Monday, August 31, 2009

Whose Afraid of the Opera?

I was never interested in opera growing up, even though I was an avid watcher of Joan Sutherland's kids show Whose Afraid of the Opera?. I was about 5 or 6 and it was just like Kukla, Fran and Ollie but with Joan Sutherland and her huge red hair. I loved that show even though the only episode I remember was La traviata (I remember having trouble understanding where Alfredo was during the off-stage singing during Sempre libera and my mother explaining that he was singing outside her window. The subject of prostitution never came up). Anyway . . .

Fast forward to 1977. I was 12 when my 16 year old sister Annie was hired by the Metropolitan Opera as an extra dancer in the orgy scene in Tannhauser. She was so young, she had to get our parents' permission to work. Of course we had to go see her perform at THE MET! She didn't want us to go because she was embarrassed about all of the simulated sex going on in the ballet (very 1970s clutch and grope). Well, the performance was an epiphany for me! First of all, I knew most of the music because our favorite pianist at Joffrey Ballet School (technically American Ballet Center) was studying voice and was a tenor. He used to play opera all the time without me realizing it. And the costumes and the singing! Ah! This was much more satisfying than ballet! Plus Grace Bumbry as Venus was stunning, James McCracken was old and cracking as our hero, but Teresa Kubiak was beautiful as Elisabeth (though I preferred Venus, of course).  

What I wasn't quite prepared for was Bernd Weikl as Wolfram. OMG! He was gorgeous! Annie had a bit of a crush on him during the rehearsals and after that performance Mom, Annie and I each had a crush on Bernd Weikl (my poor father). He was big, dark, good-looking with incredible hair and to my novice ears, a beautiful voice. I loved Wolfram's big aria and thought Elisabeth a fool for preferring Tannhauser, and Wolfram a fool for preferring Elisabeth to Venus. I thought even at 12 that Wolfram should have said to hell with saintly love and gone off to Venusburg among the clutching and groping dancers. I even developed a small crush on our cantor who was a baritone and former opera singer with similar dark curling hair. Kind of pathetic, but hey, I was 12!

In subsequent years I saw him in Arabella (where he appeared in riding breeches. OMG! It was hard to look away), Salome and Die Fledermaus but then he didn't reappear until about 1989 or so.

Here he is in Salome. The film version with Theresa Stratas as Salome and Bernd Weikl as John The Baptist it is great fun. She is marvelous.

Dreams (the sleeping kind)

It seems as though my dreams really are influenced by my reading materials. Every time I tell Saint Jerome that I slept badly because of bad dreams, he says "Look at the stuff you read!" (Though when I tell him I had weird dreams he says that all dreams are weird.)Anyway, I've been in a true crime phase. I've read about four Ann Rule books in a row, then an Agatha Christie to cleanse my palette (My the Pricking of My Thumbs) and then Robert Kreppel's The Riverman: Ted Bundy and I Hunt for the Green River Killer. My dreams for the past few weeks have involved dump sites. Not so much serial killing but the burial grounds and I'm trying to figure things out. Yuck. What I want to know is, how come when I read a ton of cliterature, my nights aren't filled with erotic dreams? Shouldn't it work that way too? Anyway . . .

I'm now on the verge of reading My Blue Notebooks: The Intimate Journal of Paris's Most Beautiful and Notorious Courtesan by Liane de Pougy. Maybe I'll have dreams of fantastic dresses, amazing jewels and sex with old, fat rich men.

Counter Culture (or is it counterPOINT culture?)

