It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

This is what I see when I stand in front of our house and look up:



And here's our brick house; apparently, before the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway cut the nabe off from the water, it was located down by the docks, and went through several incarnations as a boarding house and a house of ill-repute (or so they say). It still has the peculiar little warreny rooms and our bedroom has the original tin ceiling.



I drove around Brooklyn doing errands, and ran into a horrendous traffic jam right here:




I panicked and booked, going the wrong way down a one-way street to escape the foul fumes and claustrophobia. Going a different route, I passed this off-duty lunch truck. "White & Hot"? Maybe there's actually a little disco in there:



And this guy, the angry gorilla who presides over a used-car lot. I'm not sure what the advertising concept is. Is he freaking out over the amazing deals? Or is it more like a threat--he'll chase you down if you pass up the amazing deals?


And the wonderful ruined bathhouse, haunted with the ghosts of nude old men:



And a 3rd Avenue mural:

The Thwarted Aspirations of a Would-Be Tupperware Lady

So I had a brainstorm this morning, as I blindly groped my way through the a.m. tasks. Despite how I sometimes try to tart up the truth, I'm pretty much a full-time housewife at this point. Unfortunately, my household doesn't always run as a household should run that's run by a full-time housewife. If you get what I'm saying. Take this morning, for instance. In my mind, I like to think I woke up a good half-hour before Hedgehog, laid out her clothes, made a pot of coffee and poured the juice and scrambled the eggs. Then greeted her, turning from the stove with a bright and cheery smile. The reality is always different. Wake up late? Check. Groggy? Check. Hungover even though I didn't drink? Yup. Stumbling around because I can't find my glasses and I'm blind as a bat without 'em? Mmhmm. Brownies and water for Hedgehog's breakfast? Well yes. Only shoes available are two left ones, one sneaker and one sandal? You betcha.

But as I stood (well, sagged) at the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to brew and resurrect me from the twilight sleep of undeath, I grabbed a cookbook at random off my shelf to peruse for dinner ideas. What did I grab? It just so happened to be my Tupperware Picnic Foods of the World cookbook...Tupperware, Tupperware...hmmm...a faint song could be heard in the dimmest recesses of my mind, I think it was "Too Much Too Young." No just kidding. But a light went on in there, and suddenly, just like that, I decided to become a Tupperware Lady. They still exist, you know. I checked it out. Yes, I was going to host a Tupperware party right in my own home, and from there, well, the sky would be the limit...somehow, Tupperware would make me a better housewife, I just knew it.  In the cranky morning over the sink full of dishes, brightly-colored plastic storage solutions seemed like the key to life, the universe, and everything...

As swiftly as my dream was born, it was murdered.  Murdered by Sgt. Pepper not half an hour ago, when he uttered the fateful word: "No."

Gramercy

A warm, bright morning in Gramercy Park, where I actually found a parking spot. Not a hydrant with my four-way flashers going, mind you, or even more luckily a meter, but a real live bona-fide NYC parking space, right across from the Park. So I walked a bit, enjoying the sun through the trees:



and peering into the famous locked park like the envious riff-raff I am to ogle the imprisoned tulips:



and taking an illicit photo of the greener grass in there, trodden upon only by the very lucky few key-holders:



The famous National Arts Club (what goes on in there, one wonders):



Mansard roofs:



And ivy-covered retreats:



Just a few blocks away, I heeded the warning:



and overheard these fine gents discussing their job histories-- "I used to do break-ins, tvs and stuff, I don't any more":



After I ran my errands, I headed home to our street like a Brooklyn bower:




And p.s. if anyone stops by with a ghost story, leave it as a comment on the May 4th post. I'd love to hear it!

Ghost Stories

I've been thinking a lot about ghosts this weekend, as I do periodically. I love the ghost hoax photos of the 19th century (see above), and I love reading ghost stories. I adore getting that chilly spooked feeling--I find it both delightful and heartening. And I will tell you a secret: I do believe in ghosts, as surely as I believe in myself.

Here's my own true ghost story, as it happened to me.

My father died in January 2005, at home, after a long illness. He died in his comfy easy chair, in his living room, with us at his side. The next day, we visited him for the last time at the funeral home. When I bent down to say goodbye, I whispered a little wish, "dad, please, I would love a spooky visitation from you." Just those exact words. I don't know why I did this, except that maybe I didn't want to say a final goodbye, and maybe I knew that he always knew my penchant for the macabre, the eerie, and the supernatural, and might enjoy hearing, and even honoring, this somewhat silly but nonetheless heartfelt request. I felt foolish, but I meant it. Somehow I thought he might understand.

