I Met Aphrodite!

April 1, 2009

I hate confrontation and as such, would like to take this opportunity, and use this as an outlet to respond to someone named Viva*.  That's not her real name but on the outside chance she ever reads this I can further avoid confrontation by pretending this story is not about her.

While walking toward a free Diana Krall concert down by the World Trade Center I met Viva.  Diana was performing with her quartet and a 32-piece orchestra. She played her piano in front  of a huge window which looked out on the Hudson on this beautiful, sunny day.  I had a great spot on a nearby balcony and the acoustics were amazing.        Hearing her recorded music has always been a pleasure, but seeing/hearing her live took it to another level.  It was such a great experience on its' own, that I didn't want or need anything else out of the day.  But Viva turned out to be an experience too.

 Viva and I met as we were approaching the venue together, both buzzing with excitement to see Diana live, and immediately connected. She told  me that she planned to meet a friend for lunch after the concert.  As soon as she said this, he called to cancel because he was sick. 

It was such a beautiful day, it seemed impossible to be sick and I said so. She said he had been out in the damp air recently and caught a cold. This is one misconception I deem to be particularly dumb as colds are spread by germs, not literally cold air, and it always shocks me that anyone still believes that. How could this smart woman believe that?  It was the first contradiction Viva exhibited, but not the last.  As the day ensued the true motivation for her friend's absence became evident. 

After the concert we walked along the River at Battery Park to the Chelsea Piers on 23rd Street and stopped for lunch.  This of course was her idea because of the cancellation. The intoxicating beauty of the walk dulled the chafe of the beginning of her marathon monologue.  She talked about how she gained weight... in fact, by the time we reached 23rd Street, I knew everything there was to know about her, and everything she knew.  In summary, her self decreed awesomeness covered everything; she was the smartest, most beautiful, most desirable, most gifted, most psychic, expert in EVERYTHING.  She is not only awesome-est in this life but all her past lives.  

Over lunch she told me about her past lives.  Of course in all her past lives she was a queen, princess or someone equally outstanding.  She made this clear during that walk, even with present evidence belying that self assessment.  She didn't seem concerned with that though.  Probably because her awesomeness made her words so powerful, they could supersede anyone else's opinion or factual data.  By the time of our late lunch outside at a French Restaurant, I wished that I had called in sick.   Philip Seymour Hoffman sat nearby, and his presence turned the lunch into her long audition for him - -  at least in her mind that is what was happening. 

She is so needy she smothers you with the force of her many past aristocratic lives. The next thing that didn't make sense about her was how this self decreed all-around amazing person  felt the need to top any of the few things I was able to squeeze in during pauses in her monologue.  Why would she need to do that with all her awesomeness?    We talked about men and when I told her about a younger guy that was pursuing me, she talked about her even younger “boyfriend.”  That is in quotes because he apparently never knew he was her boyfriend.  

Viva  met this guy in this lifetime and just knew he was hypnotized by her dancing.  He didn't know that he was her boyfriend, and tragically he didn't know that rejecting her would mean rejecting the greatest pleasure he might have ever known.  Sadly for him, the 28-year-old boyfriend/bartender banned her from his bar. 

After her dazzling dance, she started showing up at his bar - - every afternoon.  Although he must have been completely in love with her, he told her never to return again, how can this be?  Again the circumstances she described painted a very different picture of the situation as she assessed it.   He told her never to come back.  She interpreted this as more of a modern day Capulet situation - - outside forces which were against them. She explained how sad he was to have to put an end to their blissful rendezvous in the empty bar.    She reached back to Greek mythology to explain why he was too weak to handle his intense love for her. 

Some people get banned from bars, she gets banned from bartenders. Well, this one sent her away the last one fled to Hawaii because Washington D.C was not far enough. The bartender currently in Hawaii went there because his bitchy girlfriend "made" him go because she wanted to live there. If only he had known true love with Viva...

The current bartender told her that her daily lunchtime visits to his empty bar sparked gossip among his colleagues that she had a crush on him. This made him sad to be the object of gossip. And it is the ultimate fear of all men to be laughed at by other men- - as taught to her by someone from the hippie commune “Omega Institute” who  wrote that in a book, and this fear somehow hearkened back to the time before Christ, and was solidly supported in Greek mythology, according to the author. 

Only mythological forces could impel this guy to reject his one and only chance at true happiness.  She thought it was so sad that he let this interfere with the one joy and pleasure he'd experience in his life. She didn't entertain the possibility that perhaps her daily regurgitations of bits of lunch spewed from her side of the bar to his, laced with saliva, bullshit and bravado may not only be boring to him but simultaneously suffocating.     No, the suffocation theory is only mine.   It is what I surmised after my inability to breathe  after only a few hours with her. 

