For the Love of (Table and) Chairs

Just like "the boy" from the Electric Company, I have been starring in my own silly soap-like saga involving a chair.  Can the old table and chairs help me begin a new life chapter? Tune in tomorrow.

It’s funny. Back when I was about five or six, there was a segment on the Electric Company called “Love of Chair.” And for some reason it reminds me of the child-sized wooden table and chairs that sat in my bedroom from the time I was a toddler until a few months ago when I was finally able to purge one tiny speckle of my past from my present. My husband lugged the childhood mementos off to the Goodwill shop in Astoria where hopefully they found a home with a nice family. I did not make the trek with him to the other side of Queens when he relinquished these beloved keepsakes. That might have caused too much pain—like saying goodbye to a friend that you may have known for your entire life and whom you may never see again. I’d like to say I still lament the loss of my table and chairs. But while they were important fixtures of my past, they became a burden in my present and I am actually glad their space is now occupied by my husband’s stuff including a microphone, speaker and other musical equipment along with an array of socks, shorts, t-shirts and pants that are overflowing from his dresser’s drawers. New clutter. But definitely a sign that I’m moving from a yesterday filled with fear and sadness into a today that is filled with hope and happiness—well, some joy, when I’m wasting time and looking back on yesteryear. But this is how it unfolded.

"It's time once again for everybody's favorite soap opera, Love of Chair!” the off-screen announcer began while the action focused on a boy in a bare room where the only other visible object was a brown wooden chair that looked like the kind that one could find in any classroom. 

 The announcer (who sounded just like Gary Owens from Laugh In) described all of the boy's "actions" like “The boy stands up” or “The boy picks up the chair,” the background organ music became much more dramatic and the camera would zoom in on the motionless boy. Actually mom and I used to be haunted and creeped-out by this segment. The boy never moved as the announcer asked several rhetorical questions about what might happen to the boy or the chair in a very dramatic tone of voice, accompanied by a sting of organ music. Will the boy stand up again? Will the chair break? Will you break the chair? The announcer concluded with "Tune in tomorrow for Love of Chair!"

 Well, I recently starred in my own saga called, “For the Love of Table and Chairs.” What about me? Will I ever get rid of these table and chairs? Will I ever let go of yesterday, stop worrying about tomorrow and start living in the present?

I often find myself drowning in the clutter of yesterday, literally and figuratively. I've had such a hard time saying goodbye. Been trying to do it for years. Well, not sure how hard since I am still almost completely surrounded by my past. Old toys, dolls and this damn table and chairs. It is almost embarrassing to admit I still have so much of this stuff. My name is Auntie Grizelda. I am an “I can’t let go of the past and allow myself to be happy” a holic. There has to be some kind of metaphor here with letting go of the child’s table and chairs who made the pilgrimage from childhood into adulthood—although I seriously consider at times, if I ever really grew up. Is there some kind of metaphor one can insert like, She once sat down to tea parties here, will they ever wrap up?  Will she ever grow up? Well, I sure had many tea parties when I was a kid. Actually up until recently, I hated tea, even the imaginary kind. So make that Hawaiian punch or Hi-C and devil dog parties with my friends or with myself. But at age 45, the tea party has to be over. Grow up, Chiquita. I am so Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland. No make that Auntie Grizelda in 1970’s land. Still have all my old board games, dolls and other paraphernalia from when I was a kid. Brady Bunch and Partridge Family pictures, albums, lunchboxes. You name it. Why am I holding on to a past that was never even happy. I was lonely, sitting alone in my room mostly, inventing adventures for my Barbies. Still have those, too. But most things are in a sad condition. Covered in dust. Well, the table and chairs are actually doing okay. But I have been put on notice by the hubby. They need to go. Duh. They should have been gone more than 25 years ago. No, make that 30 years ago. I mean, why does any adult need this stuff?

The table and chairs completely adorned with memorabilia and clutter. Pretty scary, right?

 The hubby put me on notice. It has to go. The table and chairs are no longer functional. Well, they do hold a few books including a rock and roll encyclopedia, a few pix including one of me with dee jay Bobby Jay from my WCBS-FM days and an autographed picture of Peter Noone from Herman’s Hermits. When I was a child, I would eat some meals here and my friends and I would enjoy snacks, too. The table is round with four legs. They have hold up through time, pretty well. The pair of matching chairs, too. Brown. Just the right size for a five year old but could hold the weight of an average sized adult tush, too. Just double checked. Yup, can still support my arse. Rectangular backing, square seat. You know, I don’t even think the cats bother using it for a nap, either. No real purpose. What’s really sad is that some of the stuff here I did not even acquire as a kid. I got the Mrs. Beasley doll when I first moved into my apartment. The Partridge Family and Family Affair lunchboxes followed shortly afterwards along with Sonny and Cher dolls, Drowsy and a Cinammon-Love doll. E-bay helped me buy back my past. My poor Velvet and Chrissy dolls are covered in dust. So I got a clean collectible version of Look Around Chrissy. Got Kerry, too. Why? DO I want to be eight or nine again? No way--don't want to be that sad, lonely, only child again. Then throw it away!

I remember my mother was thrilled when I took the table and chairs with me when I moved out when I was 32. It took me 32 years to break free and fly the proverbial coop. I felt so guilty leaving my parents behind especially since they both had so many emotional "issues." I knew my mother might "crack" if her little girl left the nest--and she did--ended up for a couple of weeks in the psych ward at Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan. 


Even after I moved out and she was still somewhat able bodied (and after her stint in Lenox Hill), she’d come over to my house with my laundry. And I remember when my best friend and I took a trip upstate to a disastrous singles’ weekend and had a huge tear-fest in the car back home listening to Carole King’s Tapestry, wondering if we’d ever find our lives’ partners, my parents babysat my cat. It was actually very comforting when I returned to my apartment, they were sitting on my sofa waiting for me. Actually, I remember my mom tucking me in that night like I was a kid again, turning off the lights, while the table and chairs sat nearby. That felt good but sadly my mom got very ill shortly following this and it soon became difficult for her to venture out of bed, yet alone out of her apartment.

My dad experienced the worst and awful. Lost his mind and 80 members of his family in the Holocaust. He grew up in what used to be Czechoslavakia but was an orphan at age 15. He wore two hearing aides from the time he was a young man. Witnessed what must have been some of the most atrocious crimes man ever committed against mankind during his one and a half year stint in Auschwitz. He did not talk about it a lot. All I know is that he had not worked since I was ten years old. So dad was home a lot. He was somewhere in the house while I was having my pretend cup of tea with my Drowsy doll (decked in her bright pink polka dot pajamas) at the table and chairs.

I wish I could say those table and chairs provided some kind of comfort. But not really. Looking at them actually causes flashbacks to a childhood where I sat on the floor in my room, dressing up my cat or inventing imaginary stories for my Barbies because I did not have any one to play with. So much loneliness. What about now? I am not that lonely child anymore. I am married to my soul mate--a mellow, accepting musician dude with the bluest eyes and blonde pony-tail from Hawaii who tolerates me and my "stuff." Perhaps, it would be better if he would just chuck it all away for me. But it's not fair to ask anyone to do that. I got to do it myself. Besides, he is too respectful of me and my things to do that. This reminds me of the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where the damn suitcase sat on the stairwell for weeks before Ray or his wife would move it. But these table and chairs have been parked here for an entire lifetime. Is it just laziness? After all, I am totally capable of spending entire afternoons on the couch doing nothing more than petting my cats and watching bad talk shows and General Hospital. 

