It’s either raining or snowing or icing or freezing rain. I looked out of the window from my Manhattan office and saw something falling from the sky. It was falling at a 45 degree angle designed for maximum annoyance and capable of winning any fight with an umbrella.
The weather is so bad that I decided someone else can bring me my lunch today. I reached this decision at 11.30 am. I was ravenous. I called up a local establishment that I normally walk to once a week to pick up my own lunch. I asked them how long it would take to deliver and they said 45 minutes maximum. It’s now 2pm. No sign of the food. The delivery guy must have gotten lost on his two and a half block walk over here, or is sitting down in a public space in midtown munching on my salad. I hope he enjoys it too. I have eaten so much nosh waiting for my food that I am no longer hungry.
New York City is the delivery capital of the world unless the weather is bad . When that happens, don’t order in food. You start off starving. You end up eating loads of snacks and get very aggravated trying to contact restaurants who don’t answer the phone the minute the first snow flake lands on its sidewalks.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Return of the Nodders
I found them. Well most of them. As if by magic we were all reunited at the express bus stop at 6.29am this morning. And yes, we nodded. They didn't seem to have missed me. I approached one of the women and asked her: "Where have you been?" I had a glint in my eye showing both relief and compassion. She quickly moved away from me and hid behind one of the larger gentlemen standing there.
So the nodders showed up on a day when there were no buses. We stood around for what seemed like an eternity with no sign of any public transportation. New York City slept and a large prehistoric being threw up slushy white stuff all over its streets and sidewalks. The city was paralyzed. I couldn't get to work via a vehicle faster than my own legs and all the nodders for whom I had toiled and fretted over ignored me as if I were a carrier of the bubonic plague. I protest. I will no longer nod back. I will never again initiate a nod. I am now an ex nodder.
And I walked to work disappearing on many occasions into two feet of snow that had formed at intersections. What a great start to the day. Destroyed illusions about nodders and sloshing shoes with wringing wet pant cuffs.
So the nodders showed up on a day when there were no buses. We stood around for what seemed like an eternity with no sign of any public transportation. New York City slept and a large prehistoric being threw up slushy white stuff all over its streets and sidewalks. The city was paralyzed. I couldn't get to work via a vehicle faster than my own legs and all the nodders for whom I had toiled and fretted over ignored me as if I were a carrier of the bubonic plague. I protest. I will no longer nod back. I will never again initiate a nod. I am now an ex nodder.
And I walked to work disappearing on many occasions into two feet of snow that had formed at intersections. What a great start to the day. Destroyed illusions about nodders and sloshing shoes with wringing wet pant cuffs.
Commuting on the Bus
I do love taking a bus in the morning. I leave for work before most have stirred in their beds. I usually arrive at 6.30am at the bus stop on Lexington Avenue and 79th street. This morning the weather was most frigid. The temperature barely crossed into positive territory. The leisurely stroll to the bus stop turned into a brisk walk, and I had visibility issues caused by the misty breath pouring out of my mouth that rose to eye level before dispersing into the tundra style air. My teeth even froze. That was definitely a new sensation.
There are normally 14 other fellow early risers who wait at the bus stop each morning, and after a few months of seeing the same faces, we now all nod to each other. Conversation is clearly taboo as that would suggest behavior that crosses any acceptable threshold.
This morning I was the sole nodder. Where had everyone gone? Had the bus that like clockwork arrives at 6.32 and 24 seconds come early, speeding up because of the cold weather? Could I possibly have been late this morning? I am a man of strict routine. I am a groundhog day follower to a tee. It couldn't be me. At 6.32 and 26 seconds the M101 Limited stop bus arrived, slightly late and I duly got on. I knew it wasn't me.
I am now worried. I sit at my desk thinking that the 14 other regular nodders have all died of hypothermia in their apartments. My mornings would never be the same. I am now the sole survivor of the great global freezing of 2011 ( 79th and Lexington bus stop massacre). I am troubled by this deeply and discussed it with my colleague who sits directly to my left at work. He saw that this had a profound affect on me and came up with an alternative version. Could the " fourteen freezing folk" have taken the subway?
There are normally 14 other fellow early risers who wait at the bus stop each morning, and after a few months of seeing the same faces, we now all nod to each other. Conversation is clearly taboo as that would suggest behavior that crosses any acceptable threshold.
This morning I was the sole nodder. Where had everyone gone? Had the bus that like clockwork arrives at 6.32 and 24 seconds come early, speeding up because of the cold weather? Could I possibly have been late this morning? I am a man of strict routine. I am a groundhog day follower to a tee. It couldn't be me. At 6.32 and 26 seconds the M101 Limited stop bus arrived, slightly late and I duly got on. I knew it wasn't me.