I was still living downtown in 1997 but getting ready for The Big Move, otherwise known as moving in with Saint Jerome (that was before he attained sainthood). It was July 4th and I ran by my place to grab some stuff. We decided to eat breakfast at Polonia, my favorite Polish diner in the neighborhood at the time (now we only eat at Little Poland when we're down there). Well, there were NO available tables so Saint Jerome insisted that we sit at the counter. I didn't want to sit at the counter. After a fuss, we sat at the counter. I was whiney because we weren't even under the air vent, but in front of the grill and I was hot and sticky. Anyway, a few minutes later a young guy sits down on the far side of Saint Jerome. He looks familiar. In fact, I knew who he was. I whisper to Saint Jerome "That's Martin Santangelo from Noche Flamenca." Saint Jerome whispers back, "Why don't you say something to him?" We go back and forth and Martin Santangelo knows something is going on with the strange couple sitting next to him. He looks at us so I say, "You're Martin Santangelo!" He confirms the fact and I tell him how much I love Noche Flamenca (he's the director and star) and that I've saw them in previous years but I couldn't afford to go because I had just seen Sara de Luis's troupe from Seattle in Homenaje at Columbia University. Martin Santangelo asked for our names and said he'd leave tickets for us!

When we got to the Pearl Theatre at 80 St Mark's Place, our names, indeed, were there on the comp list! It was a fantastic performance. Soledad Barrio (Martin Santangelo's wife) is an amazing dancer. Better yet, Sara de Luis was in the audience so I got to tell her how much I enjoyed her company the night before (indeed, they did a multi-couple Sevillanas with the women wearing bata de colas which was fabulous!).

Martin Santangelo was injured at the time and didn't perform but it was still wonderful. Saint Jerome always tells me, "Aren't you glad we sat at the counter?" I'm a counter culture convert!

a little bit of Noche Flamenco with Soledad Barrio and Martin Santangelo

Indian by way of Italian and Japanese (with NO thanks to the Singing Nun)

I've never entered a radio contest. I've never known ANYONE who has entered a radio contest. Until last week.

My brother-in-law Michael (who is married to Saint Jerome's sister Jacqueline) was listening to WBEN (home of Sandy Beach from whom I first learned of "pizza arms" by way of Michael of course) when he heard this:

There were three #1 hits between 1958 and 1963 that were totally in a foreign language. Name two.

Michael, a font of information, dragged two from the back recesses of his brain and Jacqueline dialed the phone. Did they get a busy signal. NO! The phone rang and rang and rang. Did they eventually get through? YES!!!!! What were two of the three #1 hits between 1958 and 1968 that were sung entirely in a foreign language?

Volare (Nel blu dipinto di blu) and Sukiyaki

The third was Dominique (nique, nique) by the Singing Nun.

He won a $25 gift certificate to an Indian Restaurant! You'd think that having to come up with foreign language #1 hit songs from the dark recesses of memory one would win millions of dollars (or at least $1,000), but they were lucky to get through, much less win. They've never had Indian food before so we suggested Tandori chicken (which is the restaurant's specialty) which is enough to convert anyone.

For your listening pleasure:





Sunday, August 30, 2009

Saint Jerome Quote of the Day: Timbits

We went to Tim Hortons for breakfast today and consumed our daily allotted amount of calories in one fell swoop. Anyway, we bought 10 Timbits, which are the Tim Hortons version of Munchkins, and took them home with us for later.

We get home and Saint Jerome opens the box, looks at the donut holes and says, "I wonder what they were thinking. They call them TimBITS and they're little balls."

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Stuff on My Wife volume 2

I was innocently taking my nap one Sunday when Saint Jerome had an epiphany! The yarn I was knitting with matched the color of my hair. So he decided to adorn my sleeping form . . .


No Brazilian waxing for this 60s guy.

Friday, August 28, 2009

The Little Honda that Could, or whack-a-car

Ahhhh! Life goes on and it is good. The little neighborhood Honda that was damaged in the storm has been back, parked across the street as usual. Today the owner came by with a friend who worked a minor miracle, turning Riverside Drive into a body shop (catching the attention of the police and all!).

The guy took some kind of clamp and whack, whack, whack, ratchet, ratchet, ratchet lifted out the dent to the roof. With the foam sealer stuff and the plastic replacing the broken back window, my little hatchback is almost like new!