I swear if most folks saw the crap that I still own, they would write me a ticket to the funny farm or Bellevue. Sometimes, I think that is where I belong. I am not going to lie and say I was saving this set for my own children—the kids I never had. To be honest, the thought did not even cross my mind. If I owned a house, I could just throw them up in an attic.  Sometimes looking at all of this stuff makes me want to throw up. Sometimes I wish I could purge myself of all the clutter and regurgitate some of those memories that are laden with sadness. Yup, the table and chairs have to go. They will go. Tomorrow. Not a Scarlet O’Hara tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon. They are going to the thrift shop to begin their next chapter. And once they are gone, hopefully, I can move on, too—and continue getting rid of the stuff that just continues to cause heartache.

From this angle, my old chair looks sad and lonely or maybe I'm just projecting my own old feelings onto an old piece of furniture.

Post Script to "What a Drag it is Getting Old (er)"

Have to keep reminding myself what John Lennon said that  we make our own dreams and can't wait for others to do it for us!

So I shared the previous post with my husband and he was like, “Yeah, and now what?”

“What do you mean, now what?” I retorted.

“Well, it sounds like you are still waiting for a knight or someone to rescue you. How are you going to save yourself?” he quizzed me. “Seems like you are hoping for someone else to come along and make it better.”

I guess but we cannot help how we feel. I always know what I need to do to move forward—mostly letting go of the past and focusing on and appreciating the present. I know I have a lot to be thankful for—a great husband, good health (except for a few female issues), a great job, great friends, great volunteer opportunities where I’ve met so many cool, new people and for this precious sabbatical break I was given this year to “find myself.” (Not that I was ever lost—just stuck from allowing myself to pursue what makes me happy because I was too busy worrying about trying to prove to other people that I was a decent person, decent teacher, decent whatever).

It reminds me of a great John Lennon quote. “Produce your own dream. If you want to save Peru, go save Peru. It’s quite possible to do anything, but not if you put it on the leaders and the parking meters. Don’t expect Carter or Reagan or John Lennon or Yoko Ono or Bob Dylan or Jesus Christ to come and do it for you. You have to do it yourself.”

We all know this is the truth—that we cannot expect someone else to make our dreams come true or we may just wait our entire lives for it to happen.  This is the stuff I preach to my students all the time but it’s the old cliché, practice what you preach. Lately instead of focusing on all of the people who do not like me and trying to please them (which in turn, makes them dislike me even more), I have focused on pursuing my passions. Writing, cats and singing.  I have been devoting lots of my sabbatical time to all of these causes. Re-discovering my own voice as a writer here on this blog, along with trying to raise money for a couple of local animal rescue groups. Cats are my passion. If I could take every single one of them who is sitting in a shelter and give them a loving home, I would. But no one can do that. So I do my part by visiting and feeding kitties on a regular weekly shift and doing what ever I can to help raise awareness, donate money and time to fundraising. Already helped one group raise nearly $1500 for some needy pets and helped coordinate a soon to be launched “Faces” t-shirt campaign that will feature one of the long-term residents of the catroom where I volunteer at. This will be a part of a huge social media blitz and I hope it will raise lots of money for needy cats, help the kitty starring on the shirt get adopted and just make people aware of the importance to spay & neuter their pets, adopt not shop for them and to consider bringing a furry creature or two into their lives. And last week, I had one of my bucket moments—getting to sing in a New York City nightclub onstage with a bunch of pro musicians. So who says dreams can’t come true? At any age!

WHAT A DRAG IT IS...GETTING OLD(ER)

Is this really me? Am I turning into an old lady?

The following exchange took place between a colleague and me in her car, en route to a  “teacher” get together a couple of summers ago. The gathering itself, a bunch of middle-aged ladies sitting around in the big backyard of one of my colleague’s beautiful home for a “chat and chew” session-luncheon was pretty uneventful but man, I’ll never forget these few painful words that reminded me I am so not a kid anymore.

“What are you now, 48?”

“Forty-eight? Are you kidding me?”

“Forty-six?”

I am forty-four f***ing years old, Raina. Do I really look that old to you? Yes, 44 f***ing years old is old to me.  I have been on this planet for 44 years. It sucks getting older. Aches and pains start to set in and one starts to think about dropping dead. Well, I do not really think about dying, just about getting some dreadful disease, suffering in pain and slowly deteriorating, like my mother. She died a slow death for nearly ten years as she battled Parkinson’s, emphysema, arthritis, incontinence and dementia, losing control of her body and mind, needing constant care and constantly going in and out of lucid states as well as hospitals and rehab facilities. Was I going to end up like her? For nearly ten years, I watched her body and mind corrode and how for the final few years, she lay in bed where she needed help feeding herself and even sitting up. She sometimes needed an oxygen tank and even the mere utter of  a few words caused great discomfort and difficulty.

My dad is there now. Although the doctor insists there is not much physically wrong with my 82 year old father, a Holocaust survivor, it is so depressing to watch him lay in bed, day after day, a victim of severe depression and dementia. Even though he has hearing aids, he chooses to “tune out” from the world and usually just sleeps or stares mindlessly at NY1 or CNN on the television screen. I try to get him out once in a while to the diner or to sit outside in the park. Nowadays, he barely even speaks beyond thanking me for coming to visit and to reassure me, “I’m okay.” No, you’re not dad. But I am just glad you are still here.

I already feel like I am wearing down as I have constant discomfort in my lower back and a dull ache in my left inner thigh that only gets worse after a run on the treadmill. Is that related to the fibroid? Or could it be worse? Ovarian cancer? My stomach tends to get bloated (should I just blame it on the cream cheese?) And I have found myself running more often to the bathroom than ever before. Sometimes I find myself in the bedroom, wondering why I made the trek from the other room or forgot what I had for lunch yesterday. Am I, too, becoming senile and suffering from early dementia? Why can’t I stop obsessing and live in the moment?

At one point, I thought I'd be a hip writer like Sarah Jessica Parker's Carrie Bradshaw from Sex & the City. Now what?

It's not even possible on those beautiful, sunny days when I find myself sitting in Ft. Totten Park, by the Throgs Neck Bridge in Bayside, Queens. Fort Totten is a local army base but the adjacent park is a peaceful place to park under a tree or sit in the sun, read a book or just watch the cars transition between Queens and the Bronx, over Litltle Neck Bay. I remember one particular early August day a couple of years ago, I was looking at the calm water with sailboats in the background, enjoying sweet summer breeze under the tree and forcing myself to write something on this damn computer. If only I had a laptop. Then I could do the Carrie Bradshaw-Sex in the City thing, I think to myself. Go anywhere and write all of these incredibly funny stories of my life. Dating adventures. Observations of the absurdities and neurosis of New Yorkers and the entire human race in general. If only…Well, here it is. A marvelous Macbook that I have had for nearly a month. What have I got to show for it? Not much. Brain freeze and the same lame excuse, “writer’s block.”