  

Our lunch lasted for hours.   She ordered dessert and then coffee, Bellini after Bellini, while I shivered from the time the sun sank behind the restaurant, to the moment I finally begged the waiter for the check around 6pm so I could get the fuck out of there. Of course, she was just getting warmed up and wanted to go on to a coffee shop to continue regaling me with her extensive knowledge of the Zodiac, languages, art, science and everything. She used the Zodiac to provide supporting evidence as to why I was the Goddess of winter, sentenced to return to hell once a year, and she was the Goddess Aphrodite who was loved by all.  The love that everyone felt for her was the highest form of love of course.  In addition to being the embodiment of Aphrodite, she also possessed all the other fairest traits of the other 6 or 7 goddesses listed in the book I MUST read because she read it.  

Because our day together was ending, she wanted to make sure that in her absence, I'd know how  best to immerse myself in her through independent study. Although she told me I must read this book and a few other books from the Omega institute, she managed to recount one book in its entirety as I stood with one foot on the subway entrance steps thus negating any need to read that one book that I would never have read anyway.   

This ultimate Greek Goddess/unemployed actress donned size 8 jeans that were too tight although she “ran” and was a “dancer.” While size 8 is not big, most New York City professional dancers such as herself are a size negative 8.   It was shocking how the rigors of dancing could result in arms so spongy that my  palm sunk into her almost liquid flesh. 

It was amazing too that this Goddess could walk so freely in public without being swarmed by all her worshipers. I imagined she must have recently trimmed the languorous snakes from her mythological hair, leaving her with the patchwork of black and gray hair, which lay flush against the flesh of her scalp framing each nub, thus enabling her movement among us mortals. 

My excitement to see and hear Diana Krall in person, must have muted the voice within me that said, “After the concert, you have a very important appointment and must leave immediately, and then just run so she cannot follow you to said appointment, because if she did, she'd tag along to “help” you, because whatever the appointment was about, she was an expert on that subject.” 

No, my excitement blurred the sight of the COLOSSAL BORE warning flags. The first one started flying as we were both traipsing past the World Trade Center construction site to go to the concert after we had established that we were both heading there. This equal footing must have thrown her off balance so she immediately rattled off every obscure French jazz musician, poet, and hippie following each one up with, “You know, have seen, heard, or read him/her, right?” With each, No” or blank expression she got in return, the little rice pellets of ego within her swelled exponentially. 

It was a beautiful day so I chose to stay in fluffer mode: “You may have gained weight but you look great!” or by soaking the rice pellets with the flattery they required for growth by implying that she was the wisest astrologer I have ever met, clearly the most talented actress in existence, although not a mother herself, she is superior to all those practicing what she has perfected in her mind's eye, she is the smartest, most bewitching, most desirable woman that has ever been alive, and always was in all her past lives.   But Aphrodite told me she had an insatiable appetite for food, and her ego seemed just as hungry.

At least the food was great, and I managed to deflect most of her airborne spit. I took two bathroom breaks while she was instructing the fluently multi-lingual waiter on languages she spoke only a few words of, which broke up the time nicely. All in all, it was still a beautiful day in spite of my audience with the goddess of grandiose delusion. I heard Diana Krall, met Phillip Seymour Hoffman, saw Ben Stiller, but I touched Aphrodite on her flabby arm. Just another Spring Day in New York City.

Not The Kind of Night Vibes I Want.

 Imagine waking up in the middle of the night from a very scary sound coming from the attic.  That is what happened to me last night in my newly renovated home.  The sound/alarm would sound for a few minutes, go off, then on again about every 15 minutes.  

I called and texted anyone who had been working on my house who might know or be able to diagnose what the hell was happening.  One guy, a carpenter, answered my call.  How appropriate at Christmas time that he would be the benevolent soul willing to help.  He is familiar with plumbing and electric work but he is not a plumber or electrician.  

The next hour I simultaneously turned off each breaker, turned off the whole panel, went into the attic to look for SOMETHING or smell something, got dressed in case it was something was about to explode, saddled my dogs for escape, turned off the water, felt the walls for heat or to narrow down the source of the sound, contemplated calling 911, while listening to Wade, the helpful carpenter, for other ideas and suggestions.  He offered to come over to help but acknowledged there was nothing more he could do than what I already did.  While in the attic Wade asked if any lights were flashing.  They weren't but this becomes a key clue in our investigation later, as well as the lighthearted jokes Wade and his girlfriend threw out to ease the tension - is it a vibrator?