I am now worried. I sit at my desk thinking that the 14 other regular nodders have all died of hypothermia in their apartments. My mornings would never be the same. I am now the sole survivor of the great global freezing of 2011 ( 79th and Lexington bus stop massacre). I am troubled by this deeply and discussed it with my colleague who sits directly to my left at work. He saw that this had a profound affect on me and came up with an alternative version. Could the " fourteen freezing folk" have taken the subway?
Snow
There are a few disadvantages (though not many) to living in New York City. One occurs during the imminent arrival of a snow storm. Certain things happen here that you can't really explain. Airports start shutting down hours, if not days, before the first snowflake has fallen. Workers in high rise offices start debating whether or not the forecasters are better or worse at predicting the weather than economists are in their field.
And most astonishingly, those who live in New Jersey already announce that they are not coming to work if the snow exceeds 3 inches. Even those who live just across the Hudson have developed: "I can’t possibly go to work if it snows” disease.
So as I am the lone Manhattan representative on my trading desk , my management immediately concludes that I will be the only person able to get to work in the aftermath of an accumulating snowstorm.
It needn't matter that snow could be piled up two feet in front of my apartment building's door. It is expected that I should at the very least be able to ski to work if the need arises; don't kid yourself -- I have seen that many a time before.
All those from the supposed hardest soon-to-be-hit suburbs compare how many inches they will see by the following morning.
My standing joke is to Mario who sits opposite me. He leaps out of his seat announcing that he has just spoken to his wife and she expects at least 6 inches this evening. My response is always: "Your wife always expects 6 inches Mario, but she only ever sees 3 or 4."
Oh you can have so much fun with Suburbanites!!!!
And most astonishingly, those who live in New Jersey already announce that they are not coming to work if the snow exceeds 3 inches. Even those who live just across the Hudson have developed: "I can’t possibly go to work if it snows” disease.
So as I am the lone Manhattan representative on my trading desk , my management immediately concludes that I will be the only person able to get to work in the aftermath of an accumulating snowstorm.
It needn't matter that snow could be piled up two feet in front of my apartment building's door. It is expected that I should at the very least be able to ski to work if the need arises; don't kid yourself -- I have seen that many a time before.
All those from the supposed hardest soon-to-be-hit suburbs compare how many inches they will see by the following morning.
My standing joke is to Mario who sits opposite me. He leaps out of his seat announcing that he has just spoken to his wife and she expects at least 6 inches this evening. My response is always: "Your wife always expects 6 inches Mario, but she only ever sees 3 or 4."
Oh you can have so much fun with Suburbanites!!!!
Freedom: Actually, Not at All
My whole family have departed on a ski trip out West leaving me behind to tend to the cat and generally keep the apartment in good shape until their return next Sunday. The kids are obviously off school for the week and many other families have left Manhattan for warmer shores or colder peaks. The traffic on the streets has been reduced considerably as children don't need to be shepherded around to and from school and the numerous after school activities they all seem to attend.
Alone in the greatest city in the world; a deathly quiet apartment; no one to wake me up in the middle of the night; sleeping in at the weekends; no chauffeuring of tired over indulged children; no clearing up and no spouse for a whole ten days. The real question is: Who has the better vacation - my family or me? And then my Mother shows up on my doorstep announcing her stay for five days. My plea for solitude accompanied with peace and quiet was rejected. My Mom thought it would be a great idea for the two of us to catch up. Just the two of us. Bring back the family; all is forgiven.
I have a very sprightly Mother. She is very English in her ways. Impeccably well mannered and obsessed with doing the right thing. She also has a PH.D. in saying the wrong thing. This combination makes for tremendous entertainment for all those who are fortunate enough to spend valuable time with her. This weekend proved to be a breath of fresh air. We walked, we talked, we dined, we laughed, we cried and we toured the city. We went to the Guggenheim Museum. We walked in Central Park. I gave her a comprehensive guided tour of the Upper East side. The conclusions I came to were that I am blessed to have such a wonderful Mother; I live in the greatest city in the world; and freedom is relative and more fulfilling when with one.
Alone in the greatest city in the world; a deathly quiet apartment; no one to wake me up in the middle of the night; sleeping in at the weekends; no chauffeuring of tired over indulged children; no clearing up and no spouse for a whole ten days. The real question is: Who has the better vacation - my family or me? And then my Mother shows up on my doorstep announcing her stay for five days. My plea for solitude accompanied with peace and quiet was rejected. My Mom thought it would be a great idea for the two of us to catch up. Just the two of us. Bring back the family; all is forgiven.
