more physically appealing stores, and especially Freshdirect which delivers food that’s ordered over the Internet. There’s a competition going on between the owners of Fairway and Freshdirect that I also find amusing.

Sometimes I still get crazed by Fairway during the day, and know then that I should go home, or somewhere peaceful, because the Upper West Side’s usually crowded, and I don’t want to be among crowds.

Mine is not an atypical reaction, though I’m probably the only person to have analyzed this in such depth. I don’t want to know what that says about me, and my thought processes. I only know that I no longer react when somebody bumps into me, or screams that I have bumbped into them. It would take a miracle not to bump into people as there is very little space between aisles, shopping carts, and people. It’s most people’s nightmare come true.

I usually enjoy watching people argue over space, the last Stonyfeld Caramel Yogurt (oh I’m the one that does that) and such other amazing things as the last purple garlic bulb. I have seen macho men reduced to sniveling and/or tears in Fairway, because somebody snatched something out their hand. Fairway’s competition at its meanest and Survivor has nothing over it.

Any 80 year old who can successfully shop at Fairway can win Survivor as it takes skill, careful planning, coordination and a host of other attributes to shop there and leave in one piece.

There’s just something about Fairway that brings out the worst in people who are usually logical and calm. Fairway’s an almost poetic symbol of the Upper West Side. It’s dirty and hostile seeming on the outside, yet when you take the food home, wash it and prepare it, it’s excellent. Not that people on the West Side are dirty–that’s a dumb metaphor.

The bouncers at the doors, and yes I mean bouncers as in a club, size everybody up before they go in. They only admit people who might go postal, and/or known liberals. They always let the old lefties from parents generation in, because they’re the best at the game.

I’ve never asked what they do with the conseratives, because frankly I don’t want to know.

As much as I tend to dislike Fairway I’d miss it if it were gone. It would also be very bad for the Upper West Side and Manhattan in general as people tend to get their hostility out in Fairway, not on the streets or at home.

If you think of Fairway as a sparring gym for the mind, you’re almost understanding it.