NOTHING shut the alarm off.   It was such a weird, sick sound which became increasingly scary each round as the sound seemed to be using the bathroom as an amplifier.

As I shut off each breaker, not one shut off the room/wall where the sound was coming from.  Interesting, but no time to deal with that now.  Shutting off the whole panel didn't shut it off.  Shutting off the water didn't shut it off as there are no pipes in the ceiling or that particular wall, but it was something else to try nonetheless.

Finally after an hour, with Wade on speaker phone, the exact spot where the sound was coming from was clear.  It was in the wall between the bathroom and bedroom.  It was in the wall.  I wondered if someone accidentally dropped an electronic device in the wall while running wires and just now the battery was dying, causing alarms to go off.  But what device?!  Was it a bomb??

There is a recessed shelf in the bathroom wall and the sound was clearly coming from that spot.  In this recessed shelf are three, clear, plastic bins with bathtub paraphernalia in them.  And within one of those bins, there it was, the blinking light.  It was the Clarisonic Mia2 having a day.  It is in fact a vibrating facial cleanser so the blinking light and vibrator where the two clues which closed the case.

My Mother Never Told Her Age

 My mother always hid her age, even from her six kids.  That is my origin story as far as my phobia with age is concerned.  Now she is at the end of her life.   She's a really strong person and as such, may have even defied God's calling a few times already.  It really can't be too much longer which leads me to think about her funeral.  

My aunt, my mother's sister, died a few years ago and she was age-o-phobic too.  Her funeral was during covid so it was a small group.  That's a shame because she was like the mayor of her town, Glen Cove, NY.  Those closest to her know about her aversion to any conversation about age.  Others at the wake who didn't know her as well inevitably asked, "How old was she?"  Her true friends would quietly turn their heads in a gesture which said that the subject of her age is off limits.  

People always ask how old the deceased person is at a wake or funeral.  WHY?  First of all the date of birth is right there on the memorial card when you walk into the room.  Are people too lazy to do the simple math?  Is it to assess whether or not the person lived long enough according to their standards?  Or is it a number you will try to live past?  

Now I have some time to plan possible  responses to this pointless question..

1. 50 (It's an age my mother said she feels like on the inside.  Plus it puts me in my 20s)

2.  Well let me see  (Then I'll whip out a memorial card, point to the date of birth to the person who asked, and then count each year on my fingers while staring at the person without blinking.  That should put a stop to the question in the future)

3.  It's funny, she lost so much weight, something she always wanted to do but when she finally did she couldn't appreciate it.  She lost probably over 30 pounds but the numbers are not clear to me right now.  Like how much do you weigh?  You look about her size (or better, the size she used to be).  

This way the person got some numbers, not the one they wanted but the subject of a person's weight, especially a woman, is a quick way to deflect or end a conversation.  I may talk about the amount of inches in height she lost should a man ask.

It's a start.  

No Such Thing As Old

 Living for 100 years is just about the max.  Rarely people have exceeded it by 1-20 years, most never reach it.  So really no one is ever old.   The universe is essentially timeless, and at the very least according to science, it has been around for 13 billion years.  Humans have only been here on earth for a hair-width sliver of time on a 360' timeline, as exhibited at the Museum of Natural History.  So my little 100 years give or take, is a microscopic particle of that sliver.

The Older I Get...

 When people begin a comment with, "The older I get," I prepare to flee.   If they really start getting into whatever they were about to say, then I can relax and sit back, confident the conversation will not circle back to the subject of age, as it started.  The subject will become an end in itself, especially since the opening comment is superfluous and even pointless.

Why not start with, "I now realize" or, "Here's something I was never aware of until the last few years." OR why not just make the comment without any preface?  How is it relevant?  Does anyone really think others care when a thought originated?  If a five-year-old said, "The older I get, the more I realize pooping in the toilet is much more sanitary," would it surprise anyone to know the child made this observation now rather than while in diapers?  Now if an infant said that it would be relevant, but more than that it would be shocking as infants generally don't say words in general.  

Our Loved Ones Don't Die, They Live on In Our ... Gut.

 My very good friend told me my stomach is fat.  She said it as we were sitting in her pool at night, while I was wearing her bikini, to give you an idea of our relative sizes.  This was immediately after her bachelorette party which I planned.  There were alot of people in or around the pool.  We are both in really good shape, she even participates in body building competitions.  She's maybe ten pounds less than I am and a few inches shorter. 

It sounds terrible but it didn't offend me.  Her commentary on my body was as personal as a guy looking at another guy's car engine and making a comment about something that needs to be fixed.  Our mutual dedication to the craft of body building has the effect of our bodies being our canvases.  My gut is the splotch of paint on my canvas that looks like a mistake she hoped to help me correct.   Plus, having the stress of planning the bachelorette party behind me made me impervious to bother of any kind at that moment.  Even now, months later, it still doesn't bother me though.  