I have a very sprightly Mother. She is very English in her ways. Impeccably well mannered and obsessed with doing the right thing. She also has a PH.D. in saying the wrong thing. This combination makes for tremendous entertainment for all those who are fortunate enough to spend valuable time with her. This weekend proved to be a breath of fresh air. We walked, we talked, we dined, we laughed, we cried and we toured the city. We went to the Guggenheim Museum. We walked in Central Park. I gave her a comprehensive guided tour of the Upper East side. The conclusions I came to were that I am blessed to have such a wonderful Mother; I live in the greatest city in the world; and freedom is relative and more fulfilling when with one.
Never Go Here On Your Own
The President's Weekend was coming to a close. I jumped in the car and took my Mother to J.F.K airport and bid her adieu, slightly teary. She was headed back to London to make sure my elder sister hadn't joined a cult nor had sold my Mother's house in her absence. I then drove back to the Upper East Side determined to do something on my own so as to regain my independence and feel a sense of freedom that had been bestowed on me by my family's departure to the ski slopes of Utah.
On numerous occasions I had walked past the Comedy Club just two blocks north of my building. It was conveniently located on Second Avenue and its loud and bright sign beckoned me to enter into its comical corridors and explore a night of humor and laughter whilst cradling a couple of beer bottles. I perused its website and saw that there were six comedians on parade that night, all with glowing accolades in the world of comedy. They had all appeared on various television shows that I had never seen but it looked like a worthy line up and one that I was enticed to pay a visit to.
I arrived at its doors, ticket-less. Scrolling to the bottom of the web page where the purchase ticket button lay, never crossed my mind. My driving skills are excellent but I have yet to master the art of staying in one lane on the Grand Central Parkway and completing the sixteen steps to buying a ticket on line. The person who was keenly in charge of “greet and meet" looked at me rather strangely when I entered the establishment. "What name is the reservation under please?" she muttered while scrolling down her list. "I don't have a reservation," I retorted, hoping that one lost stray could be accommodated in the room behind.
"Well I am sorry." she continued. And before she could get any more words out, I had already started walking dejectedly to the exit door." We only seat those parties that are complete. We need everybody here to seat them." She had already turned her attention to the group of four young males behind me in the line and was processing their reservation. After a couple of minutes I was standing there again at the podium and turned to the hostess and said "It's just me. Table for one please."
"I am not sure you want to do that sir," giving me a warning of things to come. "You will be like a lost rabbit in a well inhabited fox hole." I ignored her comment not really understanding what she was talking about and ventured into the large comedy room equipped with stage, free standing microphone and rows of seats neatly placed around tables. I had left the "meeter and greeter" and moved on to the "Seater."
He shook his head in dismay as he sat me against a wall, next to a table , just to the left of the stage as the comedians looked out. "Are you sure you want to sit by yourself? I can try and put you with another group if they agree." I declined his kind offer. Solitude is what I was looking for. I didn't want to make idle conversation with total strangers and I certainly didn't pay the club a visit to make friends or pick anyone up.
I sat back in my chair, eagerly anticipating the show that was about to start. I clenched a bottle of imported beer in one hand , savoring its amber contents as the alcohol entered my blood stream and raced towards my brain. I was in a satisfied state of mind; relaxed, slightly tipsy, and still very much alone. In a split second the evening took a turn for the worse. The Host started his introductory comedy routine and immediately asked the question, "would the Hermit in the building please stand up?" "I know you are in here. He was just let out of a Queens’ Mental Institution today and he is here alone. Ladies please stay clear. He has a history."
I was laughing along with the rest of the audience with this rather humorous opening gambit, until he turned to his left and pointed directly at me screaming, "There's the weirdo. There he is." I abruptly stopped laughing and in slow motion, moved my head from one side to the other looking at the entire audience in stitches, pointing at me doubled over in an extreme laughter pose.
The next act started his performance and carried on where the M.C had left off. The new comedian asked anyone within five feet of me to stand up and move tables for their own safety; of which everyone obliged. I remained the butt of all jokes until the end of the third act when it started growing a little tired and the "on his own jokes," didn't quite get met with the desired laughter required. I had withstood the onslaught and had come out a stronger person, with elephant skin. I was bruised but not severely injured. The one thing I had learned: Never ever go to a comedy club on your own. Its like having a steak tied around your neck when you walk into a lions’ den.
