Category: Stories

Don’t Take the Brown Acid!

50 years ago, I missed Woodstock, as I was six and played with woodblocks. Tonight, to mark the festival’s 50th Anniversary, we are back in the garden. By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a sandwich strong. If I was around then, I think I’d be the one yelling “Damn, dirty hippies,” as I cringed at a woman with 6 feet of dreadlocks hiding Jeffrey Epstein’s madam in her hair causing the geriatric crowd in attendance to use their inhalers to combat her overpowering patchouli aroma. No need to stay away from the brown acid, as orange juice is enough acid dropped to warrant dropping the purple pill, Nexium. We are front row center, so if this was the real Woodstock, I’m sure I’d be plucked from behind the barricade by Joe Cocker’s roadie for some backstage orgy. I’ll settle for being here 50 years later sitting comfortably with an unobstructed view rather than slathering in some mud pit with Sunshine, Rainbow, and Porcupine. The tie-dye remains here, but as opposed to when I was a kid with a package of RIT dye, some rubber bands, and a tub; Chinese children counterparts are making the $40 versions in a sweatshop. In 50 years, the bathroom situation here hasn’t improved much except no one is picking through the overflow looking for magic mushrooms. As Ringo sings, All you need is love. Peace, love, and music.

Fucking Bunnies!@#%$&!

My favorite drinking game in college was called Fucking Bunnies. Now, everyday, like a modern day Elmer Fudd, I curse the endless infestation of fucking bunnies in our neighborhood. Two weeks ago, after the rain, I walked this two-headed monster, when they saw an aforementioned fucking bunny. They sprinted after it, as I ran on the wet lawns trying to stop them from eating Peter Rabbit. After a few lawns, I fell and dislocated my left shoulder. As I awaited the dreaded MRI prior approval, I gave my disapproval for animals that fuck like bunnies (most of which are bunnies), as I walk the white menaces.

Today, I finally got the MRI; which I repeatedly said needed to be stand-up MRI, only to show up to be placed in open MRI. Perhaps I don’t understand the medical definition of open, which is akin to sharing a coffin with a family of 4. As predicted, I freaked and would’ve preferred rotator cuff surgery without anesthesia than to spend another minute in stuck in the crisper draw. I ended up going to a stand-up place: which had no stand-up, but rather wedged me into magnetic jaws of life with walls that struggled to accommodate the Double Ds. After 40 minutes of being tilted in the worst tilt-a-whirl ever, I was finished, as I’m sure is my left shoulder. On my way home to hunt wabbits!!!

This Put the Tin in Titanium Status.

Last night, I slept in the smallest room ever in NYC. I had to walk on the bed to pull the shade down, as the room width was the length of the bed. If I pivoted in the bed, I could brush my teeth. However, as they put enlarging mirrors around the room, the bathroom mirror caused my pores to be the largest structure in the room. Good times!

Welcome to New York-circa 1975!

For those who think business travel is glamorous, I’m staying at the Four Points across from Port Authority. The neighborhood near this bus depot is so nasty that I used to joke that I am no longer of an age where towing my luggage behind me might cause a pimp to mistake me for a cornfed runaway looking to make it in the big city only to end up in his stable. There’s also a strip club next to the hotel where if you’d walk inside, you’d see women of my age and dimensions shaking and working the pole in granny panties.

However tonight is at an all-time low, as if you filmed this block to represent the big bad city, filmgoers would think that the staging was over the top. First, from the safety of my car, I saw a man running with a toddler holding him ala the Kramer vs Kramer injury scene, although I’d be surprised if this kid wasn’t dead. After parking in a garage around the corner, I got treated to a hobo spending a quiet night at home(less) pleasuring himself into an old phone booth stall. (Is there no doubt why Superman stopped coming around?) Minutes later, I was offered crack for purchase, but took a pass. Next, while venturing into a construction walkway, pizza rat sans his endearing pizza crossed a foot in front of me. I emerged from the walkway only to miss stepping into a fresh pool of urine provided by another homeless gent. After this journey, I arrived at my crappy hotel where the rate tonight is more than the GNP of most 3rd world countries.