The Dangers of Parking on the Street, 2000s edition

Parking on the street in New York can be fraught with dangers. Each decade seems to have its own trends.

  • In the 1970s, your window might have been smashed and the car broken into for a broken umbrella on the back seat, a few coins or a bag of trash on the floor.

  • In the '80s, your battery could be lifted or the lock mechanism on your door drilled through and your car almost driven away except that the thief can't drive stick.

  • The '90s — The whole car disappears and is dismantled at a chop shop destined for parts and cars unknown.

As we approach the end of the the first decade of the 21st Century, the dangers seem to have changed (though with the recession there seems to be more and more glittering puddles of tempered glass at the curb). The new danger seems to be:

EXTREME WEATHER

In the past few months, there have been several severe storms which have downed many trees which in turn have downed many cars parked along Riverside Drive.

This was about a month ago:





(Of course in typical NY fashion, the car remained parked there for about a month!)


This was just a week or so ago:



Now this one was particularly sad because I love this little neighborhood Honda Civic hatchback and was just saying to Saint Jerome earlier that day that it was looking a little more worn than usual. It wasn't badly injured because only a large branch broke off and landed on it and not an entire tree. Anyway, the owner came by, assessed the damage and drove off.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Saint Jerome Quote of the Day: Fat and the donut

I just accidentally took a photo of my bare fat belly, navel and all. Saint Jerome looked at the pic and said, "You know what this looks like? One of those Tim Horton Maple Dip donuts." Ummm, thanks.

Orange Crush

One of my earliest crushes was on a dancer with The Joffrey Ballet in the early 1970s. I was about 8 years old and my crush was on Russell Sultzbach. Russell was shorty and stocky, muscular with a great ass which even my 8-year old self recognized But his most wonderful, recognizable feature besides his great smile and cute dimples, was his hair (including the hair on his body, yummy). It was red — a glorious, intense red. Not orange or auburn or mahoghanny but the color of flame.

He starred in many ballets but the best was Gerald Arpino's Sacred Grove on Mount Tamalpais where his costume consisted of a glorified dance belt. Boy! was I embarrassed and thrilled at the same time. My little young heart palpitated hard enough to bust my ribcage.

In those days, the company still rehearsed at the school so there was a lot of interaction between the students and the dancers of the company. That season I was in two ballets — Leonide Massine's Pulcinella and his Le Beau Danube, where I was one of the three young girls. Russell was the Hussar who woos, loses and then regains the heroine, my oldest sister. At one point of the ballet, the family is sitting on the stage and the Hussar bows to us. Well, in one performance, Russell took my hand and kissed it! To hear my mom tell it, there were hearts emanating out of my eyes when that happened. One night, before a performance, I told him I loved his dimples and he asked me which set of cheeks. I almost died. That might have been the night he kissed my hand.

He signed a book to "My favorite 9-year old" for my birthday (John Willis Dance World 1973) and wrote a note to me while I was at ballet camp that summer. I could NOT wait to grow up. I quit ballet, though, long before I did.

Russell Sultzbach is still to this day, the only red-head I've had a crush on. (sigh) He ruined gingers for me I guess.

Russell in Sacred Grove (After Dark was the best magazine!)



Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Saint Jerome Quote of the Day: There are two kinds of novels my friend . . .

To paraphrase Tuco in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, there are two kinds of books I read, classics and junk. If I read one James Baldwin or Wilkie Collins novel, I have to follow it up with three times the amount of junk (though Collins, with his sensation novels and mysteries, WAS junk his day). My junk consists of true crime (the older the better), pulps like Erle Stanley Gardner and Ellery Queen (pre-1960s for both), historical romances (or hysterical — take your pick. The latter adjective is a good substitute for the former) and the contemporary romances by the same authors. I also read a lot of stuff that falls into the gray zone like Winston Graham's Poldark novels, Georgette Heyer regencies and Lolah Burford historical novels. I usually avoid chick lit and Oprah choices.