We are so much alike that it felt like she was talking to herself, as if I am merely an extension of, or reflection of her.  I explained that my stomach is always there no matter what.  Now I weigh about 115 pounds.  At 5'4" that's considered thin, especially since I lift weights and am fairly muscular.  I've gotten as thin as 109 pounds, not on purpose, and the protrusion of my stomach was still there, even while my ribs were showing.  

She didn't want to accept my stomach.  As I write this it makes me laugh.  Maybe she couldn't accept that there was nothing I could do about it, short of liposuction or whatever, or this was just something she felt the need to fix.  I'd like to have a flat stomach but in addition to the small pile of fat, my stomach tends to be bloated.  So even without the fat, I'm not sure it would ever be flat.  

My Gut

She did get me thinking about having the fat removed.  I haven't done any research on liposuction or alternative procedures that would remove the fat, but she planted a thought seed.  But truth be told, it doesn't bother me.  Getting older does for sure but not my stomach.  

My father had a similar gut shape.  My father was never heavy but his ribs were big.  Not sure if that affects the size or shape of your gut but my rib cage is large too and I suspect it is a part of the overall construction that results in our gut shape.  Maybe that's why I'm OK with my gut.  Maybe it allows me to feel like he's still with me.

I Made Bread!

   

December 15, 2022

I made bread!  

My sister Jeanne made it a couple of times at her house in New York.  She made it look so easy.  She even made me believe we made it together, but it was all her.  I wanted to make it myself at home ever since and purchased a Dutch oven specifically for this purpose.  It’s been months.  The thought of making bread was intimidating for some reason.  Finally last night I prepared the dough and let it sit.  

The dough and the weather were both very wet this morning.  The dough was not even close to the consistency of hers.  There was a tornado warning and the water from the flooded street was inching toward my house.  Do I try to bake the wet dough or toss it and get myself and my dogs to higher ground?

But Jeanne encouraged me via text.  Add flour, just try it, your house will smell great even if the bread doesn’t make it.  The bread made it, the house smells great and the bread tastes great, but not as great as hers.

Jeanne’s bread was more artisanal looking.  Mine was more dense, maybe because it’s Florida and the weather here affects it, maybe it is because my Dutch oven is smaller than hers.  Maybe it’s because we weren’t together…

Maybe I wished to be there with her.  Maybe the scent of warm bread filling the air in her house, wafting over to my mother’s side of the house made it taste that much better.  Maybe now the idea of the scent of warm bread filling their entire house would momentarily fill the void left by my mother who was moved to an assisted living facility yesterday.  

Why was doing this alone so daunting?  It turned out to be easy really.  The hard part was dealing with new things such as putting a pot inside a 450 degree oven with parchment paper inside.  I was scared the pot would explode and the paper ignite into flames.  Flooding outside, flaming inside…

I never made bread before.  Bread was always one of those things people much more skilled at baking did.  So I had to overcome my own self doubt.  It was easy.  Just had to follow the directions.  But I wouldn’t have accomplished this task without Jeanne’s help, encouragement and coaching.

Jeanne’s words of encouragement got me through it.  If her words didn’t penetrate my apprehension, I would have thrown it away, without knowing we’d make it through, and enjoy warm bread after. 

The love and words of encouragement Twitch got couldn’t reach him in a meaningful way.  Twitch is the nickname of the DJ on The Ellen Show.  He just ended his life the other day.  He had everything and nothing because of some block, some scar, some something which made life’s hurdles insurmountable.  

It really is a hideous reality we live with - - an awareness of the inevitability of our death.  I understand why people jump ship.  It’s like sitting on death row and the angst becomes too much. So we make love, work, play, bread, chit chat and try not to focus on the firing squad ahead. 

There have been times when none of my pacifiers did their job.  Nothing lightened the load.  Only the memory of getting through past experiences gave me the fortitude to hang on through the current one.  This too shall pass.

Now we face this milestone with my mother.  Her faith got her here and will continue to help her to adapt to her new environment.  She wanted to die at home but she knows now that she needs this level of care on a daily basis.  In October while we were at my nephew’s wedding, my mother stayed home, slid from her chair to the floor and couldn’t get up. She fell twice since.

She was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and Atrial Fibrillation.  She has six children.  We can’t carry each other’s burden now or when she’s gone.  Maybe we’ll share a laugh or a memory which softens the blow enough to keep going.  We can make bread and seek joy in the moment, just like mom does.