I’m actually more than a bit anxious about leaving here at 530am to be at Mount Sinai Hospital at 600am. I hope to arrive there as a vendor and not as a patient due to the anticipated morning greeters on the street. I may be the only person in NYC, who’s looking forward to moving on up to stay in Harlem tomorrow night. Even in his current crazy state, bring back Guilani!!!!

A Week without Power-Post Hurricane Sandy.

Tonight on Little House on the Prairie: We had some store-bought bread with our vittles. I have been reading my primer by candlelight and am hoping that Pa will play his fiddle tonight to pass the time. Pa done brought up water from the well and Ma heated it, so we could have a hot bath. I done my chores and fed the oxen, Quake. Pa sure has plenty of firewood to chop. It sure will keep us warm with winter coming. Tomorrow, we might even take the horse cart into town to see Doc Baker. I hear a Mr. Thomas Edison invented the incandescent light fueled by electricity and someday it will replace the candle for light. From where I sit today, I find that hard to believe.

Rubbed the Wrong Way!

Today, I had my first massage at a Massage Envy in Scarsdale since contracting MRSA and another nasty infection from a Groupon massage in Staten Island (should be called Staff in island for the staff infection that I got). As I went to the reception desk with my friend, we were greeted by a she-male with contact lenses of a color not found in nature, but perhaps plucked from a Lisa Frank unicorn and she/he/they/it/them had eyebrows tweezed within an inch of his life. I was thinking of him as he directed me to the ladies room for a pre-massage pee. Thinking of him, I almost mistakenly walked into the single room men’s room, but quickly turned to enter the ladies’ room. I opened the door and realized that I walked in on someone. While that’s always awkward, I became like a deer frozen in the spa lights, when I realized that it was a male hovering over the seat like a female would when trying not to sit on the seat while peeing. His manhood dangled in his hand. My mind couldn’t process closing the door fast enough, as it jumped back to connecting this guy with the she-male receptionist. As I stared in my fugue state, I thought that the toilet guy was distinctly doing a tranny tuck of his schlong into his ass crack. After what seemed like minutes, I finally closed the door apologizing profusely. Then, like an idiot, I waited by the ladies room door to use the bathroom after him/her before realizing I’d have to face the stall violator again. When I heard the flush, I regained my senses and jumped into the men’s room to avoid having to see him and prolong (or is it proschlong) an awkward situation. I returned to the lounge area to await my massage and certainly was not in a relaxed mode. When the massage therapist called out my name, I looked up to see that my masseuse was none other than the stall violating schlong tucker. He smiled sheepishly and said “Hi, I believe we already met.” So, I responded, “Hmmm, something about you is familiar, but I can’t seem to place your face.” We walked awkwardly to the massage room together. I undressed and got under the covers. When he knocked, I said, “come in” then pointed out had he not knocked and had walking in, we would’ve been even. Somehow, I have a feeling that when he asked me to turn half way through the massage, he snuck a peek at my deployed air bags just so that the balance of the universe would be restored. On the way out though, I did glance back at the sign just to check that I had actually walked into Massage Envy and not into a Penis Envy.

Caught in a Trap, I Can’t Backdown because I Love You Too Much, Baby.

So, I went to the Apple Store, as Scott needed a new laptop. I see that they have a promotion of $100 back for college students. Of course, I mention the promotion and start a conversation with the salesman about my fictitious son, Scott, who will be a student St. John’s this year. As the kid asks me about him, I make up that he’s a freshman majoring in speech & debate for pre-law. When the kid says, “while it’s just $100, but everything helps”, I agree and tell him that my son will be going on a full scholarship, as my husband’s uncle is a professor there. When he asks me if my son will live on campus, I respond that his father and I want him to have the full college experience. Then, the kid asks for my e-mail address and I give him my work email. He shouts in surprise, “AstraZeneca? My uncle and cousin work for them in FL. He asks if I know them and of course, they are people who know me well and know that little Scottie doesn’t exist and certainly won’t be attending any dorm parties. Since I knew his family, the kid gave me half off the extended warranty, which I thanked him for saying that my son can put the savings towards his books. Now, I have to hope that his Uncle or cousin don’t tip him off to the fact that I have a rich fantasy life, so I can spend that $100 gift card on my lying-self.

