I Was Following You!

I've been taking a belly dancing class on Tuesday nights, and it's been so much fun. Yesterday was election day, so the gym was overtaken by poll machines and our class was held in a different room.

I saw my teacher and we started walking together and chatting. We walk all the way down the hall and she turns to me and says, "Are you sure this is the right way?"

I look at her and say, "I've been following you! I don't know where the class is."



This reminds me of the time I took my sisters and two cousins to the movies. They were all about seven and eight-years-old. After the movie let out, I asked them:

"So, do any of you remember where we parked?"

James, the smallest one, turns to me and he looks like I just told him I ripped up all his beloved Pokemon cards and ran over his best friend. He says:

"I don't know! YOU'RE the ADULT! YOU'RE RESPONSIBLE!!"


I mean, SHE's the TEACHER. She's RESPONSIBLE.

You: Reading This Blog

I went to Borders yesterday, and was struck by how many You books there were:

You: The Owners Manual
You: Staying Young
You: On a Diet
You: On a Walk

Pretty soon those guys are going to run out of ideas, so I have several:

You: At Borders
You: Walking to Your Car
You: Programming Tivo

Now I Hope They Will Stop Cursing at Us

Last year, Peter and I went to Boston, a city we adore. Some of my favorite places are in Boston - I love walking on Newbury Street, The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, the Esplanade, The Elephant Walk restaurant, I could go on and on for days.

However, the one thing I hate about Boston is that ridiculous way Bostonians act about the stupid Red Sox.

Peter ALWAYS wears a Yankee hat in the summertime, and someone in every freaking place we walk into has to make the, "Nice hat," comment - as in "Nice hat, you stupid Yankee fan, now I'm going to spit into your soup."

Once we were sitting on a bench at the Museum of Fine Arts and an old guy was mumbling something under his breath. We were sitting there for about five whole minutes before I realized that the guy was saying, "Fucking Yankees...mumble mumble mumble...Yankees."

It's so ridiculous. And the funny thing is that Peter actually likes the Red Sox.

Now that they've won another World Series, I hope that they'll start feeling a bit better about New Yorkers when we visit.

Fabulous Fun

Last week, Peter and I took a ride on the Circle Line. It was a great day, 83 degrees in October!

When we first sat down, Peter turned to me and said, "Wait, this is going all around Manhattan? I've SEEN ALL THIS."

Immediately, a shower of grumpness rained down on me.

Luckily, this only lasted until the boat started to move and we both moved to the bow. The wind was blowing and we were THIS CLOSE to the Statue of Liberty. A ridiculous technicolor rainbow appeared right above Miss Liberty. And then the animated birds came out...

An hour later, Peter called the boat ride, "Fabulous Fun."

I am the Fabulous Fun to his Grumpy Grumperson.

Jake Gyllenhaal = Sam The Eagle

Don't Mess With Our Food

About once a week Peter and I get into a fight about food. Usually someone ate something that had been sitting innocently in the refrigerator for a few days without either one of us thinking that it was a potential time bomb of arguments and pouting.

Today, it was Ben and Jerry's Pistachio Pistachio ice cream.

I had been at Trader Joe's eyeing the ice cream aisle, but since we had a pint of Pistachio Pistachio ice cream in the freezer, I decided to pass and was looking forward to having some of the ice cream we ALREADY HAD IN THE HOUSE instead of buying more ice cream.

Of course, I get home and Peter takes the carton to his office. That's fine, because I saw how much was in there, and I figured I would have some later. A few minutes later, he plops on the chair and says, "Whew! I can't believe I finished it."

"Finished WHAT?" I asked.

When he told me he finished the ice cream, I was SO ANGRY. Which didn't even make sense to Peter because, you know what? I DON'T LIKE PISTACHIOS.

Peter pointed this out to me, but that made me EVEN ANGRIER. I felt that he should have asked me whether I wanted something I had never shown interest in before - at least before he finished it. Is that TOO MUCH to ask?

Why Do We Keep Doing This to Ourselves?