Even now I wonder, is it old (or at least) middle age that causes me to often just sit on the couch, petting cats and not aspiring to do much besides fiddle with my Iphone, play Scrabble or check in on Facebook for the zillionth time in the day to see how hardly anyone bothers responding to my posts that I think are so incredibly thoughtful? I say I won’t bother putting up anymore because nobody bothers acknowledging them or my existence—except of course, the following post, “Mission accomplished. Heard the Mr. Softee music from my window and actually made it downstairs in time for a vanilla soft serve with chocolate sprinkles. WINNING!”That gets 19 likes and several folks chiming in with their two cents like, “No Mr. Softee in my neighborhood these days. I can't say I miss the Mr. Softee music, but I miss the ice cream!” Puh-leeze!  Meanwhile, when I share and comment on others’ blog posts about how the education system needs to teach kids about creativity, critical thinking and most importantly compassion for all living creatures, that gets just a couple of “likes.” Well, I guess more folks are interested in satisfying their sweet cravings than thinking about our responsibility to shaping the minds’ of young people. Hope they’re at least noticing these shares even if they’re choosing not to respond.

Cut to more recent drama at the supermarket. Here I am at the checkout line in Pathmark one morning when the cashier asks me, “Do you have a 55 plus card?” Are you kidding me? This did not make my day.

It totally sucks getting older and it sucks even more when someone (in this case, a lady who was obviously no spring chicken herself) points it out to you. It’s not just vanity. Of course, when you’re 45, it is flattering to hear that you look like you’re 38 or 40. It’s just more of a reality check. “Like, oh s**t, I am so not a kid anymore” and knocking on heaven’s door is not just a song. It’s something that could be beckoning at anytime. Wasn’t it the Stones that sang, “What a drag it is getting old?” Never got it. Til now. But what’s the alternative?

And then the next day after the Pathmark scene, for a fleeting moment, I thought I might actually be a goner and about to come face to face with "the alternative." But at first, I felt like humming the old Carpenters tune, On the Top of the World! Following my weekly volunteer cat shift in Hell’s Kitchen on a Tuesday morning, I stopped for coffee with my "kitty" partner (who helps me feed, clean & scoop litter boxes), and I had a voice lesson with my singing teacher practicing my favorite Amy Winehouse tune, You Know I’m No Good (in preparation for my very first nightclub appearance with my husband's band). I'm feeling like Julie Andrews at the beginning of the Sound of Music--very alive and not middle-aged at all! After all, I am a teacher on sabbatical--hear me roar! But then I decided to grab a quick bite before heading over to the New York Sports Club for a run on the treadmill. (I try to head to the gym at least three times a week and no excuses now that I am still not teaching). I was a bit hungry so I stopped for a slice of pizza—which I am not even supposed to be eating since my acupuncturist put me on a dairy, soy and sugar free diet last summer along with some Chinese herbs to try to combat my fibroids.  That’s a whole other saga, as well. I had been following it pretty well up until about a month ago when I began an iced coffee with milk, Mr. Softee  and black and white cookie binge that is still out of control. Pizza before a workout is never a great idea. In fact, I remember getting very nauseous a couple of times before when I ate pizza and then headed directly to the gym. However, this was a whole new experience.

I LOVE Amy Winehouse, listening to and singing her tunes. How much longer before I end up like her and all of my dead heroes?

I got on the treadmill as I normally do, punched in 60 minutes, plug into the Monkees on my Iphone’s I-pod and start running at the pace I normally begin with—6.2 for the first 15-20 minutes. Had to slow it down after only about ten minutes. Began sweating more than usual and started getting extremely nauseous, crampy, fatigued with a pain in my neck. I am usually able to plug through my workouts, even when I get tired. But this was different. I was a little shot of breath, felt light-headed and even had a pain in my ncck. Yikes, I am I about to join my beloved Davy Jones and complete the life cycle? Somehow, I managed to keep walking quickly until after 45 minutes and 4.25 miles, I keeled over and collapsed on the treadmill. Sat there for about 20 minutes while gym patrons got on treadmills and ellipticals besides me and did not even ask if I was okay—neither did any of the gym personnel. It wasn’t until I finally got up about half an hour later and made my way  to a chair, did one of the girls ask, “Oh, do you need some water?” No, bitch, I thought to myself. Didn’t you see me nearly passed out on the treadmill? Where were you a few minutes ago when my guts felt like they might come out of me from both ends? “Oh, I’m think I’m okay now,” I respond meekly.  “Oh, we could call an ambulance if necessary.” “No, I’ll be fine.” Thankfully, my heart rate slowed down and the cramping began to subside. I thought I might have been sick all over the treadmill. Had to call my husband to come and meet me. He suspected a blood sugar drop triggered this episode and I did feel a lot better after drinking some apple juice.  A trip to the doctor that included an echo-cardiogram and complete physical seemed to show my heart was okay. For now.

Robin Gibb died a few weeks ago. Donna Summer passed away two days before that. Gary Carter earlier this year. These were all icons from my generation, masterful performing artists and a great athlete—stricken with cancer and who suffered greatly during the last few months of their lives (although friends of Ms. Summer said they did not have a clue she was so ill). Then of course, my beloved Davy Jones! Was he the lucky since he suffered a massive heart attack and apparently died quickly? Perhaps, but imagine the shock it caused his friends and family and not to mention, his millions of fans. Granted, Robin, Donna, Gary and Davy were all several years older than me at the time of their deaths but certainly not old. And yes of course, there were two iconic pop stars Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson whose time on this planet was cut short in the past couple of years due to substance abuse issues. I grew up with these folks! I remember Michael and his brothers performing Dancing Machine on American Bandstand like it was yesterday. Then what about Sheryl Crow, the singer who keeps herself in top physical shape and has already successfully battled breast cancer and now finds herself with a benign brain tumor? She’s just a few years older than me.

In about ten years, I will be 55 and a member of that dreaded 55 plus club. It seems just like yesterday, I was obsessing about turning 30. Once, I hit 40, I started realizing that I am not going to be on this miraculous place called “earth” forever. It was about then that I started to have a couple of health issues—a herniated disc and I was diagnosed with fibroids and needed minor surgery to remove an ovarian cyst. Following the surgery, there were a few minor complications—well, I guess not being able to pee is not that minor. But after a few days of being catheterized and walking around with a bag to store my urine, I was so happy when I went to the doctor, he removed the catheter and I was able to go to the bathroom on my own. We take so many things for granted including being in charge of and able to control our bodily functions. Hey, I saw how with my own mom that even being able to sit up and feed oneself is not something you can take for granted.