That night, after a restless evening, I settled down to sleep. Out of habit, I placed my cell phone on the bed beside me. I had done this the last night of dad's life, when we left him for a few hours with his carer, to go home and rest a bit. I had programmed his phone so that he could press send and reach me, without having to dial the numbers.

Anyway, I did finally fall asleep and slept soundly until, in the very heavy, chilly dark of an early winter morning, I was startled awake by something. It took me a moment to get my bearings, and then I realized it was my cell phone ringing, insistently ringing right next to me. I grasped for it in the dark room, finding it by the little light of its screen...on which showed, clearly, my father's cell phone number. I blinked, looked again, literally rubbed my eyes to get the sleep out of them...but it was his number. When we left his apartment the day he died, we made sure to leave the cell phone, along with his glasses, the NY Times crossword puzzle, and his familiar gold Cross pen, on the little table next to his easy chair...

In the night, in bed, I picked up my phone and listened. What did I hear? My own voice, a message I had left for my dad on my birthday, January 8th, a week or so before he died. It said "Dad, where are you? I can't get hold of you by phone...call me back if you get this..."

When I hung up the phone, I could see by its clock that it was nearly 4 a.m. I lay there for a long time, until the first light.

And that's my story, and it's all true. I'm still not sure exactly what it means, except that I really like to believe that dad had his odd sense of humor, even after the very end, and I got my "spooky visitation" as I dearly wished I would.

Now I pose it to any readers out there. Do you have a story for us, something that happened to you? If so, I would absolutely love to hear it. Please do share; I know I'm not the only one!

A Post a Day for May

I'm taking this challenge (although I missed May 1). What fun! I shall hold forth on topics I enjoy each and every evening in May. To kick things off, a bit of randomness. First, here's my latest yarn acquisition:



arrayed in my Grandma Eva's fruit bowl. She always had this on her table, full of peaches, pears, and bananas. Doesn't the yarn look a bit like fruit in this context? And what, pray tell, is this stash going to be? Well, that remains to be told, as it's a surprise for the lovely Miss AKPW, and she might run into this post!

And in honor of May Day, for Sissy:

"[H]e does not fulfil himself in his work but denies himself, has a feeling of misery rather than well-being, does not develop freely his mental and physical energies but is physically exhausted and mentally debased. The worker, therefore, feels himself at home only during his leisure time, whereas at work he feels homeless. His work is not voluntary but imposed, forced labour. It is not the satisfaction of a need, but only a means for satisfying other needs."

--Karl Marx

...and Welcome, Whomper

Maybe it's too soon, but the empty cage was making us all feel funny.




So baldly stated, this hamster transaction. There's the food. Then there's the unfortunately named "Hamsteroids," an outsized hamster treat for power nibbling. Then there's the hamster itself. 9.99. Less than ten dollars for a mohawked, whiskered, tufty-butted, whimsical little man. People, I love hamsters. It goes against all sense and reason--the blank, beady eyes, the inexorable movement toward escape. They take everything from us, and give nothing back. But somehow, this household feels incomplete without one.

Godspeed, Dr. Frizzle

I just discovered Dr. Frizzle in a cold, dead circle in the corner of his palatial estate. Poor little guy. Who knows what happened--he'd gotten loose again two days ago, and appeared on our counter a day later--he seemed okay, but I guess he either ate something or fell too far and injured himself. I've seen a lot of pets die, but it's always sad in its little way. Plus, dead rodent isn't so pleasant.

For a moment, I had the sitcom idea of replacing him without telling Hedgehog (let's be completely honest here; one hamster is pretty much like another, except for the ones who bite), and then realized that yes, I'll have to tell her. It's not that she hasn't been around death--unfortunately, she's already experienced the death of my dad--but somehow this I know will hit home. I'm absolutely dreading tomorrow morning...

Well, so be it.

"The world was not made for one as beautiful as he," eulogized Sarge. Okay, maybe that's overstating it, but I liked the little guy.

post script: I told Hedgehog this morning; there was a flood of quiet tears, and then we buried him in the backyard by the stone lion. It really was very sad.

But we're already planning for our next hamster...Sgt. Pepper seemed none too pleased...

Brooklyn Mayberry

Our neck of the woods, as I've mentioned before, is really a small town. It may be in Brooklyn, but it's not what you think: although NYC is synonymous with big, bustling, anonymous, those of us who live here know that its neighborhoods can be awfully Mayberryish.

In Mayberry Brooklyn, you can't walk 8 blocks (that's the distance between home and Hedgehog's school) without passing someone you know, at least enough to warrant a smile and wave, more often a passing conversation ("hey!" "Nice weather!" "The nicest!"), and sometimes even a quick stop to chat. Hedghog commented the other day: "Mama, sometimes I just want to walk along and think thoughts." Well, Hedgehog, that's just not the way of Mayberry.