Well, I tend to leave my current reading materials around and Saint Jerome frequently takes a peek and is frequently amazed at how explicit some of the junk I read is (it's always mildly amusing to me, especially the hysterical romances, which I read for the costume descriptions).

So one day, he comes out of the bathroom with Beaumarchais's Figaro trilogy in one hand and some bodice ripper in the other and says to me, "You know, you only read two types of books — literature and cliterature."

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

A musical interlude . . . Franco Corelli sings arias from Turandot

Non piangere Liu



Nessun dorma

Ghost Town, NY

With the exception of Saint Jerome and his twin sister, his whole family, generations in fact, were born and raised in Niagara Falls, NY (the twins were born in Buffalo). Anyway . . .

Driving back to Junie's house, we passed through downtown Niagara Falls. Once a bustling metropolis, it is now a ghost town. Actually it's worse than a ghost town — it's a ghost slum. Driving down Main Street, it was kind of disheartening to see 98% of the storefronts boarded up. The only buildings that didn't seem to be boarded up were the new, poured concrete library (that looks like a prison) and the brand, spanking new Police Headquarters.

Maybe things will get better with the casino there now that you need a passport to go to Canada and the casinos there.

Slowly I turn . . .

While in Buffalo, Saint Jerome and I went to the Falls. We drove in the car with Junie, his 84 year old sister, while Jill went with Jacqueline and Michael. We got to Goat Island, parked for $10 and went down to the Horse Shoe Falls. Niagara Falls is truly magnificent. A lot of wind, a lot of spray, extremely refreshing in the hot, humid weather. I actually like the American side better than the Canadian. You are much closer and it's still very wild in an uncultivated way near the Bridal Veil Fall. It's like you are there a thousand years ago except with more tourists. We didn't go down to dip our toes near the Bridal Veil Fall though. Junie's and Jacqueline's hair deflated in the spray and anyway, this was just a pit stop on the way to the CASINO! Yes, I went to a casino for the first time in my life.


The Seneca Niagara Casino is a neon-coated, glitzy oasis in the middle of desert that is downtown Niagara Falls, NY. It was wonderfully air-conditioned and smokey as hell (NY State smoking laws need not apply, coughcoughcough).

First we ate. The Three Sisters Cafe had good food, good service and was decently priced. We savored the eating portion of our trip (I had roast beef on kimmelweck with au jus and horseradish plus fries — it was divine) and entered The Casino. Oh my lord! What sensory overload! Bright blinking lights from thousands of machines, loud music, bells, whistles — you name it it was there assaulting us from all sides.

Saint Jerome's twin sister Jill was the expert in our group having worked in the casinos in Tahoe. She showed us the ropes. I played $5, won up to $23 on the 5¢ machine then cashed out. But the bug had bitten. I played another $15 which I lost on the same machine so I pretty much came out even. Saint Jerome also played $5 on a 5¢ machine, also won $23, also cashed out but remained imuned to the lure of the lights and the promise of a possible chance to win. The people around us though . . . They were glued to the machines like their life's blood pumped through them and back into their veins.

Most of them were elderly, a lot obese and infirm. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes abounded. I even saw an ancient woman with a seeing eye dog. A lot of smokers glued to their seat, cigarettes burning down to ash. There was one old woman in particular, sitting close to us at the 5¢ machine who was particularly fascinating to Saint Jerome. She had a big helmet of iron gray hair, took drags incessantly from the cigarette in her left hand while pressing the "re-spin" button incessantly with her right.

The thing that disappointed me, though, was the fact that all of these slot machines are now computerize and no longer take coins and no longer have the levers so they are no longer "one-armed bandits". The romance was gone for me. At least you don't run the risk of developing elbow trouble or spraining your bicep muscle.

I can see how people become addicted to gambling though. The slot machines hypnotize you and each time you press the re-spin button you're thinking, "Maybe I'll win big this time!" while the whole while you're losing another 5¢ or more.