When my sister Judy was little, she used to beg me for peppermint candies I used to keep in my bag. I never really understood this, because she ALWAYS spit them out and said: "I don't LIKE this!"

And of course, I would get annoyed because, you know, one more wasted peppermint candy.

Once, she said: "I don't LIKE this again!"

That pretty much sums up how Peter and I feel about Food in Westchester. I don't know why we keep trying new places. I read an article in the local weekly paper about a restaurant called Lyla's.

We wanted to give it a chance, since the article declared it the best thing EVER.

Suffice it to say, it was terrible. My sandwich was NOT GOOD. How can you mess up a sandwich? Peter's food wasn't very good either. Not only was the food not good, but the place was empty and the counter boy decides he's got to Windex the next table WHILE WE ARE EATING. This ALWAYS pisses me off. I mean, does your mother spray Windex at you while you are eating dinner at home, counter boy? What is WRONG with you?

When we got back in the car, Peter turns to me and says: "Why do we keep doing this?"

And I said: "What? Oh, you mean, why do we keep bashing our heads against the wall, look at another wall, and decide to do the same thing?

Hey, That Would Be Great On a Blog

For the first time in about a year, I had dinner with my friend, Marisol. I thought she was an ex-friend until this exact week, because ever since we moved to Mt. Kisco, she has literally dropped off the face of this earth.

Every time I call her or email her, I get these excuses, like:

"I had to oversee the TimeWarner merger and flew to Dulles, here is the Associated Press article telling you all about it."

"My father had stents put into his heart, so I had to go to California for two weeks."

"The car got crushed by a garbage truck, so I'm having it fixed."

"My nephew had knee surgery and I have to go take care of him."

Forwarding me an article from the Associated Press? I mean, come on. Why don't you just tell me you don't want to be friends anymore?

Anyway, she finally did call me, and we had a really nice dinner. Halfway through the meal, I tell her that I've made a concerted effort to enjoy my time in Northern Westchester, and will no longer complain about the fact that it is not Park Slope, Brooklyn.

"After all," I said. "I want to enjoy the time we're living there, and really explore the positive things."

"That's good," she said. "It's like a blog, 'My Year in Mount Kisco.'"

For a second I almost stopped breathing, because I haven't told her about my blog - in fact, I've only told one friend and my sister about it. I guess I want to see if I can actually keep this up. I don't want to tell someone about my blog and it's only three entries long. That's happened with some of my other friends, and it's difficult to take them seriously after that.

I checked myself and tried to remember if I actually did have a conversation about this blog, but I know I hadn't. So my conclusion?

This must be a great blog idea!

It's a Wonder I'm Still Here

I went home last week to visit my grandmother. She's my mother's mother, the kind woman who left her native homeland half a world away to come take care of me when I was eight-years-old. She was sent here because of a conversation I had with my dad while I was at my babysitter's house.

Dad: Where's Alba?

Me: She went with her son to walk the dog.

Dad: She left you all alone? With your one-year-old sister?

Me: She does this all the time.

Dad: Take Judy and go get her. Tell her I want to talk to her.

Me: I can't.

Dad: What do you mean, you can't?

Me: I can't open the door from the inside, she locked it from the outside.

To his credit, my father remained calm, but later that night, he tore Alba a new one. What if there had been a fire? Do you know HOW DANGEROUS THAT IS?

We never went back.

It was kind of strange, because I used to see Alba's son at the playground all the time, and he would pretend that he didn't know who I was. I would say, "Remember? Your mom used to babysit me and we used to play Atari games in your living room."

He always shook his head and said, "That was someone else. I don't know you."

It really used to mess me up, to a point where I thought, "Maybe I DID make it all up!"

Anyway, when I saw my grandmother, she told me a funny story about me when I was about seven months old.

"I put you on the bed, surrounded you with a comforter, and told you not to climb over it. I made gestures, I hit my head with my hand to show you what would happen if you did, and you nodded at me. And you were so good! You understood and didn't climb over. When my sister came to visit, she said, 'I don't think that's a safe place for her.' And I told her not to worry, because you were so smart!"