On numerous occasions I had walked past the Comedy Club just two blocks north of my building. It was conveniently located on Second Avenue and its loud and bright sign beckoned me to enter into its comical corridors and explore a night of humor and laughter whilst cradling a couple of beer bottles. I perused its website and saw that there were six comedians on parade that night, all with glowing accolades in the world of comedy. They had all appeared on various television shows that I had never seen but it looked like a worthy line up and one that I was enticed to pay a visit to.
I arrived at its doors, ticket-less. Scrolling to the bottom of the web page where the purchase ticket button lay, never crossed my mind. My driving skills are excellent but I have yet to master the art of staying in one lane on the Grand Central Parkway and completing the sixteen steps to buying a ticket on line. The person who was keenly in charge of “greet and meet" looked at me rather strangely when I entered the establishment. "What name is the reservation under please?" she muttered while scrolling down her list. "I don't have a reservation," I retorted, hoping that one lost stray could be accommodated in the room behind.
"Well I am sorry." she continued. And before she could get any more words out, I had already started walking dejectedly to the exit door." We only seat those parties that are complete. We need everybody here to seat them." She had already turned her attention to the group of four young males behind me in the line and was processing their reservation. After a couple of minutes I was standing there again at the podium and turned to the hostess and said "It's just me. Table for one please."
"I am not sure you want to do that sir," giving me a warning of things to come. "You will be like a lost rabbit in a well inhabited fox hole." I ignored her comment not really understanding what she was talking about and ventured into the large comedy room equipped with stage, free standing microphone and rows of seats neatly placed around tables. I had left the "meeter and greeter" and moved on to the "Seater."
He shook his head in dismay as he sat me against a wall, next to a table , just to the left of the stage as the comedians looked out. "Are you sure you want to sit by yourself? I can try and put you with another group if they agree." I declined his kind offer. Solitude is what I was looking for. I didn't want to make idle conversation with total strangers and I certainly didn't pay the club a visit to make friends or pick anyone up.
I sat back in my chair, eagerly anticipating the show that was about to start. I clenched a bottle of imported beer in one hand , savoring its amber contents as the alcohol entered my blood stream and raced towards my brain. I was in a satisfied state of mind; relaxed, slightly tipsy, and still very much alone. In a split second the evening took a turn for the worse. The Host started his introductory comedy routine and immediately asked the question, "would the Hermit in the building please stand up?" "I know you are in here. He was just let out of a Queens’ Mental Institution today and he is here alone. Ladies please stay clear. He has a history."
I was laughing along with the rest of the audience with this rather humorous opening gambit, until he turned to his left and pointed directly at me screaming, "There's the weirdo. There he is." I abruptly stopped laughing and in slow motion, moved my head from one side to the other looking at the entire audience in stitches, pointing at me doubled over in an extreme laughter pose.
The next act started his performance and carried on where the M.C had left off. The new comedian asked anyone within five feet of me to stand up and move tables for their own safety; of which everyone obliged. I remained the butt of all jokes until the end of the third act when it started growing a little tired and the "on his own jokes," didn't quite get met with the desired laughter required. I had withstood the onslaught and had come out a stronger person, with elephant skin. I was bruised but not severely injured. The one thing I had learned: Never ever go to a comedy club on your own. Its like having a steak tied around your neck when you walk into a lions’ den.
Long Live the Cat
The day I start believing in reincarnation I am putting in a request to come back as our cat Josie. The word "our" is a slight fabrication since Josie is really my wife's cat. I am the adopted father. Josie was there before I arrived on the scene and I am reminded of this fact every time I put up opposition to doing some chore for Josie.
Josie is old. She is 17 which in cats’ lives is 4,325. Josie has kidney failure which is very sad. She needs to be injected with fluids every other day . She takes two different types of pills daily and a powdered pill that is added to her food. She has been unwell for some time and her Mommy is the best cat care provider one can find.
I am the only one at home this week. I am "Mr Cat." I have been entrusted in being "Dr. Cat" every morning and evening, deceiving the cat by hiding her medication inside a soft chewy treat. It seems to be working. I also feed Josie at 3 am after she wakes me from my slumbers by meowing at about 120 decibels. In my dreamlike state , I can hear people screaming and calling out for help and jump out of bed looking for the tortured souls and instead I stumble across Josie crying out for food. I feed her with one eye open and collapse back into bed. Josie is fed again at 5.30am when I arise for the second time. The babysitter aka the cat sitter, in the kids’ absence, comes in during the day and feeds Josie twice. She is fed again at 6 pm on my return from work and then finally before I retire for the night.
