"Goddammit! She's back!"
Mark ran to the balcony doors, swung it open and shooed away the mama pigeon who had made a nest in our herb garden.
"I admire her tenacity," I said, although that wasn't supportive.
Mark had just thrown away the two eggs she's been sitting upon all week and hardly moved. Her dedication has been remarkable. We debated the termination of the unborn this morning as we walked aisles of Home Depot, looking for - and finding - a plastic owl. Our neighbor Ed swears the owls will scare away the vermin-with-wings. He got two. Today we got the last one left on the shelves. NY pigeons are tough, renowned for their persistence and disdain for the cars and people around them. A fat pest will fly up and away only a few inches to avoid us and then set back to scavenging or waddling.
"Oh. The other two pigeons are attacking her." He stood at the window providing me the play-by-play. "Now she's back and, jeesh, she's - yes she is - she is sitting herself down, probably to lay another egg. I give up!"
"Let me try."
I went out with a roll of irri-tape, scissors, and a stapler. By the time I added three or four more strips of the halogenic-metal, it looked like a mini-prom. She couldn't come back without walking through it and the light and sound has been designed to irritate the pigeons. Last fall I found a piece built into new nest. Still, there is nothing better, so I try again.
She didn't come back. Perhaps she lost her rumble or the deterrents worked or she had nothing to come back for.
When I came back inside, Mark was sitting on the sofa with his laptop in front of him. He had been searching for a second owl to mail order.
"Hey, look. This one has a bobble-head."
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Reality Call
The towncar pulled up across the street. I put myself into the backset.
"What is your car number?" I asked.
"25"
I took out my wallet and called the dispatcher from my Blackberry.
"Hellohello. New Bell."
"I'm in car 25 going to JFK. I'd like to pay with my credit card."
"You travel too much." Then he laughed. "You travel too much papi."
"It's all for work," I replied.
"It's a living, papi. It's a living."
"What is your car number?" I asked.
"25"
I took out my wallet and called the dispatcher from my Blackberry.
"Hellohello. New Bell."
"I'm in car 25 going to JFK. I'd like to pay with my credit card."
"You travel too much." Then he laughed. "You travel too much papi."
"It's all for work," I replied.
"It's a living, papi. It's a living."
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Barking Hassid
He started barking at our golden retriever as he passed us on the sidewalk.
First we looked at each other, amazed. The Golden barked. She's an old lady and easily provoked. Dogs, anyone wearing a hood, and wheels set her off. I pulled Maddy back while my husband tried to restrain our two other dogs, lest then join in the melee.
"What the f-ck are you doing? Jesus Christ. What the f-ck?" We both shouted back at him.
The man puffed out his chest and spread out his arms in some kind of macho gangsta pose. And he smiled back, self-satisfied.
I cannot imagine in what parallel universe, he seriously thought he could pull off that pose of bravado. He was tall and skinny and pale and covered in a black frock coat to his knees, where the white silk stockings took over. Thick, black rimmed glasses further withdrew his credibility in this stance, but the giant mink sphere on the crown of his head ruined any hope for tough guy posturing.
But he just continued his posing as he backed away from us smiling, as we shouted and herded the dogs away.
I turned to Mark, "Is it a full moon or something?"
First we looked at each other, amazed. The Golden barked. She's an old lady and easily provoked. Dogs, anyone wearing a hood, and wheels set her off. I pulled Maddy back while my husband tried to restrain our two other dogs, lest then join in the melee.
"What the f-ck are you doing? Jesus Christ. What the f-ck?" We both shouted back at him.
The man puffed out his chest and spread out his arms in some kind of macho gangsta pose. And he smiled back, self-satisfied.
I cannot imagine in what parallel universe, he seriously thought he could pull off that pose of bravado. He was tall and skinny and pale and covered in a black frock coat to his knees, where the white silk stockings took over. Thick, black rimmed glasses further withdrew his credibility in this stance, but the giant mink sphere on the crown of his head ruined any hope for tough guy posturing.
But he just continued his posing as he backed away from us smiling, as we shouted and herded the dogs away.
I turned to Mark, "Is it a full moon or something?"
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Old & G(r)ay - NYC, June 2007
I slipped my orthotics into the black boots I used to wear only to sex clubs, put on expensive jeans and a red “vintage” t-shirt with a white Target bullseye. It was a brilliant, sunshiny Sunday in mid-June. The temperature sweltered near ninety, as I left Bed Stuy for Chelsea, taking two subways before hobbling up 8th Avenue to 21st Street and into the Rawhide.