When you’re 25, you don’t think about dying. You are just so focused on you, your own insecurities and trying to get ahead in the world. You think you’re invincible. Well, I don’t think I ever really thought I would live forever. It’s funny. There’s a book my fifth graders read called Tuck Everlasting where the main character is immortal. The kids have interesting discussions on whether or not they would want to live forever, if they could. Interestingly, the average lifespan in the US is just over 78 years old (up from 70 in 1960). We are living longer but still. It sucks watching your youth and decent looks begin to fade. Now when I look in the mirror (or in the camera on my I-phone), I am shocked at the lady with the dark circles and wrinkles under her eyes that stares back. I recognize the smile but the creases are getting deeper. Is that really me?  

Even if we could, would we choose to be immortal like Elizabeth Montgomery's Samantha on Bewitched?

I sit at a local Korean coffee shop, typing away on my computer, next to a few elderly Asian folks who seem perfectly content to sip their teas and enjoy their red bean cake, mochi and almond cookies. They are completely covered in wrinkles. The man and one of the ladies who has a straw hat on top of her head walk with canes and exit the shop, smiling and laughing on their way out the door. They don’t seem to mind being old or at least they seem to be satisfied in the moment of consuming their hot beverages and snacks while conversing with each other. If these elders can live in the moment, why can’t I?

Always afraid of what could happen rather than just live in the moment.  Even the day I got married, on our walk from City Hall to lunch at the South Street Seaport, I got a call from the radiologist’s office where I had my mammogram that I needed to come back in for more pictures. Oh great, now that I have finally gotten married after more than 40 years of being by myself, I probably have stage four of terminal breast cancer and won’t live to see my first anniversary. Tried not to think about it for the next few days during our honeymoon upstate but it was still difficult to stay in the moment and not worry about what could happen. Thankfully, I was still seeing my old gynecologist and his assistant called to reassure me that it is routine for many women to go back for more pictures and thankfully after a follow-up sonogram, I was told everything was in fact, okay. In fact, I am so thankful after enduring that quick yet painful booby procedure every year, to not receive a phone call and rather just get the paper mailed to you that says, “Current findings are normal. Come back next year for your routine exam.” Great, I’m fine now but who knows what news the next mammo will deliver?

As far as aging goes, I just never really thought about it. I used to be told how great I looked. Mirror, mirror, on the wall…When I was 15, it was actually a compliment to hear that I could be 18. “You look so mature!” I was often told. Trust me, that is no longer the case. Well, yes, I have been asked if I was older than I am but you do not feel proud at this stage when you look mature. You feel like an aging piece of meat left out to rot or a building that is falling apart—antiquated, dilapidated and decayed.

I am no longer 25 and frankly, I would not want to be. Too much angst, soul searching and trying to “find myself.” Now, wait a minute, that’s still me! Will I ever get to write a book?  Will I be able to continue teaching my gifted and talented students for the next few years? Will I be able to keep up with the rigorous demands of my teaching profession once I go back to work in the fall? If not, what will I do with my life? The only thing is when you’re 25, there’s always hope. There’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow, you will get that perfect job. Tomorrow, you will meet your knight in a business suit and ride off into the sunset in a Lexus with those 2.2 kids of yours strapped to the kids’ seats in the back. Seems that’s every woman’s dream—to be a wife, mother and settle into the perfect home with the backyard in the ‘burbs. Never was really my dream, really. And now in my mid-forties while I am thankful to have found a wonderful life partner but besieged with fibroids and other “female issues,” mommy-hood is no longer an option. Not that it ever was my life’s driving passion.

Growing up in clutter and total dysfunction, my dream was merely to get out of my parents’ apartment. Felt trapped but for 32 years, I just did not have the mental strength to fly the proverbial coop which often came close to suffocating me. Never felt very good about myself. Lonely. A social misfit. 

Never had more than one or two friends at a time. Never went to the high school prom or even to my high school graduation. Never had a group of girlfriends to travel with or hit the Hamptons-Fire Island party scene with. For one or two moments, made a new friend but it never lasted. Would become too dependent on that person and everyone knows how those kind of relationships go. They don’t last. Break out the violins and strum up the orchestra. Here I go feeling sorry for myself again! So many people stayed in touch with friends they had from childhood, high school or college. Not me. It’s been lonely for most of my life. I’d often retreat into a fantasy world. At first, I’d create scenarios where I am the anchor of the Today show or Eyewitness News and living some jet-setting life where I get to travel all over, covering stories for the media. Then, when I did the sports writing thing in my early 20’s, I imagined I’d be off visiting some minor league baseball team and meet a real-life Crash Davis who would fall in love with me. He’d get called to the big leagues and I’d join him in all of his big league adventures.  Wake up, girl!

 At one point, I thought that would be me instead of Katie Couric co-anchoring the Today Show.

No I was not 200 pounds with oversized, thick-framed glasses. I was usually in reasonably good shape with a decent smile and when my overly processed hair was blow-dried at the salon, I looked kind of cute. Again, just never felt great about myself. I grew up in a household filled with constant bickering and putdowns. I never developed any coping mechanisms or how to properly interact with people. In social situations, I would generally retreat and feel overwhelmed. I’d be the one off in the corner with my hands folded, kind of expecting that some cool guy would come up to me. Certainly did not realize that my omni-present budha-like pose was intimidating. I also had trouble making eye contact. If someone even half-way decent would look my way, I’d look away, afraid to show interest. What? You looking at me? I was so scared. In fact, I have always lived in some kind of fear. The fear used to be of being alone yet never doing anything about it. Now it’s mostly a fear about getting old, decrepit and dying.

Feel very blessed that for the past year, I have been on a teacher sabbatical and had the chance to study, reflect, sleep late, work out more often, take college classes and do a lot of reading and writing. I have also begun volunteering with a couple of animal rescue groups (pets are a passion of mine and it breaks my heart how many lovable, adoptable pets are euthanized each year at city shelters) and work one day a week at the Paley Center (a very special place where one can actually still watch old episodes of the Courtship of Eddie’s Father with Geofrey Holder’s old 7-Up, the “Uncola” ad still intact). Hope I can continue to do these things once I get back to school but I will most likely be unable to peel my butt off the couch following a day of dealing with data, teaching and the “occasional” encounter with a difficult colleague.

And thankfully, in the past fourteen years (since I moved out of my parents’ house), I have developed a few close friendships for which I am entirely (and eternally) grateful.

I remember when I first got married, I was in contact on Facebook with a friend from elementary school, with whom in fifth grade I used to play Charlie’s Angels. (I even wrote a couple of original “episodes” that she, my classmates and I acted out in school). Apparently, she had a twenty-year old daughter who recently gave birth to her grandson so she says to me, ““Isn’t it funny? You’re a newlywed and I’m a grandma!”

Uh, no. Not exactly laughing, especially since the wrinkles around my eyes might get even deeper. I am now 46, the age of people’s moms and in some cases, grandmoms! Past the halfway point to 50. In just four short years, I will receive my AARP card, have to schedule my first routine colonoscopy and probably be in the midst of another dreaded life chapter called menopause. What a drag it is getting old! It totally sucks but please give me the courage and strength to enjoy the remaining time I have left here.

Seems just like yesterday, I was watching Charlie's Angels and dreaming to look like Farrah, Kate and Jaclyn!

Hugo Love is Missing

In my life, a cat like Hugo matters!