Winning!

and losing . . .

Friday, August 21, 2009

"You were born with two." by guest blogger, Saint Jerome

Hi there

Just to show that Sarah has her finger on the cup, I found this article today which she has insisted I post :)

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/aug/22/rigby-peller-bra-lingerie

Enjoy!

Saint Jerome †

Literary interlude

"I open this again to tell you of a strange girl I met at the Frankaus' last night -- an extraordinary looking young Jewess, about 20, with a long lithe body like a snake, a great red dangerous mouth, and enormous dark amber eyes that half shut and then expand like great poisonous flowers. 'Nuffing amuses me,' she said, with her curious childish lisp, 'everyfing bores me. Nuffing ever did amuse me. I have nuffing to amuse me, nobody to be amused with. I don't care for men, women's talk always bore me. What am I to do? I don't know what to do with myself. All I care for is to sleep. Tell me what is there that will give me a new sensation?' And she lay back, and gazed at me through her half-shut lids. I bent down and whispered 'Opium.' Her eyes opened with almost a flash of joy. 'Yes, there is opium. Where can I get it? Am I too old to begin?'
I wonder when I shall meet her again."

--Arthur Symons in a letter to Edwin Rhys dated March 4, 1892

Saint Jerome is looking over my shoulder while I type this. He says to me, "and now you're going to put up the von Stuck painting with the snake, right?" And I exclaim, "HOW DID YOU KNOW?!!!" Saint Jerome says, "because I know you." So here it is. Franz von Stuck's Sin:

Stuck first painted this in 1893. He did quite a few near-identical versions. This version of the painting is one we saw at the Frye Art Gallery in Seattle, WA and is circa 1900. http://www.fryeart.org/

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Last Exit to Queens

There are flights to Buffalo every two hours or so. Saint Jerome and I put our names on the stand by list for the next flight at 10. No go. We put our name in for the 12 PM flight. No go. The 2, 4, 6, 8 (who do we appreciate? ME ME ME! Goooooooooooooooooooo ME!) flights are all over-booked or over weight or both. Even from the first flight they were looking for volunteers to go on a later flight.

This weight limit thing is something else, especially on a flight to Buffalo. The planes are so tiny (they practically run on rubber bands) and the people flying have so much stuff. No one checks bags anymore due to the surcharges so they carry the maximum amount of bags plus other allowed items including baby carriages and car seats, etc. Not to mention that people are carrying so much more excess weight around their guts, especially to Buffalo. We were appalled to find that if you were unfortunate to be at the tail end of those boarding and the plane has reached its weight limit, you're S O L. We saw this happen on a Buffalo flight and a flight to Burlington, VT where the stranded passengers were told that there was room on the next flight. When is the next flight? 7:30 the next morning! If the overweight couple with the 4 and 6 year old kids didn't each have two bags, plus each kid and a bag PLUS two gigantic car seats, the last two people could have gotten on their flight. Saint Jerome and I were worried about getting on our flight since it was the last flight to Buffalo that day.

We finally boarded and boy did I elbow my way on to that plane. I wasn't going to be stranded overnight. Especially since we were there for about 14 hours! The plane was filthy and smellly but we endured the 50 minute flight, hailed a cab in Buffalo and got to Saint Jerome's sister's house at about 12:30 am. Boy were we tired!

Destination BUFFALO

Saint Jerome and I planned a vacation to the Greater Buffalo, NY area to visit his two sisters that live there. His twin sister was coming all the way from Sacramento, CA. Jill is almost a figment of our imagination since we seem to see her every five years or so. She likes her toasty warm coast.
She was visiting from 8/4 through 8/12 so we planned accordingly.

Since I couldn't take so much time off, Saint Jerome and I decided that the 6th through the 12th would be enough and it would give Jill a few days to bask solo in family affection and pampering (and to acclimate herself to the time change).