The Parking Spot Controversy

Ever since we moved into this condo complex, we've noticed how small the parking spots are and we're constantly getting dinked on the left side, since it's a guest parking spot and there's no specific person to blame for dinks.

The thing is, Peter and I are ultra-sensitive about dinking other cars. Sometimes, I literally have to hold open the door so it doesn't swing open because, of course, the parking lot is on a little bit of a hill, so it's easy for the door to just careen out and dink the next car.

I'm super-nervous about this because our neighbor is CRAZY. Okay, she may not be crazy, but she hates us, and by us, I mean me. I'm a friendly person, so whenever I see her outside, I say, (in a super-cheerful voice), "HI!" She pretends she didn't hear me and continues on her way.

This may have something to do with the fact that right before we moved in, we had painters and carpenters and floor installers fixing up this place. Oh, and our mover's truck whacked into her car bumper trying to get into our parking spot. And yes, one last thing, we have two dogs, and they sometimes decide that 2 a.m. is the ideal time to start wrestling. But I feel that none of these things are reasons to hate your new neighbor.

The other day, Peter said, "I think our spot is smaller than other people's."

Of course, this is exactly the sort of injustice that I WILL get worked up about, so yesterday, I got out the tape measure. Here is the finding:

Parking Spot # -- Width of Parking Spot in inches

13 -- 151
12 -- 103
11 -- 102
10 -- 103
9 -- 102
8 -- 102
7 -- 102
6 -- 102
Guest Spot -- 102
Guest Spot -- 105
Guest Spot -- 94
5 (OUR Spot) -- 93.5
4 -- 115

As you can see, our spot, and the guest spot next to ours is teeny-tiny. Why? Did the parking spot line painters just decide that the people in Apartment #2 just didn't deserve to have a decent sized spot?

We wouldn't have made a stink about it, but there is a substantial difference. Why should spot 13 get a huge palatial parking spot? Their spot is practically double ours. So we've written the management company. Peter doesn't think that they're going to do anything about it, but I'm optimistic that they will.

I guess the problem is that Peter's a realist (I call him a pessimist, but he says it's realist) and I'm an optimist. I always think that people will do the right thing, and then when they don't, I get angry about it. So we'll see. If the management company doesn't do the right thing, I'll probably buy a cheap-o motorcycle and park it in the guest spot next to ours. Permanently.

Is that really spiteful? Will that send me to Parking Karma Hell?

A Strange New Growth

Married people share a lot of things, and one of those things requires having your spouse check out something on your body that you can't really see, and give you their opinion on it.

Many such conversations in our house start out with:

Me: Is that a mosquito bite, or a pimple?

Me: Is that a pimple or an ingrown hair?

Me: Is that an ingrown hair or a tumor?

Whenever I say, "Can you take a look at this?" Peter instantly freezes, pretends he didn't hear me, and walks slowly out of the room. Much the way Rocky, the Siberian Husky, acts when he sees me heading toward him with the doghair brush.

Today Peter said, "I have a bump in my mouth."

Me: So floss!

Peter: I did NOT say I had something in MY TEETH. I SAID I had something in MY MOUTH. I think it's some sort of bump.

So we go into the bathroom where the light is better, and he uses his fingers to hold his upper lips and gets down on bended knee so I can see. And even though he's in this ridiculously precarious position, I crack up and say, "Of course I'll marry you!"

He starts laughing and said, "I was going to say 'Whii yuh mawrrehh meh'?"

When a couple gets married, the priest should really say, "Do you take this person, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer, and will you check out any strange new growths that will appear on his body?"

No, Not Pregnant!

Every time I talk to someone I haven't spoken to in awhile, they ask me if I'm pregnant.

The other day, I was telling someone a story, about how my mother is FREAKING Out over the fact that I'm not pregnant yet, and I said:

"The funny thing, is that there's something that happened last month that I haven't told her about..."