I wrote this the other night when one of Anjellicle Cats’ Hugo was missing from his new digs in Williamsburgh, Brooklyn. Hugo, a handsome grey and white striped kitty and  Anjellice favorite was recently adopted by an aspiring actress-waitress who works longer hours and was not home when Hugo bolted from his apartment at about 4 a.m., Friday morning. Apparently, Hugo’s new owner’s roommate let him out accidentally. It was reported the roommate is not too fond of Hugo and the last I heard, the organization was contemplating whether or not they were going to try and get Hugo back. One of the volunteers was upset because she and another Anjellicle rescuer went into Brooklyn to look for Hugo and put up flyers while his owner did little or nothing to find him. Happily, Hugo reappeared early Sunday morning in a hallway, not far from where he disappeared. But I was told there were about thirty or forty group emails about what to do now about Hugo. Not sure why Hugo getting lost (and found) or Meow, the forty pound cat dying from respiratory problems concern me so much. Perhaps, if I was a "real" parent of "real" children, I’d be obsessing about more important things than this. But since I am merely a proud cat mommy of four gorgeous felines, this is the stuff that gets to me.

Hugo the cat is missing.

In the scheme of most people’s lives, this is insignificant. After all, Hugo is just a cat, another scaredy cat who bolted out of his home. And who really cares? Hugo's just another lost kitty soul, wandering the neighborhood, who may never be heard from again. Hugo, is just another cat who may never make it back to his rightful place under the covers of his bed. Hugo may never be home again. Yet in my life, Hugo matters. Hugo matters to those of us who were fortunate enough to pass his feline path.

Met this handsome grey fellow a couple of months ago at Anjellicle Cats’ cat room, at the Spoiled Brats pet store in Hell’s Kitchen. Hugo and some six or seven felines were living in the very small quarters at the back of the cat room at Spoiled Brats. Anjellicle is a godsend—rescuing cats off the street and out of the hellholes aka the city shelters each year. At any given time, the Spoiled Brats facility houses about eight cats at a time. Sadly since the cat room is at the back of the pet store, the cats who live at Spoiled Brats don’t get many prospective adopters to stop by and check them out. It’s too bad because there’s always so many nice cats there including another personal favorite, a buff colored kitty named Nice, a very mellow gentleman who is usually taking a nap on the top shelf in the room but who will always get up to greet me and allow lots of petting.

Anjellicle is filled with passionate cat people, many of who are very young and idealistic folks who give up much of their spare time to save one cat at a time. Actually, Anjellicle saves a lot more than one pet at a time—rescuing nearly 800 cats last year. Being a TOS (teacher on sabbatical), has afforded me the time to pursue my passions. So back in March, I started volunteering with Anjellicle—feeding the kitties, cleaning their cages and playing with them, once a week at Spoiled Brats. Hugo Love (as anyone who knew him called him), was the first kitty to meet you at the door, demand to be fed and given attention. Only “hung out” with Hugo a couple of times but in a short amount of time, he left many lasting impressions. He’d rub up against you, follow you around while you scooped litter boxes and refilled food dishes or simply plop into your lap, settling in for a petting session.  No one who met this sweetie could help but oblige. I’ll never forget how one day Hugo chewed a hole through the bag of kitten food that was left on the floor. He might occasionally give a little nip if he felt he was being ignored. Hugo’s quite the character—a little imp in a cat costume.

Hugo’s story was typical. Another once loved pet, discarded like yesterday’s news at the city shelter. Hugo was fortunate to escape the sad fate of many animals who end up at animal care and control. His sunny disposition ingratiated himself with the folks in the New Hope office (the folks who desperately try to place some of the neediest pets) and he lived in their space for a while. Apparently, the New Hope-ers begged Anjellicle to take Hugo. Not sure how long he lived at Spoiled Brats but it was not long before Hugo was a favorite with the Anjellicle volunteers and anyone who crossed his path. One morning when an aspiring, good-looking actor stopped by inquiring about the kitties, he asked, “Who’s the grey one with the stripes? He was the first one to meet me.” That’s Hugo. At this point, Hugo had an adoption pending so he was not really available. “Too bad,” the actor said. “He’d be a great pet.” (Fortunately, our actor friend adopted another needy Anjellicle cat named Batman).

But I wonder. What if Hugo went home with this actor dude who made a very favorable impression in my mind? Would he be missing? The actor seemed like a kind, gentle soul who loved cats and ready to give one a loving home. He worried that due to his small studio space, “Just 450 square feet,” he noted, that he may not even be approved to adopt an Anjellicle kitty.

Not sure who adopted Hugo but I know the Anjellicle folks prescreen all of their applicants and do their best to ensure these kitties go to the best homes possible. I know that this would have especially been the case with Hugo, who was such a favorite. How come Hugo’s new owners weren’t more careful? How come they didn’t keep a more careful eye on their new beloved family member? Just hope he wasn’t unhappy in his new digs and was actually trying to escape.

So many sad pet stories—even the ones that seem to end up going into good homes. When I was at Petco 100 the first time meeting the Anjellicle folks, a lady walked in, returning a cat she had just for a week. “Sorry, it just didn’t work out,” she said as she handed him over to Kathryn, Anjellicle’s owner. Apparently, this was not the first time this lady adopted and returned an Anjellicle cat. She quickly wrote out a check to Anjellicle but did that matter to the poor cat who was being returned?  Mooka, another Anjellicle favorite was recently adopted out and returned. The once sweet affable dude returned to Anjellicle sad and dejected. Thankfully, they were able to quickly re-home him. Then there’s black and white Dublin at Spoiled Brats. He was once somebody’s pet who was handed in to the shelter. The poor thing has cauliflower ears due to an infection (but he’s fine now). Well, physically fine but Dublin looks like a kitty in serious need of some Prozac, usually sits inside a cat carrier, occasionally emerging for a bite to eat. He will let you pet him, if you approach cautiously. He was adopted out only to be returned because he spent the first week hiding under a bed. The new owners just weren’t willing to give him a chance. And now poor Dublin sadly sits on top of the shelf inside the tiny cat room at Spoiled Brats—so nervous and due to his scared and timid nature, may be there for a while.

Who knows? Just hoping that my feline friend, Hugo Love is found and returns to the safe arms of somebody who deserves the love of this sweetie pie. Thankfully, he was microchipped so if he is turned in to a shelter or vet’s office, he will be returned to Anjellicle. That’s if someone is kind enough to pick him up and try to help him. Do not want to consider the alternatives. Holding out hope for Hugo Love and for all of the other nameless lost pets. Hoping they all make it home again.

MY FABULOUS FIRST FELINE FRIENDS, RAINBOW AND FLUFFY (WITH A SPLASH OF 1970’S POP CULTURE)

She was just a doll, but I wanted hair like Longlocks.