We didn't want to waste two days travelling Amtrak, so I trolled all of the discount travel websites and found the perfect round trip in and out of La Guardia. We leave LGA at 9:59 am arriving in Buffalo at 11:44. Late enough to have plenty of time to get to the airport and early enough arrival to have a pretty free day. Well . . .

Saint Jerome and I decide to test out the M60 bus to La Guardia. If we take the 6:40 am bus from 106th and Broadway, we should get us to the airport by 7:30 — plenty of time to get stuck in traffic and arrive in time for a 9 am boarding. We check in, get our boarding passes and go to our gate. On my way back from the bathroom (which is still clean at 8:30 am) I check the flights listed on the board at our gate. No 9:59 flight. Did they change gates? I go to the DEPARTURES board. No 9:59 am flight to Buffalo listed at all. I panic. WHERE IS OUR FLIGHT?! Was it cancelled? I check the boarding pass. THE FLIGHT IS AT 9:59 PM! Somehow I bought tickets for a PM flight. I could have sworn that it said AM on the Travelocity site! It was listed with all of the AM flights from LGA! I had gotten a confirmation email at the time but it didn't have the itinerary like usual and dumbass me didn't check when I printed out the itinerary from the website. What a JERK!

I am usually so so careful when booking flights oinline: checking, double- and triple checking all of the flight information because clicking purchase! (I still think it was listed as an AM flight!) The question now do we go home and come back or ty for an earlier flight? We decided to try for stand-by.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

So, a mam walks into a bra . . .

I went bra shopping last night. Actually I went bra trying on because I don’t think I wear the right size and thought I might need a different cup size (these things are complicated you know.)

I stopped into one place on the way home. They only had one bra in the size I wanted to try on and that was a sports bra that could double as a turtleneck. The Town Shop is in the neighborhood so I decided to brave the prices and take a peek.

I go in rather overwhelmed by all the high-end, luxurious undergarments. I tell an associate that I need to get fitted and I’m taken into a fitting room beyond the “Ladies Only Beyond This Point” sign. Now, the last time I was fitted was about 20 years ago in the Lower East Side at one of those places where a little old Jewish lady literally throws your boobs into a bra and she magically knows your size before you even open your mouth because she has been doing this since the discovery of fire. (The mam-handling is worse than a mammogram, but you’re set until your next weight gain.) Anyway . . .

The fitter is a young woman. She listened and discussed what I needed, examined me in the poor, cheap excuse I was wearing, made a few suggestions and brought me some bras to try. She allowed me to throw my own boobs into the bra, making adjustments after I was all hooked in — this is too big, this is too tight, how does it feel?

One of the bras I try on is a piece of sculpture with moulded cups by Mystère that has no basis in reality. It’s the type of bra that looks as if it would bounce a few times if you dropped it on the floor. I loved it even though the cup was a little large. The price for this bouncy bra of foam and nylon? $75. My entire outfit of the day didn’t cost that much! Um, are there any bras this size on the sales rack? The fitter goes to look. I call Saint Jerome and I tell him, “I’m in The Town Shop wearing a $75 boulder holder!” He’s impressed and appalled at the same time. I hang up (I did NOT take a photo). The fitter comes back with a sale bra, which is $58 at 50% off. Doesn’t fit me as well as the Mystère. The fitter and I conclude that I don’t need a new size but a different style. I leave braless but armed with her business card and pretty much back at square one.

Now if I can find a little old Jewish lady who will magically know my size before throwing my boobs into a bra . . .

Monday, August 17, 2009

Patriotic Pie, or three cheers for the red, white and blue!

90-year old Yolanda received the recipe recently from her daughter, sister, niece (? I can't quite remember) and decided to test it out on some unsuspecting guinea pigs, namely Saint Jerome, his three sisters and me since we were visiting. Three layers — red, white and blue of course. We thought, "Yummy! Blueberries, raspberries or strawberries (or if we were extra lucky, raspberries AND strawberries) with a layer of whipped cream and hopefully a short bread crust!"