Feeling around at the air like some bad skit, I stumbled into the bar, blinded by pitch darkness: black walls, floors, bar, and stools. The Rawhide goes back 30 years, as do much of the clientele. We come here once a year for the proximity to Folsom East, the kitsch, and cheap drinks.
Clive called out: “Over here.” He emerged from shadow, next to the front window.
“How old do you think he is?” Clive pointed to a man outside.
“A hundred?”
“Not me, sweetheart. Him.” Clive stood up and we kissed hello.
Clive had two more years until turning forty himself. Today he sported an aging rock-a-billy look: black combat boots, white undershirt, red suspenders, with the hair on his head shaved to the length of his facial stubble.
"God bless him," said Clive. His English accent made that sound kind.
The gentleman we were discussing, stood off the curb, pretty far into the street. Scrawny and ridiculous, he was shirtless, with one hand akimbo on his hip, trying to hail a taxi. He had tanned his skin to the color and texture of a football. His ass hung deflated, gently undulating, out the rear of his black leather chaps.
"I hate getting old. Older."
(To read the full story click here.)
Feeling around at the air like some bad skit, I stumbled into the bar, blinded by pitch darkness: black walls, floors, bar, and stools. The Rawhide goes back 30 years, as do much of the clientele. We come here once a year for the proximity to Folsom East, the kitsch, and cheap drinks.
Clive called out: “Over here.” He emerged from shadow, next to the front window.
“How old do you think he is?” Clive pointed to a man outside.
“A hundred?”
“Not me, sweetheart. Him.” Clive stood up and we kissed hello.
Clive had two more years until turning forty himself. Today he sported an aging rock-a-billy look: black combat boots, white undershirt, red suspenders, with the hair on his head shaved to the length of his facial stubble.
"God bless him," said Clive. His English accent made that sound kind.
The gentleman we were discussing, stood off the curb, pretty far into the street. Scrawny and ridiculous, he was shirtless, with one hand akimbo on his hip, trying to hail a taxi. He had tanned his skin to the color and texture of a football. His ass hung deflated, gently undulating, out the rear of his black leather chaps.
"I hate getting old. Older."
(To read the full story click here.)
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Epiphany
Friend: You look tired.
Me: Shit. I don't mind being tired, but I don't like looking tired. I wish I knew of some procedure to get rid of the dark under my eyes.
Friend: There is. It's called 10 days someplace warm, away from your blackberry.
Me: Oh. Right.
Me: Shit. I don't mind being tired, but I don't like looking tired. I wish I knew of some procedure to get rid of the dark under my eyes.
Friend: There is. It's called 10 days someplace warm, away from your blackberry.
Me: Oh. Right.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Deservedly Unsympathetic
“My hand is old!”
“What?” my husband shouted back from our bedroom.
“My hand. It’s old!” I was lying on the sofa with an ice pack on my lower back. My sciatica had been creeping up on me for a week.
“What are you talking about?” He had given up the other room and now looked down at me over the couch, folding a bath towel. I would never have pegged him as someone who liked doing laundry, but then we bought a washer-dryer and I can hardly get him to stop.
“I have liver spots on my hand. I’m thirty-seven years old and I have liver spots.” Small brown spots flecked the part of my hand at nexus of the wrist, thumb and pointing finger.
“You do not have liver spots.”
He took up my hand and flipped it one way and then the other.
“Oh. Yeah. Those are liver spots.” With that he dropped it. “You can get those lasered off.”
That last sentence trailed off as he walked away. His reaction wasn’t unfriendly, just efficient.
“What?” my husband shouted back from our bedroom.
“My hand. It’s old!” I was lying on the sofa with an ice pack on my lower back. My sciatica had been creeping up on me for a week.
“What are you talking about?” He had given up the other room and now looked down at me over the couch, folding a bath towel. I would never have pegged him as someone who liked doing laundry, but then we bought a washer-dryer and I can hardly get him to stop.
“I have liver spots on my hand. I’m thirty-seven years old and I have liver spots.” Small brown spots flecked the part of my hand at nexus of the wrist, thumb and pointing finger.
“You do not have liver spots.”
He took up my hand and flipped it one way and then the other.
“Oh. Yeah. Those are liver spots.” With that he dropped it. “You can get those lasered off.”
That last sentence trailed off as he walked away. His reaction wasn’t unfriendly, just efficient.
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