 When I was younger, I wanted long, luxurious hair. Back in the 70’s, I remember how many of the television stars wore their hair extra long and how their long locks would cascade down their backs and often reach their butt cheeks. There was a show called the Little People (aka the Brian Keith Show)  that took place in Hawaii that featured Shelley Fabares with the ultimate long, flowing hair. There were the Magic Garden chicks—Paula and Carol whose pigtails would reach at least half way down their backs. (I think Carol’s hair was actually longer). But for me, it was mostly about Jan Brady. In retrospect, she was not as pretty as Marcia but oh boy, were those golden locks that reached all the way down her back absolutely gorgeous and I loved how she swung it back and forth. I mostly had short hair when I was a kid and was reduced to putting a yellow towel on my head and swinging  my "pretend" hair back and forth. I  loved Cher's gorgeous dark long hair, too. Forget that awesome body and Bob Mackie costumes, I simply would have died for Cher’s luxurious, long locks.

But the chick with the greatest hair of all was a real doll. Her name was Longlocks and she and her friend Dawn were popular little fashion dolls back in the early-mid 1970's when I was growing up. I spent many hours creating adventures for Dawn, Longlocks and their other "friends." I had a real friend named Arlene who looked just like Longlocks and wore her silky, dark hair pulled back in a giant ponytail. Which brings us to the part where I got my first pet, a cat named Rainbow from Arlene when I was almost eight.

Rainbow was not a long-haired cat. In fact, he was the proverbial domestic short hair with a torso that was mostly white with some tabby markings on his back and a raccoon-like tail. Rainbow really wasn't the handsomest creature but I always wanted a pet and I remember the day I got him.

Rainbow, Fluffy (yawning-- not hissing) and that ugly velvet living room chair.

It was a Sunday. How do I remember that? Because just about every Sunday, my dad would get me a Quarter Pounder from McDonald’s down on Main Street.(a Mickey D’s that is still standing). Shortly after Arlene and her mom dropped off Rainbow, I downed a quarter pounder and sat in front of the t.v. watching Apple’s Way in black and white. (Apple’s Way, starred Ronny Cox, Kristy McNichol, Vincent Van Patten, a hottie, Pattie Coohon and brought to you by the same folks who gave you the Waltons). We did not get a colored t.v. set until 1981 when I was in high school but that never stopped me from watching hours and hours of daytime and nighttime television. Not a soap fan yet but I loved those family dramas, sitcoms, reruns, Saturday morning shows, game shows and talk shows. Just about every night, Id lay on the icky green carpet in the livingroom watching Merv Griffin with my dad. One of my biggest ambitions used to be to become a contestant on the Price is Right (I can just hear Johnny Olson calling me to “Come on down!”)  I would have died to be on Match Game or Hollywood Squares. I used to dream of matching Richard Dawson, winning $5,000 and getting a pre-Family Feud hug and kiss. Or I disagree with Paul Lynde or Joan Rivers, circle gets the square and I win a trip to Puerta Vallarta. (Eww—too darn hot and icky water. Probably cash the damn trip in). Forget Jeopardy, I was too dumb. I didn't have any brothers or sisters to play with but I now finally had my own pet to keep me company and watch all of my favorite 1970's tv shows with.

Anyway, Rainbow was a cute kitten. He was so little when we first got him that we fed him with a doll bottle. I think we gave him some Tender Vittles and canned food called Lovin Spoonful. (Even back then I liked any product that referred to a sixties or seventies rock and roll band). I would often wrap him up in a blanket and dress him up in my doll’s clothes. There was this velvety black coat that he let me slip on him and a straw hat, too. Got away with it for a while but wish I took a picture of that little boy feline who looked like an old grannie. Rainbow liked hiding in Mister Coffee boxes and fetching buttons that came off the icky green velvety living room chair. When he was little, it was still okay to pick him up and pose for pictures. I have a few cool shots of me dangling Rainbow dressed in my school girl garb while I still had my two braids. My mother was the one who mostly fed him, held him and scooped the doodie.  He was very sweet at first and then turned into Cujo shortly afterwards and I became very afraid of him.

You could not touch or pet that cat without risk of ending up in the emergency room. Rainbow was the only cat I knew that would actually go up to you and deliberately try to scratch you. My friend Marc was so afraid of Rainbow, he would run away from him if the cat got within a few feet. Once when I cut out of school, I went home and saw Rainbow sleeping in my bed. Ooh, how cute, sleeping kitty, I thought to myself. Hadn’t I learned? Rainbow took a chunk out of my lip. He held on for about 15 seconds which seemed like an eternity. Blood gushed out—fortunately it wasn’t that serious but I still have a little scar on the bottom of my right lip. Serves me right for ditching class and heading home to watch the Young and the Restless.

Rainbow had me convinced that all boy cats were evil. He made horrible growling sounds if you went within a few feet of him. He guarded my mother like a watchdog, sitting endlessly by her side and following her around the house, even into the bathroom. Whenever there was a chicken cooking in the oven, he would sit by the door until ding! The timer went off, my mom removed the bird from the oven and Rainbow would beg and of course, be given several pieces. But eww. Once the chicken was discarded, Rainbow would retrieve the carcass from the garbage, make horrible growling sounds and drag the damn thing around the house, as if it was some award-winning prey he just captured. This would continue for several minutes before one of my parents would dare to grab it away (had to be mom—since she was the only one safe from Rainbow’s wrath) and throw the damn bird’s remains down the incinerator chute.

Rainbow was the only cat I ever had who actually could be bothered to “fetch.” We played a cute game where I’d pull a button from the icky green velvety chair that easily came off because it was falling apart , throw it and he’d bring it back to me  covered in cat saliva. This could go on for several minutes and was  quite entertaining.

One time when my grandparents were visiting, back in the mid 1970’s, before they moved down to Florida, Rainbow did a disappearing act. We looked everywhere—under the beds, in every closet, behind the fridge, in the hallways. Actually scared that I may never see Rainbow again. But sure enough, after at least an hour of “sleuthing” through our apartment and hallway better than Columbo, Rainbow sashayed out of a closet, bleary-eyed and stared at us dumbfounded as if to say, “Have you fools been looking for someone or something?”

Rainbow was an “only cat” until the fall of 1976 when my best friend, Fluffy entered our lives. I was in fifth grade. Fluffy was named after the Bradys’ cat (even though their Fluffy only appeared in the first episode. Perhaps, Tiger ate her after Mike and Carol’s nuptials). My Fluffy was a grey tabby with white socks. I remember when she first arrived. I came home from school and there she was lying on my mother’s bed. She was still a kitten when my mother got her from a neighbor. It was love at first sight. Rainbow was clearly my mother’s cat and Fluffy became my constant companion. She slept with me, cried with me (I always experienced lots of angst) and sat on the couch with me watching Charlie’s Angels and Starsky and Hutch on Wednesday nights. My mom never liked Fluffy. Not sure why not.  My mother gave me  a kanipshin-fit a couple of months after we first got Fluffy. I arrived home to find Fluffy on my mother’s bed. Then my mom informed me that she took Fluffy to the pet store across the street from our apartment that day with the intention of leaving her there. It was a Monday and the shop was closed, so Fluffy got a reprieve. I cried a Hudson River of tears and my mother relented. Fluffy stayed yet I recall that for the next few times when my mom had her friends over for canasta, she’d offer up my beloved pet as she passed around the candy dish filled with those yummy black and white non-pareils.  She may have been joking but thankfully, Fluffy stuck around for the next fifteen years.  No velvety doll coats for her but I did take pictures of her wearing a little blue Mets helmet (which was really the container for soft-serve vanilla ice cream from the ballpark).