Next characteristic of Mayberry Brooklyn: all news hits the pavement running. Everyone knows everyone's business before the sun is halfway in the sky. A typical conversation on my block which I'll call Elm Street: "Pssst! c'mere..." "hi, what's up?" "did you hear the news?..."

Take your pick:
a. "we think Vinton Calloway killed his wife, although she appeared at first to have died of a heart attack"

b. "Sally's roof fell in and she just boarded up the room rather than have it repaired"

c. "Darcy McAllen fell in love with that homeless guy who sleeps under the BQE overpass, and now she gives him part of her trust fund money every month in the form of booze and tube socks"

d. "Leah passed by here with her third Venti Iced Americano of the day...she must be hopped up as hell, I don't know how she thinks straight enough to raise that kid of hers..."

You get the picture.

Anonymous it ain't.

All that's missing is Aunt Bee--and just give me another five years...

To Market

I've lately (well, in the last two days) become obsessed with a certain post on salad cream, an apparently everyday English occurrence. Now that I have seen it in person at the Fairway today, I suddenly understand all the wisecracks and must acknowledge, then quickly move on, that it looks disturbingly and unappetizingly like a certain other substance that shall remain nameless because this just isn't that kind of a blog. Nevertheless, the recipe sounds so tasty. Then this morning, still ruminating mildly on all the tasty English foodstuffs that I can't procure, I ventured out to market where I discovered, in a moment of pure serendipity and coincidence, that Fairway has an entire aisle of it. Here's some of what I made off with, posing all lined up like joyful little soldiers (are soldiers usually joyful?):




My faves. The baked beans are pretty much just baked beans, but SUCH beautiful packaging, don't you think?

I'm so pitifully Anglophilic...

Here's some more of my grocery haul, American-style:




I can't get enough of the iced tea. I like it SO much better than homemade. I was thrilled to find the gallon size. It's enormous isn't it?

Also the Meyer lemon. Sublime. I'm going to make candied lemon peel and preserved lemons (suggested by Faycat) after we use the juice for lemonade and salad dressing.

Some days marketing is just so life-affirming.

Here's Why Parents Shouldn't Have Weird Fantasies Involving Characters in Children's Books

Yesterday afternoon I took Hedgie to her friend's birthday party--Harry Potter themed. I was quite gung-ho, as you can imagine. I knew the party would be wonderful, because this boy's parents are wonderful, brilliant, and fun-loving people and if anyone could pull off a Harry Potter party properly, they could. But I also felt a little funny with anticipation as I stood at my dresser and sprayed Mandragore. See, it was almost like I knew.

We arrived at the party, and who should be sitting in the corner, blowing up balloons, but my lover, Severus. I had a strange moment of vertigo--and I am TOTALLY serious--where fantasy and reality whirled together--wait, I thought in my delusion, did I arrange to meet him here?--and felt a deep blush creep up my cheeks--and Hedgehog turned to me with narrowed eyes, thinking I'm not sure what--

then the world stopped swinging, my psychosis abated, and I realized it was a friend of my friends wearing pale face paint and a glossy black wig. A man dressed up as Severus, in other words, to entertain the CHILDREN at the party. But the power of fantasy and of a costume, however ill-rendered, cannot be underestimated. Even after my psyche righted itself, I couldn't get over the feeling that somehow I was in the corporeal presence of the heretofore only imagined. Never mind that the wig slipped askew over his forehead in a display of disequilibrium uncharacteristic, I feel certain, of the "real" Severus; that ultimately, in the heat generated by six little people with excess energy, the face paint melted in sweat that Severus himself never would have sweated; that this faux Severus confided in me that he'd taken a bit too much cold medicine and was high as a kite; still the illusion never totally evaporated.

I wanted to impress Severus (a harsh and judgmental man, his favor would be gratifying) and wondered for two hours, did he notice how gamely I helped out with the party duties? How heady was my Mandragore? How I managed to be both wry and loving with Hedgehog? And perhaps the depths of experience in my brown eyes? Did he? I couldn't keep from glancing as he went about his own duties as Potions Master--fielding wand pokes from 7-year-olds, passing out bowls of cotton candy, rescuing a box cutter from the birthday boy, and leading class in an advanced potions lesson to see what would happen when vinegar, baking soda, and green food coloring were mixed...

At party's end, Severus lay back in a chair, indeed sweaty, wig askew, high, and bested by the children. Poor, poor Master, covered in a humiliation of sticky cotton candy, taunts and pokes, and one mother's finally fully realized delusion...