Well, here it i:

Watch it wiggle

See it jiggle

Watch it wiggle, see it jiggle some more

Cool and smoothy

and the piece de resistance (it is the color of the tricolor!):


Jello. Jello and Cool Whip. Jello, Cool Whip and graham cracker crust. BLUEBERRY Jello, RASPBERRY Jello, Cool Whip and a graham cracker crust to be exact.

Kissing 101

My first kiss occurred when I was 15. My best friend Christie invited me to a New Year's party that her friend L was co-hosting. L lived a block away from me at 101 West 75th Street. (Actually, my dad knew him from the gym). L and his co-host, M, were slightly older — maybe 18 or 19(!). The party was at M's apartment which was 102 West 76th Street. Well M took an instant liking to me. He was sort of cute with long dark, albeit mullet-y hair (it was 1980/81 you know) and facial hair, but compared to gorgeous L, he was just average. Anyway . . .

as I said M seemed to be interested in me and followed me around the apartment all during the party, trying to corner me. I went to Christie to protect me, but she was busy making out with some random guy she had just met so I was on my own. M wanted to kiss me and Christie told me I should let him (I guess she thought that if I wanted to gain experience, this was as good a place and time as any). Anyway . . .

We went into his parents' bedroom where he showed off his skills at playing Space Invaders (omglol!!! but it was 1980/81). I tried to be duly impressed. Eventually the moment of truth came. I couldn't put it off any longer, even though I knew that playing Pong would mean a few minutes reprieve (I don't have the eye/hand co-ordination needed for video games so I would have lost instantly anyway). He took me by the shoulders, lowered his head and stuck his tongue so far down my throat I could practically feel it snaking through my colon. I had the added misfortune to be facing a large mirror. There I was, watching myself getting mauled. It was a surreal, out-of-body experience. I didn't really enjoy it but at least I didn't have to worry any longer about being "sweet 16 and never been kissed" — a real fear of failure on my part, a real fate worse than death that was a few months away.

For weeks after, M would appear on my doorstep, hanging out in the lobby of my building waiting for me to get home from school. I used to call from blocks away so Mom could look out the peephole to see if he was laying in wait for me. He finally got the message and gave up waiting for me.

I know you are thinking, "why is it 'Kissing 101' if the party wasn't really at 101 W 75th?" Well, Saint Jerome came up with Kissing 101 and it sounds much better than Kissing 102.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

What refreshing freshness!

My new love:


Queso el Azteca questo fresco!

Canadian Invasion

Tim Horton's has invaded New York City. 13 shops have opened up, replacing some of the Dunkin' Donuts that have proliferated in the past year or so. Ironically, I think that most of the DD's that have been replaced are some of the older ones, at least this is the case with the Tim Horton's that has opened up near us. There has been a DD on Broadway between 95th and 96th for many, many years. Then in the past year one has opened up on Broadway between 96th and 97th AND another up on 98th Street or thereabouts. Well, the old DD is now a new TH.

Saint Jerome and I decided to test the waters (or should I say coffee) this morning on our way to Fairway. We each got a small coffee and Saint J got a sour cream glazed donut and I got a Maple dip one. Yum, yum! We each had to get another donut. I tried a Honey Dip and Saint J got a Maple one. We ate, drank and then started on our merry way.

It was a good thing that we were walking down to Fairway which is a good mile or so away because, though we weren't walking enough to burn a whole donut, we decided we were de-glazing the span at least. So much for our post-Buffalo dieting.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Stuff on my wife

Ever since I taught Saint Jerome how to use the digital camera, he has become Signor Papparazzo, flashing at everything he sees. Sunsets, clouds, people on the street from our apartment window, gliding U.S. Airway jets on the Hudson River mid-flight — you name it. One thing he loves is to photograph me while I am napping (or at least trying to). But it's not just photos of me sleeping. He has to embellish. And this is the way he embellishes . . .