"Grown-up" Fluffy, in Mets gear, amongst some other baseball stuff and my inflatable Paul McCartney doll (wearing his Mets cap, too!)

Fluffy nearly died when she was five. It was the summer of 1981. I had just graduated junior high school. Not a particularly great time for me. My parents were separated and my mother was acting like a teenager. She was hanging out with young potheads, smoking the stuff herself and going out to nightclubs fairly often with a couple of her friends. Thankfully, I do not remember her bringing home any male companions but there was a very embarrassing moment before I get to the Fluffy incident.

It was the night of my junior high school graduation party. Somehow, many of my classmates actually showed up, even though I was not very popular. I remember we had a great time listening to Beatles, Stones and other great music on my old stereo that had a turntable that skipped if you walked too hard. So everyone was really careful not to pound their feet. We ate lots of pizza and sipped lots of soda. No alcohol. But my mom allowed the young potheads to come to the party and they did the expected—they smoked weed in front of my adolescent friends. So did my mother! I was mortified! Thankfully, she did not offer any to the kids. However, I do remember that she tried to get me to try it on a few occasions. I always said no. Saw how loopy it made her and her partying pals and I was never interested.

A few weeks after that, Fluffy fell out of our fifth floor window. My mother was out, working some temporary office summer job. I knew something was terribly wrong when I was eating chocolate ice cream and Fluffy was not around to lick the bowl. Chocolate ice cream (usually Breyer’s) and Sunkist orange soda were my two dietary staples for the summer of 1981. “Snack time,” I’d proudly announce as I headed to the freezer to scoop out my frozen treats. Fluffy would follow me around from the time I dished the ice cream into the bowl to the time I finished eating it and she could proceed to polish off any remaining contents. Well, I had two bowls of Breyers with no sight of Fluffy. That’s strange, I thought to myself. I looked at my mother’s bedroom window that she insisted on leaving open (which I knew wasn't a good idea with two cats in the apartment). The air conditioning was not working properly and for a couple of weeks, it was left open with not a problem. But luck ran out on that day. My friend Marc called me and I told him that something was wrong. I hadn’t seen Fluffy for a couple of hours. He said he’d check outside, by the front of the building. A few minutes later, he called back. I found Fluffy. I ran downstairs. She was lying on the ground, pretty startled. She was conscious and not bleeding. Very still. We managed to scoop her up into a box, put her in a shopping cart and rushed her to the vet hospital on Northern Blvd. The doctor examined her and said I should leave her overnight to be observed, which I did.

The next day, the vet told me she had a few broken ribs and a collapsed lung. “But take her home,” the doctor said. “There’s not much we can do. Keep an eye on her. She’ll probably heal on her own. If not though, she should be with you.” Marc was great. He spent the night sleeping on the living room floor and helped me keep an eye on Fluffy.  We were both up for most of the night, holding vigil. Fluffy ate and moved around a little but was pretty quiet. (Yes, my mother was home. But Marc and his mom were so much more comforting to me at this difficult time than my own mom, who seemed to be more concerned with her teenage-like antics).

Fortunately, Fluffy made a miraculous recovery. Within a couple of days, she was back to normal and that damn window stayed closed for the rest of the summer. (It eventually went back up with a screen secured into place). Thankfully, never had another “flying cat” incident again.

Fluffy and Rainbow were a cute couple then and for the next several years. They’d sleep side by side with their paws wrapped around each other and give each other baths. For a while, they’d take catnaps in a little red doll carriage I had until I was about twelve. Then they’d mostly be curled up in bed or on the sofa. Very sweet.

Rainbow giving his beloved, Fluffy a bath in an old doll carriage, amid the clutter in my mother's bedroom.

Well, Dawn dolls, playgrounds and Saturday  morning cartoons can't last forever and neither do our pets.  Rainbow had a stroke when he was 13. (By then, I was a junior in college). He started favoring one side when he walked and his head was slightly tilted. He didn’t seem like he was in terrible pain. He was treated by our vet and seemed to get a little better. But then a couple of months later, he started walking strangely and his head began to tilt again. He didn’t seem happy and I knew it was time to say goodbye. Not a huge Rainbow fan but it was still sad when I knew the end was near. I knew how close my mother was to Rainbow and this was actually very tough for her so I took him to the vet for the last time myself.

Fluffy lived for another four years after Rainbow died.  Fluffy was a very large cat. (My mother actually referred to her as “the bull.” “She’s huge like a football player—no neck!” my mom retorted). Fluffy was a bully and not very nice to the next two sister cats we had, Pitzie (a sweet calico) and Mookie (an equally kind black cat—named after Met player, Mookie Wilson). Fluffy would chase them on top of the fridge and counters whenever she had the chance. She saw me through many life stages and through all of the trials and tribulations of childhood, the angst of adolescence, high school & college graduation and how I struggled with my career until I finally settled into my first teaching job. That's when Fluffy began losing some of her girth. She was 15. I knew something was wrong but she was still eating and besides being somewhat thinner, seemed okay. Maybe I was in denial.

I finally decided to take Fluffy to the vet a few months after she started losing weight. Thankfully, my father came with me. “She’s very sick,” our long-time vet, who still treats our family cats, stated. “I know,” I admitted. “How long do you think she has?” I asked, hoping to hear that I’d have my long-time furry pal for at least a few more months. “You need to leave her here today. She has a very large mass and can barely breathe.” “Mass? Can’t breathe? But she ate so well this morning!” I shouted. I totally trusted the doctor and knew she would not rush to put a beloved pet to sleep. I cried the same Hudson River of tears that I did the day my mom almost gave Fluffy to the pet shop some fifteen years earlier as I handed my pet over to the doctor and saw my furry friend for the very last time.

In the beautiful song, Friends by Elton John, he sang:
 It seems to me a crime that we should age,
These fragile times should never slip us by
A time you never can or shall erase
As friends together watch their childhood fly

Losing Fluffy was harder for me than the death of some close family members including my grandparents. As much as I loved them, I did not live with the grand folks and would only see them once a year during the summer vacation since they moved to Florida when I was in third grade. Fluffy, on the other hand, was by my side from the time I was ten until I was 25.  Maybe Fluffy knew that I was now starting a new career. It was a new beginning and time for her to move on. I flew through my childhood with this special friend who took me from “crayons to perfume” and she will always hold a special place in my heart--alongside those Dawn dolls, Bradys and Quarter Pounders.

Crippled with Guilt

It Ain't Easy to Hide When You're Crippled with Guilt Inside!

I wrote this entry right before I met my husband and three years prior to the death of my mother, who at the time was bedridden with breathing problems, Parkinson’s Disease, arthritis and not to mention, worsening dementia. This was also the beginning of the end of my father as I knew him. A few weeks earlier, he basically “checked out.” He got his affairs in order—handed me important keys, papers and told me where to find other important documents. He turned off his hearing aid and we have barely had a normal conversation ever since then.