Bully Bully.

Most parents worry when they send their kids to school that another kid will bully them. In school that was never an issue, but things were quite different on the home front. Although she was six years older than me, my oldest sister, Debbie became my bully from about the time until I was 6 to the time she got married. While it’s hard to believe that at 4’8″, Debbie could pose much more of a threat than that of an individual munchkin to the Wicked Witch of the West, her bullying could be more characterized as psychological warfare.

It all started when Debbie became deemed old enough that my parents allowed her to babysit Lauren and me. Just that little taste of power created a little Napoleonic Monster, who felt like she had been granted abject power over her younger sisters. She took this to the point that she forced us to address her as Master or wouldn’t give us the Chicken D’Lite dinners that my mom would have her order for us. Lauren dutifully would listen to everyone of Debbie’s commands including Lauren being forced to rub her master’s feet and she’d allow Debbie to flub her belly with making raspberry fart sounds by Debbie pressing her lips to Lauren’s stomach. Debbie would make us drink sauerkraut juice or the juice from canned peas before feeding us dinner. When we’d have pudding or ice cream for dessert, she’d give us less than she’d give herself. Then, she would beg us for more using a little baby’s voice saying, “Momma Bird, Baby Bird is hung-we. Can Baby Bird have a spoonful of Momma Bird’s pudding?” Lauren would cave every time and give her some of her dessert. For sharing with her, Debbie would let Lauren stay up late and watch tv. However, I’d never submit to her Baby Bird ploy. One day, she relentlessly kept on with the Baby Bird act trying to cheat me out of my God given right to my tapioca pudding. Finally, I responded, “Yes, Baby Bird, you can have some of Momma Bird’s pudding.” I scooped up a big spoonful of the pudding and caught her salivating with the satisfaction of winning, as she anticipated that spoonful coming her way. Just as I was going to pass it her way, I wound up and threw it at her face with, as it landed with a plop above Debbie’s eye. Lauren and I laughed and laughed taunting our bully, as the plop ran down Debbie’s face. From that point, the bully knew she was on notice, although that didn’t stop her from being evil.

When I was in first grade, my Mom allowed Debbie to cut my hair. I pleaded with my Mom to not let her, but Debbie kept saying that she got an “A” in home ec, as they taught the girls to cut hair. Debbie won and she had me sit on the closed toilet seat and began cutting my hair. Into about 5 minutes of the haircut, Debbie let out a little “Oops” and yelled up to our Mom telling her that I had moved and it caused her make my bangs short. Debbie told our Mom that she’d be able to even them up and the bangs would look fine. Debbie began evening up one side and then would even the other. She kept doing it and by the time she finished, I had 1/4″ fringe bangs that very much like how hotel curtains won’t fully close without a gap, my 1/4′ fringe bangs wouldn’t let my hair separate into a part.

Debbie would constantly taunt me by calling me in a sing song voice, “Karissimo, Felissimo, Karissimo, Felissimo” When I’d get enraged, she’d just say that she was just saying my name in Spanish, but wouldn’t stop. Eventually, I’d tackle her and start hitting her, then I’d get punished for using violence. She’d start singing King of the Road with the lyrics, “Trailer for sale or rent, rooms to let 50 cents…” knowing how I hated the song. While these things don’t seem like much, it was the relentlessness of her singing that song and chanting “Karissimo, Felissimo” that became the Chinese Water Torture of my childhood. Being in elementary school, my ability to verbally defend myself was elementary. I eventually would crack and take the dwarf down with my younger, but stronger, fists. While neither of my parents approved of me hitting Debbie, my Dad would always side with Debbie and my Mom would protect me knowing that Debbie fully bullied me. When I wanted drums in the 5th grade, my parents thought that it would stop me from using my fists with Debbie and that I’d go into the basement and bang out my aggressions on drum set. Instead, I now was weaponized and would respond to Debbie’s taunts by playing “Anagoddadivita” on her head.