Josie eats a lot. Her renal failure means that unless she eats often and plenty, her weight loss would be catastrophic (avoid the pun). Looking after Josie is a full time job and I exhausted from doing it. I do however realize that the responsibility of looking after the pet cat is of huge significance. If anything untoward would happen to Josie then the consequences for me would be horrendous. Lifelong guilt and retribution. I am convinced that my wife has had cameras installed all over the apartment spying on me and checking to see how good a job I am doing. I seem to spend a large potion of my time walking around my apartment saying good girl Josie with a big smile on my face waving to where I think the hidden cameras are located. The families in the apartment building opposite must think I am completely nuts, but they clearly have never been left with a sick cat belonging to my wife for an extended period of time.
If the feeding and pill schedule weren't enough, Josie needs an injection on alternate days. My wife trusts me with many duties but not with this task.She honestly thinks I would botch it up and murder the cat. So I have to take her to the vet every other day without fail and wait for an available technician to administer the needle and discharge 100 milliliters of some clear saline type liquid that keeps her alive for forty eight hours.
Fortunately the vet's office is on my block, so apart from having to rearrange my whole work and social life around these visits, they really do not pose too much of an inconvenience.
My only thought is when I am old and decrepit will someone look after me the same way as Josie is cared for? With intervention and constant attention Josie has survived for many years past her sell by date and may she have many more. My Mother commented on her stay with me about how well I was cat sitting. When I awoke this morning I recalled my Mother's statement regarding Josie. “I hope that the cat appreciates everything you are doing for her." Josie must of heard my Mother because in the middle of the night last night Josie decided to urinate all over my ski jacket that I had naively left on the floor. On telling my wife this piece of news she remarked,"Josie must be so mad at you. Were you nasty to her?"
When my wife eventually comes come I will be wearing whiskers, have four legs, a tail and will be purring up a storm curled up in my basket. She can look after me for a while!
Josie is old. She is 17 which in cats’ lives is 4,325. Josie has kidney failure which is very sad. She needs to be injected with fluids every other day . She takes two different types of pills daily and a powdered pill that is added to her food. She has been unwell for some time and her Mommy is the best cat care provider one can find.
I am the only one at home this week. I am "Mr Cat." I have been entrusted in being "Dr. Cat" every morning and evening, deceiving the cat by hiding her medication inside a soft chewy treat. It seems to be working. I also feed Josie at 3 am after she wakes me from my slumbers by meowing at about 120 decibels. In my dreamlike state , I can hear people screaming and calling out for help and jump out of bed looking for the tortured souls and instead I stumble across Josie crying out for food. I feed her with one eye open and collapse back into bed. Josie is fed again at 5.30am when I arise for the second time. The babysitter aka the cat sitter, in the kids’ absence, comes in during the day and feeds Josie twice. She is fed again at 6 pm on my return from work and then finally before I retire for the night.
Josie eats a lot. Her renal failure means that unless she eats often and plenty, her weight loss would be catastrophic (avoid the pun). Looking after Josie is a full time job and I exhausted from doing it. I do however realize that the responsibility of looking after the pet cat is of huge significance. If anything untoward would happen to Josie then the consequences for me would be horrendous. Lifelong guilt and retribution. I am convinced that my wife has had cameras installed all over the apartment spying on me and checking to see how good a job I am doing. I seem to spend a large potion of my time walking around my apartment saying good girl Josie with a big smile on my face waving to where I think the hidden cameras are located. The families in the apartment building opposite must think I am completely nuts, but they clearly have never been left with a sick cat belonging to my wife for an extended period of time.
If the feeding and pill schedule weren't enough, Josie needs an injection on alternate days. My wife trusts me with many duties but not with this task.She honestly thinks I would botch it up and murder the cat. So I have to take her to the vet every other day without fail and wait for an available technician to administer the needle and discharge 100 milliliters of some clear saline type liquid that keeps her alive for forty eight hours.
Fortunately the vet's office is on my block, so apart from having to rearrange my whole work and social life around these visits, they really do not pose too much of an inconvenience.
My only thought is when I am old and decrepit will someone look after me the same way as Josie is cared for? With intervention and constant attention Josie has survived for many years past her sell by date and may she have many more. My Mother commented on her stay with me about how well I was cat sitting. When I awoke this morning I recalled my Mother's statement regarding Josie. “I hope that the cat appreciates everything you are doing for her." Josie must of heard my Mother because in the middle of the night last night Josie decided to urinate all over my ski jacket that I had naively left on the floor. On telling my wife this piece of news she remarked,"Josie must be so mad at you. Were you nasty to her?"
When my wife eventually comes come I will be wearing whiskers, have four legs, a tail and will be purring up a storm curled up in my basket. She can look after me for a while!
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