My father stands on the fourth step that leads up to a medical clinic on Junction Blvd. A boulevard of broken dreams.  Set in the heart of Corona, Junction Blvd. is the main strip of an impoverished Hispanic neighborhood in Queens, near Shea Stadium. It is a town immortalized by Paul Simon in Me and Julio Down by the School Yard as well as the Lemon Ice King of Corona. It is now a bleak block that is chock full of shops—mostly stores that hock inexpensive goods. Along with the obligatory Mickey D’s, Dunkin Donuts and Duane Reade, Junction Blvd.  is filled with seemingly endless amounts of check cashing places and signs like compra ahora, pague despues (Buy now. Pay later). In fact, one of these signs flashes in a window in a store that hocks a variety of household items along with Cingular phone packages.  There are infinite amounts of cheap clothing stores—featuring low cut halters, short minis as well as dresses with bold prints and plunging necklines in their windows.

In the middle of the block, a short stout Hispanic woman with long, jet black hair positions herself in front of a giant Igloo cooler. She clutches a toddler in one hand and a bottle of Poland Springs in the other. “Agua, agua,” she cries out, desperately hawking her water. A bottle that goes for un dolar. One dollar. So insignificant to me—a nice, Jewish middle class teacher. But probably a big deal to this seemingly poor immigrant woman.

My dad and I are in the heart of Corona in desperate search of a notary public to authorize a form from the Banco Popular. It is a paper that my dad needs in order to continue receiving his Medicaid. The closest branch is here. There is a notary atop the clinic’s stairs. We have to climb. We need to sit. We need to wait.  One more step. One step at a time. 

Two emotional cripples. That is what my aunt always called my parents. Ever since I can remember, my folks lay in bed the way Charlie’s grandparents did in Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. That was normal to me. Occasionally, they would arise just like Grandpa Joe when he got up to help Charlie find the golden ticket at Wonka’s candy land.  

But there was never any rainbow at the end of my parents' daily journey. My mom would go to work as a high school aide. My dad hasn’t worked in over thirty years. But he would get up. Go downstairs. Stop at the donut shop for our muffins and crullers, buy the New York Times and be fully immersed in the day’s news by the time I woke up.  My dad and I used to talk about everything from the pitfalls of Reaganomics to the perpetual crisis in the Middle East as well as my own struggles to make friends, get a boyfriend and fit in at work.

Ooh, child. Things are gonna get easier. Only now I am not a child. I am a forty year old woman still unmarried, still trying to fit in and make sense of the world.

Why the hell do we have to be here in Corona today? Why do I have to schlep with you to this poor, God-forsaken neighborhood?  Why do I have to scour Junction Blvd. in this blistering heat, roaming up and down like a lost puppy in search of a notary? Why dad? Why do you need this bank statement from Medicaid? Why can’t you be like everyone else’s father who works and retires with a nifty pension or the pop who has amassed enough wealth to live comfortably in those golden years? Why can’t you run your errands like you used to?

At least, my best friend—my Greek best friend who may know as much Yiddish as both Jackie Mason and Alan King is here to keep us company. She drove us here and waits with my dad as I zip up and down Junction on a mission like Wylie Coyote trying to capture the Road Runner.

The first bank I drag my father to will not notarize his form.

“I am sorry. His passport expired,” says the uncompassionate clerk with the tight bun, tight skirt and even tighter ass.

“Yeah but he has his Medicaid card. He’s got his social security card. Who do you think that is on his passport photo—the man on the moon?” I angrily retort.

“I am sorry. Those are the rules. You must have recent I.D. and his expired.”

Lo siento to you to, bitch.  Do you have any idea of all the aggravation I have been through this week trying to secure documentation for Medicaid? Do you care that the day before I traveled with my dad to Manhattan to the URO so they could help him reinstate his funds from Germany? An Auschwitz survivor who lost eighty members of his family during the war whose life always sucked. For the last thirty years, he basically stayed at home and was unable to work crippled by depression and in some instances, manic depression.  Does anyone care that my father can lose his Medicaid?

What’s the matter with me? Why am I obsessing abut closing out this Banco Popular account? Am I just so selfish wanting to close out an account whose funds I could then take and escape to Bermuda or the Bahamas?  No. Got to close out the account and get the paperwork to Medicaid so my father can continue receiving home-care. This stupid account puts him over the legal limit of funds the city permits people who receive services.

 My father, the emotional cripple now clings to his cane and stairway railing is just a shadow of the man I once knew.  He is no longer the man who read the Times cover to cover, voraciously viewed CNN and MSNBC and despite being housebound would engage in conversations for hours. The man who faced so much adversity in his life. The man who said he never gave up hope was giving up. 

“I can’t make it up the stairs. I am too tired,” he says with weakened breath.

             Instead of grasping his hand and saying, “Dad, it is okay.” I find myself taking hold of his arm and urging him, “Come on.  You can do it.”

But instead of my father ascending victoriously atop the stairs like Rocky Balboa, he lets go of the railing and falls down the stairs, hitting his head on the hard floor. His hearing aid begins buzzing. He sits momentarily motionless.

 Is he doing this on purpose? Like the way he lies in bed all the time staring at the ceiling when I damn well know he can get up, put on the television, grab the newspaper and begin a conversation like he used to. Like how he refuses to take medication for his depression and instead chooses to remain in his pajamas and sleep for most of the day and most of his life.  Why is my father who used to know everything about politics and the plight of New York City’s homeless population now having not only his body but also his mind grow weaker and feeble?

 I am frozen with fear.  I am crippled with guilt. What if my father is seriously injured or worse? How would I ever live with the fact that in my panicked attempt to settle bank business, I could have killed my father? Thankfully there is no blood just a bump on his head. The clinic’s doctor flies down the stairs trying to help. Asking in broken English, “Are you okay?”

 I am not surprised that there is no response.  My father’s hearing aid is now in my hands like all of his business. He sits up staring blankly ahead like he has done for the past couple of years, cut off from the world. Disengaged and disinterested. He recently disavowed having anything to do with Don, a close family friend who was like a son. A man who never judged him. A man who was the only visitor to his home besides me.  In his paranoid state, he has decided that Don tried to steal money for him when in reality; Don has assisted us with financial matters and took care of all of my father’s bills.

 Okay. This accident doesn’t seem to be so bad. . But what if he has some internal injury? Ooh, child… Please tell me everything is going to be all right. Not only is my dad going to be okay but I can finally get the happy ever after that I have so desperately wanted for all of these years. Why can’t somebody please love me?

The ambulance finally arrives.  After several hours in the ER’s trauma room, he is deemed fit to go home. Go home to what? My mother whose frail body is now ridden with arthritis, Parkinson’s disease and chronic lung disease. My mother who, too is battling dementia and memory loss. My mother who lies on the bed getting changed and diapered by the home health aide like she was a baby. Two emotional cripples now have their bodies crippled with various physical ailments. They have round the clock home-care.  Thankfully, two of the kindest and caring health aides assist them with all of their needs. In and out of emergency rooms. Is a nursing home around the corner? To quote the Rolling Stones, “What a drag it is getting old.”

All of this uncertainty. What kind of life is this for my parents?

What kind of life is this for me?