As the years went by, Debbie changed her name to Devra, but it didn’t change her mean-spirited bullying. As now a Freshman in High School, I’d heard about 10 years of daily “Karissimo, Felissimo” and thousands of choruses of King of the Road. At that time,Dev had graduated college and was living back home, while her fiancé, Art was in culinary school. At 14, I became physically stronger than Dev and skyrocketed past her little person stature of 4’8″ to an ethnically challenged respectability of 5’1.” In Freshman English, we had to write a poem book with a representation of each type of poem from haiku to a sonnet to prose to a limerick. My bully, Devra, became my limerick’s muse using my nickname anagram for her, which is Derva. I named it “Beauty and the Beast” and limerick went like this-There once was a thing named Derva-She had a lot of Nerva-She’d push me around-Making grunting sounds-At restaurants, they wouldn’t serve her.

Not only had I become the family giant, but despite the endless teasing, I became able to usually outwit Dev with the exception of when I was high. On a regular basis, especially during high school sports off-season, my friends and I would head to my house afterschool to hang out, eat bagels, and smoke some weed. As Dev’s move back home; which kicked me out of my bedroom downstairs adjacent to the kitchen. My friends and I would tend to hang out in the kitchen or what became her bedroom in the hope. I preferred her bedroom in the hopes that one of my friends might fart on her pillow. One time, after smoking a few bowls and craving more than the usual bagels, my friend, Carol, found a tray of Sara Lee brownies that Dev bought for herself in the refrigerator. When she left for work that day, Dev threatened Lauren and me to not eat the brownies or else. Even without being high, those brownies looked great in their shiny foil package. As we hung out in Dev’s room, I heard Sara Lee calling me to enjoy her fudgie goodness. As my friends and I contemplated deep things like knowing that we are mere specks and that we are only the size of a fingernail compared to the Universe, which made us go, Whoa! what if a whole universe lives on our fingernails, Sara Lee kept calling to me with her icing stare through the refrigerator door. Finally, I went into the fridge to cave into that little seductress. When I pulled the brownies out, Liz screamed, “Don’t do it! They’re Dev’s.” I shrugged it off saying, “Please, I’ve been dominating her for years.” Carol and Lorraine who had major munchies chimed in with a chorus of things like, “You can take her. C’mon she’s bona fide midget. Let’s have the brownies, etc” I peeled back the foil lid and cut the tray in fours giving a quarter to each of them. We devoured the brownies icing and all. Next, we heard the click of the monsters key in the front door. We all ran into the kitchen, so Dev wouldn’t know we sitting on her pillows and going through her drawers. Stoned, Liz was hyperventilating at the thought of the Trililliputian of Terror discovering her brownies were no more. Dev grunted at us, as she moved towards the refrigerator. Immediately, she started moving things around in the fridge screaming, “Where are my brownies?” She slammed the door to the refrigerator and glared at us yelling, “Did you eat my brownies?” In unison, we all sheepishly answered, “No,” as Dev saw the telltale icing on our collective faces. Dev came running at me and started pulling at my hair. We tumbled through the hall into the living room with me addled by the pot and with Sarah Lee weighting me down giving her the advantage. My wasted friends just watched as if they were seeing Bugs Bunny in a dust up with Elmer Fudd and laughed their stoner laughs. As she pinned me, she threw in a “Karissmo, Felissimo” and a chorus of “Trailer for Sale or Rent.” Perhaps she had a moment of self-reflection realizing that at 22 and with her wedding on the way that I deserved those brownies for the last 10 years of her bullying.

In a related story, whenever Dev now visits, she brings brownies. As much as I hate to admit it, Sara Lee has nothing on my bully. That’s going to be a lot of brownies to pay for those reparations.