Before I could finish my sentence, I heard through the telephone, loud enough to shake the plaster down on the walls of my apartment:

"You GOT PREGNANT!"

After a long pause, I said, "Uhm...NOOOOOOOOOOOO..."

I mean, that doesn't even make any sense. I feel like all people hear from me these days is, "blah blah blah, blah, blah blah blah blah." They're just waiting to hear the "P" word.

Kind of like my dogs, except their magic word is "food."

10 Years!!

September 5th marked the tenth anniversary of the day I first sat down next to Peter and said, "Hi! I like your glasses!"

I heard a report on 20/20 that our bodies regenerate all the cells on our bodies every ten years - at this point, Peter and I are walking around with an entirely new set of cells. So I guess that makes us entirely different people now.

The very first time I met Peter, I was wearing green cargo pants, a nylon neon-orange-and-neon-yellow camouflage tank top, and the extremely ugly Mephisto sandals my mother bought me because the salesperson at Nordstrom told her that they would mold to my feet, which was apparently something he convinced my mother was VERY IMPORTANT.

I know NOW that this is a hideous outfit, but for some reason, I looked at myself in the mirror and went, "I look TERRIFIC!" (Keep in mind, I had just spent a year in Ann Arbor, Michigan. For over there, anything not pre-worn by someone else was high fashion.)

A friend of mine brought me to see a coworker play guitar at a bar/club in the city. He pointed Peter out to me and said, "That's the guy who knows Beck."

At the time, I had just moved back to NYC from Ann Arbor, and I would take the 18-hour train ride every month or so to visit my family. On my portable CD player (remember those, guys?), I listened to Beck's Odelay over and over - my theme song for that summer was "New Pollution." So of course, anyone who knew Beck would be instantly cooler than anyone I had ever met before in my entire life. And boy, I was so right.

Did I Say a Million?

Peter's nephew Tony came over to visit us to print out business cards on our color laser printer that sits in our living room. Yes, in our home, instead of a pretty curio cabinet or a funky side table, we use pieces of computer equipment as decorative items.

So Tony came over with his packet of print-it-yourself business cards and instead of the 200 the box claimed it would print out, we only managed to get about 170 cards due to the falling apart of the business cards in the eventual paper jam.

First we were manually feeding them in, which we felt was a waste of time, so we tried putting one, then two sheets at a time, which worked, at which point I said:

"Hey, why don't you put ALL of them in."


"No," Tony said. "That might piss the printer off."

So we fed three-at-a-time, four-at-a-time and then, since there were only six left, we threw caution to the wind and put them all in - at which point the printer spitefully spat out a mangled last page.

"See," Tony said. "We were pushing our luck."

This took far too long, and I told him about designyourowncard.com, where I printed up my tutoring cards. For the $20 box, he only got 170 cards and I told him that this website will print out 1000 cards for $40.

"That way, you can print out 1000 cards and hand them out to A MILLION people! Uhm, or, you can print out 1000 cards and hand them out to 1000 people.

Camouflage

Peter and I went to Florida this past week and the very first day, I managed to scrape my foot on the bottom of the pool. Luckily, I found a Band-Aid in my bag and put it on.

Later, at the Boma buffet restaurant in the Animal Kingdom Lodge, otherwise known as "The Place Where You Should Put Down Those French Fries and Chicken Fingers and Get Some of That POT ROAST and RIBS and Potatoes with AFRITUDE," Peter looks down at my foot and said:

"Why did you take off your Band-Aid?"

I told him that it was still on and he looked at my foot closely and said:

"Wow. I think you're the first person I've ever known who actually has Band-Aid-colored skin."

I'm Special

I took my sister to get Jamba Juice today and ordered two small juices. She got hers and then when it was my turn, the juice-maker guy handed me a medium size, which is practically double the size that I ordered. I looked at it, then looked at my sister's, then looked at my receipt.

The juice-maker guy smiles at me and says:

I know you ordered the small, but you're special!

When we left the store, Jenny said:

I loved your reaction to that, it was like, "Thanks for noticing!"