A wedge of Cheddar cheese:



I actually was just waking up from my nap. At least it was still in plastic wrap.

Bring me a higher love

Things seem to happen to me in waves. For example, one week I found a dime on the street EVERY SINGLE DAY; one time used condoms were the theme of the week and another time I seemed to have left a wake of subway track fires and yet another time I got to witness random men masturbating in public. Taken to the extreme was the day back in 1986. I woke up to Steve Winwood's Higher Love on the radio. Every single store I went into that day had some version of Higher Love playing, even a muzak version at Woolworths and a Montovani-violin version in an elevator. It was driving me crazy--I couldn't escape it. Anyway . . .

One day recently I was talking with my manager and for some reason Steve Winwood came up and so I told him this story. Then on my way home from work I stopped into Duane Reade and--Higher Love. Got out of the subway and stopped into Rite Aid--Higher Love. OMG! Please get this song out of my life!!!!!!!

One of the strangest musical coincidences was the time I had There is a Rose in Spanish Harlem running through my nob (don't ask. I haven't figured out my brain either.) and I stopped into Rite Aid and there it was, playing on the radio.

But to kill two themes with one stone, in 1987 I was working at the Metropolitan Museum of Art book shop and one night was walking out after late-night closing time with a very good-looking co-worker and I had Debbie Gibson's Only in my Dreams running through my brain. All of a sudden, Robert starts singing that song! Then we got outside and were walking in the dark around the side of the museum and we saw a guy masterbating in the bushes. Didn't give Robert any ideas though. Too bad.

I hear dead people

A couple of years ago I discovered the God-like goodness of Fritz Wunderlich, the German lyric tenor. Up until this time, I had been aware of him but never paid that much attention because he sang mostly German opera and what opera he sang that wasn't German he sang in German. Anyway, I was Youtubing and came across some Wunderlich videos. One in particular turned me into a love-crazed fan! That quintessential Spanish song Granada. I listened. I listened again. And again and again and again and THEN I realized he was singing in GERMAN! I said, "Fritz! Where have you been all my life?" and the answer came back--in a hole in the ground because he died in 1966 after falling down the stairs. He was 35 years old, I was 17 months, and DH says that I hear dead people.

Why do these things always happen to me?

(My first few posts will be repeats from my other blog, Subway Outfit of the Day, so I apologize in advance if you've read it before. This is a classic Sarah story, however.)

A little experience I had when I was 15 years old).

There used to be a fantastic revival movie house in NY called The Regency. I spent years there watching double features of Marlene Dietrich, Tyrone Power, Laurence Olivier, etc., etc. Well, one day during a month-long Warner Bros. festival, I decided to cut out of school early (it was around the corner) to see James Dean in East of Eden and Rebel Without a Cause, both of which I had never seen.

12 pm showing and the theater is empty with maybe a total of 7 people on the floor and in the balcony. I am sitting in my favorite seat on the aisle in the seventh row. I swing my legs over the seat in front of me and settle down with my snuck-in snacks. In the middle of the first movie (East of Eden), a little old man in a rain coat shuffles down the aisle and stops at my row. I sigh, unhook my legs from the seat in front of me, pissed because with the whole theater at his disposal, he has to sit in my row. I sit up straight to let him in and he SITS DOWN ON MY LAP! Worse than that, he doesn't get up. Finally, I tap him on the shoulder and tell him, "Excuse me sir but there is someone sitting in this seat." He turns around, looks at me in horror, gets up and shuffles out of the auditorium like the hounds of hell are on his tail. I resume my comfortable movie-watching position. About ten minutes after that, a big fat guy comes and sits down in the seat next to me and starts tickling my thigh. GROSS! I got up and moved to the not-quite-as-perfect seat in the row ahead. I ended up seeing East of Eden twice and became complete obsessed with James Dean after that.

Anyway, I guess that was the punishment I got for cutting out of school early.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Testing 1,2,3

I like this color scheme!