Bathroom Conversation

Why are there two tubes of toothpaste in the medicine cabinet?

Because one of them is finished.

Why didn't you throw out the old tube of toothpaste?

I saved it for you.

...why?

You're a squeezer of greater patience and capacity than I am.

A Normal Person

We are going to Florida in about two weeks and we're trying to find a new dog kennel in the area to house the dogs. There are several places near Mt. Kisco, but they all want to charge you two arms and a leg to board. So, during an investigative internet search, I came across this place called Carmel Country Kennels. The price was attractive, but it is about thirty minutes away according to Mapquest. Today, we traveled to Carmel to check it out.

It was sort of a nightmare trip, complete with crazy downpours of rain, arguments with the Garmin (We did not go where she told us to go and for revenge, she picked every non-paved dirt road for us to navigate. Garmina is SUCH a bitch), and about ONE HOUR later, we finally arrive at the kennel.

Peter drives up to what we think is the office, and there's lettering on the door that says HONK YOU CAR HORN. I'm wondering, do we honk? Where's the front desk? Also, he's driven a bit too far in, and the bit of pavement is a bit narrow so he tries to U turn.

A lady appears at the doorway and Peter lowers our windshield to say to her:

"It just took us a solid hour to get here!"

She says in her ratty chain-smoker voice:

"Instead of trying to make a U, why don't you back out LIKE A NORMAL PERSON."

Of course, we are already having reservations about making this terrible drive ever again, the place looked kind of unkempt and now there's this rude lady.

Peter, like a NORMAL PERSON, backs out of the little paved area, drives down the gravel road...all the way home.

Fletch Lives Around Mount Kisco

For the 4th of July, Peter and I invited my parents, my grandmother, and my sisters to our home. We spend every 4th of July with my parents for the simple fact that - for some reason - it's the one day that they close down the restaurant.

It was also the first time I had anyone in my family besides my sister Jenny over at the new place. I was a bit embarrassed because there are cable wires masking taped all over the condo and three huge server machines in the dining room. I almost didn't want them to come over, because I wanted to wait until the place looked perfect.

But the funny thing was that my parents didn't even seem to notice them. It's like when you have a glaring pimple on your forehead, and you are convinced that everyone is grossed out, but when you mention it, they just go, "Oh, I didn't even see it."

For dinner, we went over to La Camelia, a restaurant that is literally around the corner from where we live.

I've been wanting to try it for quite some time, but the last time Peter and I walked over there, it was crazy packed and when I asked them if they had any vegetarian meals, the host said, "Of course, we have vegetarian paella, salmon..."

Right, since salmon is our favorite VEGETABLE. Peter turned tail and ran out of the place.

As it turned out, on July 4th, they did have a couple of vegetarian things and Peter ate and was very happy. The food was really good and everyone had a good time.

Toward the end of the meal, I look up and I see a tall guy and I say to myself, "Wow, that guy looks a lot like Chevy Chase, except he's really old. I mean, he's even wearing a safari vest just like in his movies."

I look over at Peter and he whispers in my ear, "That's Chevy Chase."

I tell him that the guy looks way too old and Peter says, "Chevy Chase IS old."

It was funny, because Chevy Chase walked around the restaurant, scoping out the diners, to see if there would be anyone who would hassle him before letting the waiter show him to a table.

My sister Jenny said, "Well, if he didn't want to be recognized, he shouldn't wear his safari vest, because then he's just ASKING FOR IT."

A Bad News First Person

I bought two seedless watermelons from Costco last week and the other day I opened one up. It was one of those over-ripe ones, no crispness, just a mouthful of what we called in my family, "whoo whoo," which means something that makes your mouth feel like it's full of wet sand.

Two days after the unfortunate watermelon incident, I opened up the other one, which was as sweet as the other one was "whoo whoo."

I told Peter that we should have opened this one first, and he said that would have been worse.

"Because then we would be looking forward to opening up the other watermelon, thinking that it was going to be as good as this one, and we would have been WAY MORE DISAPPOINTED."